Chapter Text
Running, sneaking, thieving. All things that the average fifteen-year-old would call brutish, or some other word you didn’t quite understand the meaning of.
Unlucky for yourself, you weren’t born into the sort of high-society to look down upon these actions. In fact, you took part in them regularly. It wasn’t because you enjoyed it or anything like it, no, certainly not; you did what you did because you had to.
Born to two less than fortunate parents who were too naive for their own good, a younger sibling to a brother five or so years older than yourself. Runaways from their own two families after your mother became pregnant before marriage, bringing shame upon her and your father’s families alike. They were, however, in love. Foolish, childish love, but it was love nonetheless.
After having your brother, they were married. It wasn’t close to the sort of wedding a young girl dreams for, but it was official. Still, they were too prideful to go back to their families, and so your parents decided to settle down in a small mining town a ways south of their homeland of Chicago.
They wanted honest work, and honest work they did. From when they first settled until far after you were born, your mother and father worked as an apprentice tailor and coal-miner, respectively. Tailoring was harmless enough, but unsurprisingly mining would not turn out to be so safe for your father. For a solid thirteen years, your father’s supervisor had been a kind man; heavy in granting both sick and family leaves.
As it seems, in the end, money conquers all.
When you were nearing nine years old, his supervisor was offered a promotion of sorts (which is code for “offered a lot of money and told to get the hell out of town before someone became a whole lot less polite with him”), and he of course took the offer like a smart man does. Shortly thereafter, a new and less forgiving supervisor made his way into town, and your father was overworked, underpaid, and diagnosed with silicosis by the local doctor after collapsing on his way back home to his family: you.
It was a remarkably long career in the business, but it ended the same as it did for all of the other men that were desperate enough to take the job. It ended in the early winter of your ninth year; your father left gasping and wheezing on the twin-sized bed he shared with your mother in your twelve-by-twelve foot house. You, your mother, and your brother sat by his bedside.
Your mother’s shoulders shook as she clasped your father’s hand in both of her own, holding it to her lips as she mouthed a silent prayer. His hand was weakly wrapped around her thumb. Your brother’s own shoulders were as taut as a bow ready to let an arrow fly; trying to to stay strong for the both of you. Even then, his emotions were clear as day on his face, eyes brimming with tears, the corners of his mouth pulled harshly down into a frown to prevent any sobs from escaping.
He held your hand in one of his own, gripping it with all of the strength that your father did not have. You couldn’t even bring yourself to care about the pain. Your eyes were blurry enough with tears so that you could only recognize the flickering oil lamp placed on the open windowsill near the end of the bed At this point, everything was just floating blobs of shadow and light. A shaky breath forced its way through your pursed lips as you blinked the tears away.
He was far, far too gone to speak any intelligible words. All your father could do was hold your mother’s hands with his remaining strength. All he could do was let out one rattling breath after another, slowly becoming shorter and shallower.
It ended on an early November night, with a final barely-there puff of air escaping his opened mouth. You waited for the comforting gulp of air that assured he was still alive. It didn’t come.
It ended with the silence being interrupted by the broken question of, “Pa?” from your brother. The only answer was the sudden gust of wind that slithered through the opened window, nearly extinguishing the lamp. He repeated himself through hiccup filled cries, over and over and over until sobs broke out from your mother, having long since laid his hand over his chest. You’re ushered into an embrace of sorts while your mother attempts to grapple with reality. You soon start sobbing, fisting your mother’s skirt in one hand and your brother’s hand with all of the intensity that he had held with yours.
You all end up on the floor together; a heap of tears and sobs and near-gagging from the breath that won’t enter your lungs. You expect to feel some semblance of warmth, from the people you hold close, from the coal burning stove in the corner of the house, or even remnants of summer's scorching breath that pushed back the fierce winter of Illinois. You don’t feel it. There is only the chilling fear of the unknown, of grief, and uncertainty. Summer has gone, and winter has arrived.
It ended with him.
----
Your mother was left a tailoring business of sorts by her late mentor, who had no children or husband of her own. She worked tirelessly, day and night, for less than pleasant customers that promised money that they would rarely, if ever pay. Surprisingly enough, the company had allowed you to continue living in the hut you called home as an apology for your loss (though you still had to pay for it).
Your brother, now nearing fifteen, offered to find himself a job to help your mother with the weekly payments that the collectors came for every week. She was quick (and firm) in her disapproval, adamant that he stay pure and young for a few more years.
You spent your preteen years playing with the other children in the town, and received unofficial lessons from a small group of mothers who advocated for the young ones to be at least somewhat educated before they entered their teen years. Your math was poor, but your reading skills were worse.
