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"Hello, son."
The kid doesn't answer, just glares at him from behind his knees, all boxed-off and hostile. Dutch doesn't know how old John is, but thinks he can't be more than ten years old, all scrawny and precarious and pitiful. Then again, he'd thought the same thing about Arthur when they picked him up, and he'd turned out to be fourteen.
John is like a starved cat, cold and calculating but desperate to cling onto any scraps of food thrown his way, even if he acts all timid, an air of stubbornness about him when he refuses to eat what's put in front of him with the rest of them, only to slink away later and eat alone with an urgency that betrays his fear and doubt.
It's as though he refuses to admit to his needs in front of them, like he's scared divulging his weaknesses – not being all sharp and cold like the blade of a dagger – will lead to his demise. As if Dutch and Hosea and Arthur will turn to vultures and rip him apart the second he softens even in the slightest.
As it is now, he hasn't spoken in days, not since yelling and kicking and giving away his name on that very first day they picked him up. Every part of him screams that he's not in the mood for conversation, stiff and tense as he sits there on the ground a bit away from the campfire.
Naturally, Dutch sits down beside him and starts talking.
"You know, me and Arthur are going hunting in a bit, and old Hosea's skills ain't what they used to be. We could use an extra pair of hands to keep camp safe."
John finally looks at him, proper, turns his head fully to stare with eyes little more than slits, distrust palpable in the brown of his iris. However, when Dutch pulls out his holstered cattleman revolver, throws it into the air, and grabs the barrel, pointing the handle towards John, a silent invitation to take it, his eyes widen. The disbelief, bright and clear on his face, only stays for a few seconds, wide open eyes soon turning slit once again, suspicious.
Dutch doesn't blame him. Anyone would think him stupid to give a kid they barely even know a gun. But Dutch doesn't care about what anyone thinks.
"Take it," he says, and, when John does nothing, just stares with a skeptic frown tensing his lips, puts the revolver down between them an offer John can choose to accept if he wants to. "No tricks."
Dutch stands, brushes off the back of his pants, and leaves John alone.
"I heard that, you know," Hosea says, approaching Dutch .
"Whatever are you talking about?" Dutch says, feigning innocence.
Hosea stares at him, deadpan, arms crossed over his chest, and Dutch laughs, loud and boisterous, a sound that makes Arthur look up from where he's playing with Copper. His attention only lays on the two of them for a few seconds before he's inevitably pulled back into his and Copper's game by a sharp bark and a wagging tail.
It's all fine and dandy, calm even, for a few minutes, Dutch and Hosea talking amongst themselves and letting the kids – Arthur may be 22, but he's still a kid to Dutch, dammit – just do whatever they feel like.
Then, however, a gun goes off, the shot lashing through the air like a whip.
Hosea, Dutch, and Arthur all have knee-jerk reactions, hands going to grasp at their own weapons and bodies swirling to face the incoming enemy.
Except, there is no enemy, just John sitting where he's been sitting the entire day, watching with some befuddlement the way smoke starts curling out of the gun in his hands. In turn, Dutch, Hosea, and Arthur all sag, thankful that the only casualty tonight seems to be one of their sitting logs, a freshly fired bullet wedged into the wood.
John looks like he can't believe there are actual, real bullets in the cattleman Dutch gave him, turning his head, ever so slowly, to the direction where Hosea and Dutch stand, and stares at Dutch like he's a madman.
"Get used to it, kid!" Hosea yells, hand cupped around the side of his mouth to amplify his voice. "This man's about as crazy as they come!"
Dutch shrugs. "I've been called worse."
"I know."
But, despite the corners of his mouth tipping upwards in an exasperated grin, Hosea looks concerned, worry etched into the furrow of his brow.
He airs his concerns though, asks in a hushed voice," You really think it's a good idea to give him a gun?"
"Not a good one, but a necessary one." Dutch claps him on the back and grips his shoulder, fingers digging into the fabric of his jacket, firm and steady. "Look at him Hosea, the kid's more frightened than anything else. What he needs is reassurance that he can protect himself. And reassurance that we're willing to give that privilege to him."
"And what makes you think he won't just shoot us in the middle of the night?"
Dutch shakes his head.
"Have some faith Hosea – in me and John."