Oftentimes you witnessed your brother sneaking off after he delivered you to the makeshift schoolhouse in the midday, though he always returned to walk home with you, tired as he seemed. You suspected that he had gone against Mother’s wishes and found something to occupy his time in return for a few dollars a week. Whenever you asked him, he replied saying that he had been fooling around with the few other teenagers in town. You didn’t believe him, given how terrible of a liar he was, but you went along with it anyway.
Despite how hard she worked, it seemed that your mother was never quite able to bring in enough money. Her naivety had followed her into adulthood, it seemed, and she took on unfaithful customers who wanted too much and had too little in terms of payment. You got one meager meal a day, but the bills were being paid, and that was enough.
Until it wasn’t.
The mining company - which you recalled to be named the Wilmington Coal Company - and those that worked for it suffered from a flood and collapse after digging into an underground lake, consequently killing dozens of workers and more importantly, costing the Company thousands of dollars. This loss caused the company to hike up the bill and coal cost in the local area, and your mother’s stagnant tailoring job simply wasn’t cutting it anymore.
She resorted to scouting around the richer areas of town, even resorting to traveling to nearby cities for work. This often left you at home with your brother, who in her absence picked up the job of shoe-shining on the streets in the retail district. You, eleven, and your brother sixteen. Left to your own devices for days to weeks on end, the only interaction with your mother being through bi-weekly sent letters dense with the little cash and coin she had left after her own expenses, and the rare visit she made back home.
In the spring of 1883, letters stopped arriving. Her last letter had been sent from Mokena, a smaller village to the north-west. At first, you believed it to have been a one-time occurrence: maybe it had gotten lost, or robbed, or it would come the next week. Or maybe, just maybe, she had figuratively struck gold and would be delivering it home herself. Maybe everything would go back to normal (as normal as it could be), and it would turn out alright.
You and your brother waited. And waited. And waited. There was no news, even when you asked the man at the post office to double and triple check that it hadn’t been delivered somewhere else or lost. The answer was the same every time: a sigh of impatience and an, “I’m sorry, kid.”
It wasn’t until weeks later when you were devoid of all hope that a letter arrived. The postman had seen you leisurely walk past the station on your way home from your lessons, and he called out to you with a letter in hand. You were quick to snatch it out of his hand and make your way back home, giving him a call of thanks as you sped through the streets, nearly trampled by a horse. You were so joyful that you didn’t notice the lack of weight and thinness of the envelope held tightly in your hand.
Your brother was already back home, cranky at how long you had taken to get home, but his eyes brightened at the sight of the letter you held in your hand as you burst through the door. He used his superior height to snatch it out of your hands, at which you let out an indignant cry. His lips twitched into a playful grin.
The envelope tore easily in his weathered hands, his back faced towards the lamp so he could read the words in the ill lit room. You watched the grin fade from his face. Brows furrowed in disbelief, he sputtered out a few unintelligible words. He stayed silent for a long moment, which only made your anxiety worsen.
“Wh-what is it?” you questioned nervously. He didn’t answer, deaf to the world, eyes opened wide and sheened with tears. His arms slowly lowered until they were limp at his sides, letter wrinkled in his clenched hand. You took the opportunity to pry it from his hand, and when you did so he stumbled back until his knees hit the bed and he sat himself down.
Eyes roving over the words on the paper, you cursed yourself for not paying enough attention at your reading lessons. You only recognized “Ada Daffern”, your mother’s name; “death”; and “sorry”. Your hands trembled in disbelief. There was no way - sure, it had been a while since you’d seen her in person, but it hadn’t been that long!
Your brother gently pried the letter out of your hands as you had done to him, seeming slightly more composed than he had been moments ago. He cleared his throat and breathed out a shaky breath before reading aloud:
“To whomever this letter reaches,
I, Benard Evert, of Mokena’s local health office, regret to inform you of the passing of Ada Daffern. Miss Daffern was diagnosed with cholera shortly after arriving in Mokena, and was set to bedrest in her final weeks. I assure you, she was well kept care of by the people in the village before her death. Miss Daffern was highly thought of by the people of Mokena, myself included. She was-”
Your brother swallowed sharply, lips trembling. He continued:
“She was a very kind and caring woman, and we are truly sorry for your loss.
This letter was sent to the last place Miss Daffern sent mail, as that is all information we have on her previous whereabouts. If this letter does not concern you, please discard it, or if you know whom it may concern, please give it to them.
If this letter does concern you, send it back to Mokena with an accompanying letter stating who you are, and the relation you had with Miss Daffern. We will send a small parcel soon if we get a response.
Kind regards,
Benard Evert, Mokena Health Office.”
Silence filled the room. It was overbearing, suffocating, just like how it had been on the night your father died.
Minutes passed with no conversation. You’d taken to sitting next to your brother, the letter spread out in the space between the two of you. Fingers digging into the firm mattress, you opened your mouth only to close it again a moment later, unsure of what to say.
You were a couple of kids, well and truly kids, left alone in a world too big to comprehend, only left with enough money to pay the company for two weeks, if even. Your brother’s job wouldn’t provide enough for a full meal every day, let alone pay for the bills on its own.
“What’re we gonna do?” you asked, voice barely a whisper. You almost thought he hadn’t heard you, and went to repeat yourself when he let out a long exhale.
“Well,” he paused for a moment. “I reckon we’ll - I’ll - write that letter back to Mister Evert, and we’ll see what’s in the parcel he’s saying they’ll send. Then… I think it’s due time we got outta here. We got too many bad memories of this place, I think,” he nodded to himself in reassurance. “Yeah, yeah… whatever it is they’re sendin’ shouldn’t take too long to get here. Whaddya think about goin’ up north a bit? See what Chicago’s all about.”
He looked over at the worry displayed across your face. You simply responded with a nod of your head, teeth worrying your bottom lip. A fond look took over his face as he reached over and playfully mussed up your hair.
“D’aw, don’t worry your ugly mug about it. You got your genius big brother right here next to ya! We’ll be outta here in no time, seein’ the sights like those fancy rich folk do in the summer.” You scoffed in response to his ‘ugly mug’ comment.
“If anyone around here’s ugly, it’s you!” Fixing your hair, you mumbled a few choice words towards him.
“Ah, while I may be ugly! I’ve still got the smarts.” He tapped the side of his head. “Can’t quite say that for yourself, can ya?” he teased.
Rolling your eyes in response, he quickly reached to flick your nose before standing up and stretching, “‘m tired… think we oughta get some sleep. I’ll write and take the letter to the post office in the morning.” The mood sombered at the mention of the letter. “Now go on, get into bed! It’s dark outside.”
He carefully placed the letter into the night stand and walked to put out the lamp. Now, the only light came from the low embers of the coal stove and the moon peeking through the clouds. He settled into bed.
You weren’t quite sure how long you’d been trying and failing to fall asleep - I mean, how could you? The news rattled you to your core, and all you could envision behind your eyelids was your mother dying alone, in a place which she couldn’t reach you. You focused on your brother’s rhythmic breaths beside you.
You had nearly reached the sleep you had been craving for when a sharp movement interrupted the soothing rhythm. Nearly flinching in surprise, you recognized the movement as silent sobs wracking your brother’s frame. He’d probably thought you were asleep by now; free to let himself crumble under the weight of his now-full responsibility for you. His shaky gasps were deafening in the otherwise silent night.
The night ended in body-wrenching sobs from a pair of siblings, alone in the world except for each other. You fall asleep to his sobs.
----
True to his word, your brother woke up early the next morning to write a short note that consisted of yours and his name, along with the claim that “Miss Ada Daffern” was your mother. And so, the letter was sent to be delivered back to Mokena.
Less than a week later, a small parcel arrived under your brother’s name. It looked to be wrapped carefully, and heavy for its size from the bulged shape. Your brother opened it with you as soon as he stepped through the door; it was habit from the money-lined letters you received from your mother - it was too risky to open in public, in fear that someone nearby would notice and decide that they wanted the money more than you needed it.
The thin parcel paper tore easily enough, revealing the thin paperboard box underneath. Carefully written on the package (so as to not put a hole through it) was “For Louis and [Name] Daffern”.
He sliced the thick layers of tape and slowly drifted the top of the box from the bottom half, quickly tossing it to the side after seeing what it contained. It was chock full of a combination of coins and bills that sprung from their messy folds from the relief of pressure.
The both of you gaped at the assorted bills and coins, ranging from 25 cents up to a few scattered ten dollar notes.
“I…” Louis trailed off, “What in fresh hell?” He upturned the box, money spilling across the bed as he searched for an explanation. Surprisingly, there was none; the only writing was what had been noted on the lid.
He scrambled for words, “I-erm, you count the dollars an’ coins. I got the rest.”
Nearly breathless in a mix of elation and confusion, you did as told. The coins continually clacked in your trembling hands as you gathered them from the pile.
Seconds turned to minutes as you carefully counted and re-counted the coins and bills, neatly laying them out into piles on the sheets. You could see the shocked look on Louis’ face out of the corner of your eye as he did the same.
In total, you yourself counted near eleven dollars in coins ranging from pennies to the odd dollar coin; and in singles you mentally tallied 17 dollars. Just your share made…
“Twenty-eight dollars, nearly,” you exhaled. This was the most money you’d ever held in your bare hands, since your brother was the one to pay for the house. It was well near enough to stay in town for another week, at least.
If he’d heard you, he sure didn’t show it. He stared down at his own stacks of money on the end of the bed, a combination of twos, fives, and tens. Eyes wide and unblinking, he answered after a few long moments.
“I got-” he gulped audibly, “seventy-six over here. How-how much did you say you had again?”
“Twenty-eight, just about,” you said once more.
An unbelieving laugh crawled up his throat, rubbing furiously at his eyes.
Together that made one-hundred and four dollars, far more money than either of you had seen in your own possession. That doctor sure wasn’t kidding when he’d said that your mother had been thought highly of, you thought. Those people were a hundred times kinder than any person you’d met in your twelve years of life, including yourself.
“An’ I’ve been saving up extra money on the side - running errands for people and whatnot, don’t worry about it - so we got even more than what’s in front of us right now. This’ll get us closer to Chicago n’ tide us over for a while if I’m smart about it.”
This marked the final night that the two of you would spend living under the Wilmington Coal Company. You spent all night packing what little actually belonged to you; a few nearly too small shirts and pants, underclothes, and a yo-yo Louis had lent you that you never returned. He did the same - clothes, books, and your father’s old satchel he’d stuffed with the little food that was left in the cupboard.
It was early in the morning when you departed, the morning sun beginning its peek over the never-reachable horizon. Your brother had said that it would be best to get a start as early as possible to avoid the late-spring warmed rays of sun, but you secretly suspected that even he was too ashamed to explain the pitiable reason for your departure to the only other people you’d known your entire lives.
The only stop made before leaving town was at the general store. You were left standing awkwardly outside as Louis bought cheap canned foods and fruits that would hopefully last until Chicago. The fewer stops, the better. The sight of two kids with packs on their backs would be likely to raise a few questions. But in Chicago - Chicago - the streets would be too busy for anyone to care about someone other than themselves.
----
Pleasantly (and surprisingly) enough, the few days’ journey towards Chicago was particularly uneventful. There had only been one vaguely nerve-wracking experience with a nosy older woman while you passed through a smaller town. She’d taken to asking you questions while Louis took his sweet time in the outhouse (“Wher’re you comin’ from? Why’re you alone? Where are your parents?”), exceedingly interested in your business.
You’d been saved soon after as Louis swooped through to “usher you home”, apologizing to the woman for not paying attention to his annoying kid sibling carefully enough. The two of you sped off, not even taking the chance to look back to see if she believed his excuse. In the end, you learned the lesson of carefully hiding yourself from the main streets of the towns you temporarily paused your journey at - and you were glad that the person asking those questions wasn’t some creep with an ulterior motive.
A couple days later, you took your first steps in southern Chicago.
As your brother had told you on the way (he used to spend late nights reading an old book written by a man who spent his time travelling to major cities and had taken up journaling his experiences), the sidewalks and divided streets were full of people walking on foot or riding their horses through the city. The very center of the streets were run through with what looked like inset train tracks. Louis’d brought these up at one point too, though you couldn’t remember the name of them.
He let out a startled yelp at the sudden dig he felt to his ribs, immediately looking towards you with a disapproving glare.
“What?” he hissed.
“What’re those, y’know, things in the middle of th’ street called again? The ones on the tracks?”
“Oh, the trollies? Why, did ya want to go on one? There’s a stop down towards the end of the street.”
Without waiting for your response, he shifted the pack on his shoulder and began walking to the stop. You clumsily followed behind him, muttering out apologies to the people you nearly ran into. His long legs kept him multiple paces in front of you, though he was still recognizable from the maroon cap placed snugly on his head.
You could hear the ringing bells of the trolley getting closer when you finally reached the stop. A sudden thought came to your head - what if you had to pay to ride it? Sure, you wanted to ride it and get your first taste of modernity, but it probably wasn’t worth it if you could walk for free.
Once again getting Louis’ attention (though more gently this time), you asked, “Are you sure it don’t cost money?”
“Mmm, I don’ think so. An’ if it does,” he shrugged nonchalantly, “we’ll just hafta be sneaky about it.”
Staring at him in bewilderment, the trolley finally came to a stop in front of you - and the sudden crowd of people you were surrounded by. A stream of people exited from the back end of the car as you were pushed towards the front. A sigh of relief left your lungs as it looked like they got on without having to pay a fare, and excitement burst in your chest. No sneaking required for now at least.
All of the seats had been claimed by someone or other, so the pair of you were left standing near the back, nervously clutching onto the back of the seat next to you. The bells rang once again, announcing your departure to the people you could see in the street through the clouded windows.
“Wher’re we going?” you asked your brother.
“Figured we go closer to the middle of town, see if we can find ourselves a cheap place to stay,” he traced the route map printed on the back wall of the trolley. “We’ll get off at the stop on Monroe and walk to the post office. That’s where all the businesses and whatnot post when they’re hiring. Should be able to find a newspaper somewhere, too.”
The ride to Monroe Street didn’t take nearly as long as you thought it would - it was far quicker than it would have been on foot, anyway - and in no time you reached the post office. Following Louis inside, you were greeted with the sight of a nearly empty building except for the man behind the counter and the odd person sitting on a bench.
Louis made a beeline towards the bored-looking clerk behind the wall, ready to open a box and pry for information on jobs. In the meantime, you went for the bulletin board. You might not be able to read very well, but you could pick out some words and phrases.
This attempt at being useful proved to be futile, however; the only papers strung up were void of dollar signs and any other indication of payment. You were left to slowly decipher the papers as you waited for your brother.
An agonizing amount of time later, he finally returned to your half-asleep form on a nearby bench, poster in hand, a triumphant look on his face.
“Look a’ what I got here,” he whispered loudly. “Easy as that, I nearly guaranteed myself a job already.”
Staring at him quizzically, he further explained, “Yer big brother’s gonna be stagecoach driver. Gotta learn how to drive one of those things, though, so ‘m not getting paid too much or going too far, but it’s a start!”
Despite your overall lack of knowledge about what happened outside of your town, you’d overheard the women that gave you your lessons talking about stages being robbed on the regular.
“...Isn’t there anything else ya could do? The teachers used to talk about all the robberies,” you fretted.
“Naw, it’s not like it was down there. No one’d ever actually rob a stage comin’ from a big city like this, ‘less they were stupid. The officers’d be on their tails in a minute flat. ‘Sides, drivers are s’posed to be armed to the teeth.”
You barely got the chance to open your mouth to argue when he cut you off, “C’mon, leave it alone. Now, let’s go find us a newspaper boy. There’ll probably be one around here somewhere.”
He was right; a newspaper boy stood down the street aways, though his calls were easy to hear over the noise of the city.
You absentmindedly watched the streets as Louis searched through the paper. This place was going to be your new home. For how long, who knew? But it would be a home, a home with your only family, and that was enough.
----
Everything seemed to be a blur after that point. Your brother had found the two of you a cheap place to stay - at the expense of size and overall safety, but at least there were two beds - in that newspaper he’d read. His job paid startlingly fairly, too. It paid enough for the rent you owned to the older man who was letting you live in a spare room in his house, for the weekend lessons you received from your renter’s daughter, and it paid enough for full meals that prevented your stomach from rumbling you awake in the middle of the night. Sure, Louis didn’t make it home every night, but it was enough that you were safe and had a warm place to sleep.
It appeared that your luck was turning up from it’s constant and steady drop since just before your father’s death. It was steady in a different way; it plateaued after his fortunate find in the newspaper, leaving you in a consistent, and maybe even boring life. But consistency was (mostly) all you hoped for and more. It was what you deserved after what he and you had been through.
Sad as it is to say, the truth is that the world is cruel.
Your thirteenth birthday passed months ago (Louis’d gotten you a fancy-looking yo-yo for the occasion), your brother’s eighteenth more recent. Because of his age, he’d been sent out on longer trips to further stations, carrying more important mail than ever.
The day you’d dreaded - the day you’d warned him about - came to pass.
Despite the efforts of the law, gang activity grew ever closer to Chicago’s city limits - robbing homesteads, rich people, and stagecoaches. You’d practically begged him to not go on his next trip, but as always he was quick to reassure you that nothing would happen, just like nothing had happened over the past year.
This trip was his longest, and his last.
He was far past the city limits, at a point between Chicago and the next town at which it would take minutes for the law to reach him from either end of the road. It was then that he was attacked, presumably by the gang that was pushing the law’s buttons. You were spared the harsh details from the man who showed up to the house asking for you, but he told you that he’d landed a shot on one of them, and someone hadn’t been too happy about it.
All of the other people they’d robbed ended up just fine in the end. With injuries and trauma, yes, but ultimately they were still alive.
Life as you knew it ended with Louis; a fresh adult, bleeding out under the warm noon sun, scared and alone.
You were left raging, finally completely alone in the world. No mother, no father, no brother, nothing. You cursed into the great heavens above, cursed at your genius brother for being so completely and utterly stupid. You cursed at your father for dying so soon, at your mother for letting herself die alone, at yourself for being born.
Death followed you wherever you went, as did stupidity it seemed. Time passed in an instant over the next few weeks; the old man died from his age, his daughter sold the home quickly after, and you were out on the streets of great old Chicago.
The whole “everyone cares too much about themself to care about other people” thing ended up completely and totally backfiring on you. It turned out to be all too true: when you looked raggedy and dirty walking from one street to the next, the only glaces sent your way were filled with disgust - and when you were robbed of your money by a middle-aged man, they only cringed away from you as you ran through the streets.
You were left penniless and foodless. In fact, the only thing you carried besides your father’s old satchel was the yo-yo you stowed safely away in your pocket. The backstreets of Chicago were both literally and figuratively filthy with crime and betrayal. People were prone to ratting their comrades out for a quick buck that they almost always spent on alcohol.
No clean business was open to hiring such a young teen, and to be honest you would prefer to not help kill people for a living. Instead, you took to pickpocketing and stealing food from market vendors.
People were easy to entertain, you soon figured out. Over time you’d learned a few impressive tricks with your yo-yo, and like moths to a flame people were almost too easy to distract and con. A few twirls of your yo-yo in one hand, and your other was free to snag an apple or loaf of bread from right under their nose.
Pickpocketing wasn’t nearly as easy - it was better to just not let the person know you were there - you had to be quick and charming, if needed. In a crowd it was simple to reach into a rich lady’s purse for the extra bracelet she carried, and men were concerningly unattentive when it came to the bills they carried in their pants pocket.
Over the months you only grew better at robbing people, though it came along with more danger the more confident you became. Many a time had the person or someone nearby noticed and said something, often leading to a short chase throughout the city, after which you would lay low for a few days before starting again.
Unsurprisingly, you ended up with a small bounty on your head for “repeated offenses of petty theft”. The law wouldn’t incessantly search for you (they had other, more serious criminals to deal with), but they knew your face all too well.
Obviously, this made your way of income harder. You were forced to wait longer periods of time between your acts, and money was starting to run out. You had two options - go back to pickpocketing regularly, with smaller-amounted items, or you could keep it sporadic and steal more at once. Both of these options had their own risks - if you went out more, there was a bigger chance of being caught, but if the law found out that you were starting to steal bigger amounts of money, your bounty could go up, and you might risk a more serious sentence.
Logic wasn’t really your forte, so you went with a mixture of the two.
You spent your last few weeks in Chicago running, sneaking, and thieving. By now you had surely reached the prime age of fifteen - if you’d lived a normal life, maybe you would have been in school, maybe you would have had a job. There were far too many maybes in this world to dream about, and so you pushed your longings to the back of your mind.
Your last job was by far your most profitable, but also your most dangerous. Perhaps you’d gotten sloppy over time, perhaps you were greedy, perhaps you’d simply lost any reason to care by now.
It was a briefcase you’d taken - from a haughty-looking businessman who had been foolish enough to set it down while he searched his pockets for a cigarette. It had been a very spontaneous decision on your part. You were standing to his right, briefcase to your left, when your hand moved before you could think, and you were off through the restless crowd waiting for the trolley to come around.
Behind you, the man shouted in surprise, alerting those surrounding him of what had just occurred. The crowd shifted to a mob, shouting for the nearby officers to chase you. And chase you they did.
You whirled around the people walking in front of you on the sidewalk (you didn’t want to hurt anyone physically, just their bank accounts), you took turns down alleys that you were less than familiar with, you even opted for hiding around corners and retracing your steps. This time, it didn’t seem to work - you were met with someone you had to slip by and hope they didn’t catch you. These lawmen weren’t easily shaken off, and you were becoming antsy. What made this time different from all of the others?
Weeks ago you’d moved yourself down to southern Chicago, near where you first stepped foot into the city what seemed like forever ago. Your turns and sprints took you even further south, closer and closer to the city limits. Maybe now is a good time to leave….
You shook the thought out of your head. You would need to go back to get the little money you’d stashed at your hideout - there was no way you would leave all you’d worked for behind. If you wanted to leave, you needed to find a place to hide where the law wouldn’t look, at least not immediately.
You turned another corner, blessed with the sight of a covered wagon, looking to be filled with enough items for you to hide behind until the law gave up for the night.
The sounds of pounding footsteps and shouts grew closer, allowing you no time to think. You clumsily launched yourself into the wagon, scrambling to push crates to create a wall to sit behind. You held your breath as the yells reached their peak just outside the wagon, only breathing out once they faded off into the distance.
Making yourself comfortable, you decided on waiting a while before grabbing your stuff. The longer you waited, the easier it would be to hide under the cover of night to sneak around.
A yawn crept your throat as the exhaustion from non-stop running came over you. The wagon looked dusty, as if it had been a while since anyone bothered it. Surely it wouldn’t be any harm to take a short nap as you waited for nightfall?
Your eyes fluttered closed before you could think any further.
---
The rough shaking of the wagon roused you from your deep sleep. Tired eyes blinking wearily, for a moment you forgot where you were.
The sharp taste of panic filled your mouth as you fully woke up, biting down on your tongue so as to not make any alerting sound. You peeked over the crates blocking you from view, greeted by the sight of two riders trailing behind the wagon - two men, it seemed. One of them sported a thick, dark mustache and slicked-back hair, the other a clean-shaven face that showed the beginnings of wrinkles. They were both dressed in odd clothes, somewhat dirty and unkempt as if they hadn’t washed them in a while.
They chatted with each other in low enough voices that couldn’t be heard over the combination of the churning wheels and the sudden bickering that came from the two people sat at the front of the wagon. One of them readjusted himself in his saddle, and a gleam of light reflected from something on his hip. A quiet curse escaped your mouth as you came to the realization that the reflection was, in fact, a gun.
Damn it. What were you supposed to do now? These people didn’t seem to notice your presence, and scary as they looked they didn’t give you the impression of bounty hunters. Still, you sure as hell didn’t want to mess with men who appeared to be oh so familiar with their guns.
The briefcase was still laying by your side. Maybe you could bribe them to let you leave alive? The leather of the case quietly scraped against itself as you slowly undid the buckles and clasps. Opening it revealed numerous bill folds - how much it actually was, you weren’t sure - but hopefully it would be enough to appease them.
It was easy to notice that you were heading south from Chicago (the city was still visible in the distance), down the main road that branched off in multiple directions at the train station just outside of the city. Revealing yourself now wouldn’t likely do you any good (you didn’t want to surprise anyone that held a gun), so you decided to wait until they got to their final destination.
You could only imagine where you were heading, even after eavesdropping on the driver and passenger, who were still bickering about something unimportant. It took an embarrassingly long time for you to realize the shadow of another horse and rider following beside the wagon. Great. Another potentially dangerous person to deal with.
They continued riding for another hour, if the glimpse you caught of the sun’s movement was any indication. It neared the horizon, soon enough it would be nighttime.
A sharp turn off of the main road startled you into bumping your head on the crate beside you. The trees grew thick and the path winding and bumpier. You had to place a hand on the briefcase to prevent it from bouncing around, your other hand protecting the back of your head from the hard wood behind it.
The wagon came to a slow stop as a series of clicks and a rough, “Woah, girl,” came from the driver. The two men following behind passed behind the cover, moving towards the front and getting off of their horses.
The backs of both the driver’s and passenger’s legs went out of view as they too climbed down from the uncomfortable seats of the wagon, letting out appreciative groans as they did.
A loud voice suddenly began speaking, allowing everyone to hear his words. “Good a place as any, I suppose. Arthur, go get the stuff from the wagon an’ start setting up camp. John, you go help him.”
Dread filled your stomach as you realized that you, in fact, hadn’t figured out how to show yourself to them, especially after such a long ride. Your mind scrambled as ‘Arthur’ and ‘John’ grew closer to the open end of the wagon.
You weren’t even given the chance to actually do anything before the crates that shielded your body from view were moved. A young man, in his early twenties at the latest, was the first to catch sight of you, face changing from played-up annoyance to one full of hostility.
“What th’ hell?”
He not-so-gently dropped the boxes to the ground, resulting in a loud crash that brought the attention of the others. You let out an alarmed yelp as he wrapped a hand around your wrist, yanking you out into the light.
Your rear end met the dewy evening grass, pain shooting up your back. The man didn’t give you a chance to catch your breath, grabbing the back of your collar and pulling you up to your feet. You writhed like a wild animal, trying to escape his strong grip; it proved to be futile.
“Whaddya got there, son?” One of the men that had been riding behind walked closer: the one with the dark hair and mustache.
“This runt was hidin’ in the back of the wagon, behind those crates. How th’ hell did ya not see ‘em, Dutch?”
“You answered your own question, son,” ‘Dutch’ turned his attention towards you. “What were you doin’ back there?”
“I-I was sleepin’ in there, mister. Back in Chicago,” you gulped uneasily. He seemed to be the one calling the shots, and you decided that it would be better to be overly respectful than rude.
“D’ya usually sleep in whatever wagon you happen upon?”
“No, sir.”
“So,” Dutch paused, ‘what were ya really doin’?”
You didn’t answer for a moment, at which the man behind you shook you forcibly. “Answer the question.”
“I was hiding from the law, sir.”
“Now what’d a scrawny kid like you do to get chased by the law?”
Your shoulders relaxed a bit. Compared to what you’d thought of them when you first saw them, they didn’t seem nearly as scary. Didn’t seem the type to kill a teenager in cold blood if the boy leaning against the wagon was any notion.
“I stole some money, mister, from a businessman in the street. He weren’t too happy ‘bout it.”
He barked out a laugh of surprise. You certainly didn’t look the type to be so bold and rob a man blind, more the type to starve in the streets.
“You got parents? Older brother or sister, maybe?” he probed. His eyes flicked up from your face to the man standing behind you, a silent conversation starting between them.
“Everyone’s got parents, sir,” you answered, perhaps a bit too snarkily for the man who still had a hold on you. “They’re dead, though. Same with my brother,” you affirmed.
You were suddenly freed from the hold of the man who’d discovered you, now able to massage the sore spots where your shirt had been digging into your skin. Whatever conversation he’d been having with Dutch was now obviously over. He popped a cigarette into his mouth, still only moving a couple of paces away if you tried anything.
The clean shaven, older looking man came forward. “What’s your name, kid?” You told him, feeling strangely comforted in his presence. He abruptly began to give you introductions for himself and the others, first pointing at himself and saying, “Hosea Matthews.”
He indicated towards Dutch (last name Van Der Linde, which you thought seemed like a terror to sign papers with), then towards the young man who had held you captive. “That’s Arthur. Bit of a bastard he is, but Dutch considers him his son.” Arthur turned at the sound of his name, only to stub out his cigarette underneath his boot and finally begin setting up camp.
Hosea turned towards the young boy leaning on the wagon. “Tha’s John. Also a bit of a bastard, but he’s more annoying than Arthur is.” He let out a hoarse laugh as John crossly stomped away to help Arthur with his work. “He’s probably only…” he trailed off. “How old’re you?”
“Fifteen, I think.”
“Ah. John’s only just thirteen, coupla years younger than you.” Finally, he swivelled his head, looking for the one person that you had yet to see and meet.
A woman, looking to be about Dutch’s age or perhaps a bit older, appeared from behind the wagon. She had a stern look about her, frown lines prominent on her face. “Ah, Miss Grimshaw. Nice of you to join us…”
“Mr. Matthews,” she greeted nonchalantly. “Look at what I found in the back of the wagon.” Your eyes widened as she pulled the briefcase - your briefcase - out from behind her skirt. That was supposed to be your ticket out of here!
She handed it over to Dutch, who had quickly gravitated to the scene as soon as he’d seen her. Balancing one side of it on one hand, he swiftly unlatched and opened the lid, revealing the numerous bill folds hidden inside.
You stood there as he unfolded and counted the bills, racking up close to sixty dollars. He looked over at you, eyes squinting in thought.
Dutch fiddled with the money in the case for another moment. Soon enough a wad of cash was sent flying your way, and you barely caught it before it hit your face. Staring down at the money in bewilderment, Dutch laughed loudly.
Looking at him quizzically, he started, “That’s the money you stole from that businessman, right?” At your nod, he continued, “You get a quarter of it, another quarter goes into funds, and the half that’s left is for donations whenever we venture into town. ‘S how we do things around here. Money comes in, it’s split the same every time, an’ everyone ends up dandy.”
The fifteen dollars in your hand suddenly felt heavy with the weight of decision. They weren’t likely to let you leave with the money - if they let you leave at all - but you weren’t sure about their whole… organization either.
Dutch, ever perceptive and cunning, noticed the apprehension plain as day on your face. “It ain’t like you got anywhere to go, right? Family’s dead, the law wants you dead. You’d be a fool to go back to Chicago; they’d have you swingin’ soon as they caught wind of ya. They don’t care about the lives of people that trouble them, they jus’ want you dead or gone.”
Hosea butted in, “Dutch-“
“I’m not wrong, Hosea - and you know that.” At this, the mentioned man sighed, but he stayed quiet. “Here-here you can make a difference. You’ll give money to those that need it while you’re safe, far away from where anyone knows your name. Call it…” he stammered for a moment, “Call it Robin Hood. Takin’ from the rich, givin’ to the poor. ‘S what we do here. Whaddya say, kid?”
Thinking back - to your experiences with the law, the hopelessness you’d felt when no one stopped to donate even a quarter while you were on the streets - he wasn’t wrong. In fact, you were sure he was right. The law wanted to get rid of you in one way or the other, through hanging or sickness or by simply driving you out of town. The money you’d left in Chicago seemed meaningless in the whole picture Dutch had just shown you.
You had all you needed; your father’s satchel, the yo-yo from your brother, and a newfound willingness to start anew, at least somewhat.
You straightened your shoulders, spirit roaring and full of confidence. You nodded your head once at Dutch, and that was all he needed.
“Welcome, kid. You’re gonna do a whole lot of good things for this world.”
In the evening dusk, surrounded by a dense thicket of trees and chirping crickets, something new formed. In the sparse light of the far-spaced lanterns, the growing heat of a fresh kindled fire, a new bond was formed between yourself and each other person there; Dutch, Hosea, Arthur, John, even Miss Grimshaw. All distinctly different, and though you didn’t know it at the time, all influencing your future far ahead.
It began with the Van Der Linde gang.