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Chapter Text

His heart thunders in his ears, pounding relentlessly. Adrenaline, or so he attributed it to earlier, but adrenaline's long worn off and yet it ceases to surrender. It echos harshly, weighing heavy on him like the blood that's warm on his hands.

He's forgotten, sort of, to where it's all come from. Arthur thinks it might be his and yet he can't quite bring himself to believe that someone could lose so much and still be alive. But if not his, then whose?

He's alone, far as he can tell. Horse is nearby, least he thinks she is; his mind, slow as it, seems to recall her running off somewhere and he thinks he might have tried calling her on back but either he's remembering wrong or she just choosing not to listen. Either one's a possibility, stubborn and willful as she is. Whatever the cause, all he knows now is that he's propped up against a tree somewhere out in the midst of nowhere.

He ain't quite sure where he is.

There's lights, out in the distance. They're a far bit off and glow against the night that's rolling in but he can't quite place a name to what that town might be called. Can't quite wrap his mind around where camp is neither. He thinks that revelation ought to worry him, but it don't. Not really—mostly he's just confused and damn it all if he ain't tired.

Daylight's gone, faded into dusk with muted colors reaching ever forth. Ain't as warm neither, though he can't tell if the chill's from the air or if it's coming from him.

He ain't feel quite right. His chest hurts in a funny way. Not like the kind of way when he's been sick and coughing and all that, but in another. It stings and burns like he might have been shot or gotten cut, but try hard as he can he can't quite remember getting into any fights. He'd been drinking, least he thinks he has, cause he thinks that's why his mind's all funny and not working right, and hell if he ain't done strange things when he's out of his mind with drunkenness, but christ he ain't ever been this sore after all that.

He thinks—thinks he maybe ought to sleep whatever this is off. He's done it before; waken up in the midst of a field without horse nor insight to what all went wrong. He's done trudged his ass on home, roiled in shame and humiliation, brushing off the snide comments and brusque reactions of the others. Dutch – he mostly finds this sort of thing funny, but Hosea don't and Miss Grimshaw certainly don't neither.

She's the one to drag him on over to the wash bin and all but force his head under, all the while berating him for acting a fool and asking he wants to bring the law down on them all.

He don't. Really he don't, he just can't help himself sometimes.

Like now.

Longer he thinks on it, more he comes to accept that he done messed up once again and that some bastard did him in while he weren't quite aware. Probably why he hurts so damn bad and why there's so much blood and so many flies...

He can't help but wonder to that last part. Dutch and 'em, they always joke 'bout how if he don't wash enough, the flies will follow him 'round, but that ain't ever happen, least till now. Arthur does his best to brush them off, but they don't seem too bothered. He don't like how they buzz about, landing on him, but it ain't him they're too occupied with. It's the thing near him—whatever it is. It's gray and tan and sits but a yard away, crumpled in a heap, looking sorta like...sorta like a dog.

Copper.

He starts at that, wincing at the pain that lances up his chest. Agony like wildfire burns, digging its claws into his flesh and tears it anew as fresh warmth blossoms against his clothes. Arthur ignores it, teeth grit against the burn as he chases that faint thread of recollection.

Because Copper...Copper had been here.

He'd been here. The dog had been the first one to notice something amiss. He'd stiffened and his hackles had raised and his lips had drawn on back to loosen a growl in warning. Perhaps the only warning he'd gotten before it done hit him.

Memories flashed now, racing wild and vivid within his grasp just as the cougar had. A splash of tan and gray racing out of the long grass, a hair-raising growl striking deep to his bones.

Boadicea, fine of a horse as she was, was in no mind to stand up to such a foe. Arthur was flat on his back before he could even draw. Thing was on him quick, sinking claws deep, it's teeth tearing into the flesh of his shoulder, dragging him on down and Copper—

Copper had latched onto the beast, had tackled it from behind. A fit of hiss and growls and a flurry of fur erupted as the cougar turned to engage. Floundering in pain, but fueled by a flourish of adrenaline, Arthur had scrambled for his gun. A pistol, hardly fit to take down such a creature but he wasn't just going to stand on by and watch.

He fired once.

Twice.

A third time before the cat tore away and tackled him once more. Weight pressing him to the ground, fingers gripped tight in fur, hot breath mere inches away from his face. Blood that was warm, racing down his arm as he forced the blade up. The knife that sat sheathed by his side drawn free, plunged deep into the cougar's chest. The fading yowl of an animal in the throes of death.

And then...

Then Arthur couldn't remember after that.

It was all a blur.

Waking up here, the pieces slowly falling in, snapping together like a puzzle missing pieces was only the start. He couldn't yet bring himself to move yet, choosing instead to stare at the thing before him; the cougar. Hardly dead and yet already being feasted upon; Arthur supposed the same might be for him if he stayed out here. He had to get a move on, find his way on back to camp where he might be able to patch himself on up.

Though that seemed more dream than possibility for now. There was no sign of Bo', and as for Copper—well, he ain't see nothing of Copper neither since he'd come on to. Though he was certain he'd seen the hound after it all went down. There was a part of him that could recall the bundled mass of coarse fur and slobbery licks that nuzzled on into his listless hands and even now he could still hear the poignant whines that tickled its way into his subconscious.

Copper had been here. Of that Arthur was sure and now...now he was gone. Gone where was perhaps an interesting question, if not overshadowed by annoyance and concern. A feeble whistle broke free from bloodied lips, the tone dying on the open air, echoing without response. Neither hound nor steed responding.

He wasn't going to make it home.

It was a bitter truth that sat shallow on his mind. In a way, it should bother him more than perhaps it does, but long gone was any sense of actual emotion, far too drowned out by the trauma that's burrowed in deep. And he was tired; so very tired that he could barely wrest his eyes open and his chin came on down to rest against his chest, rising ever so softly with breaths that were far too weak and shallow.

The thundering in his ears died on down until they were nothing more than a gentle hum. And above that whisper of a sound came something new. Something different. Familiar enough in a way that he went to dismiss it.

His head felt as though it were in a vice and every fiber of his being hurt . All he wanted was to sink deep into the darkness that beckoned him forth and embrace it for all it was worth, but the incessant din tore at him, pestering and begging and warm flesh digging deep into his side and sudden jolt of pain tore him from reverie and he drew in a sharp gasp that burned clear down to his lungs.

“Copper...”

His voice was hardly more than a hoarse plea. He pushed at the dog, shoving him away with a feeble gesture. Doing what he could to distance his worn and aching body from the persistent nuzzling, though it was all for naught. Copper wasn't deterred, whining and barking, pawing at him all the while, growing all the more agitated.

And then—

“Arthur?”

Arthur felt his stomach plummet, felt it turn inside out as his mouth went dry at the sound of his voice. Copper—now he ain't been too welcome as of late, what with his tendency to get into trouble and cause mayhem about the camp and Dutch and Hosea and Grimshaw always after him to keep the dog out from under their feet and now here he is, all but waking the whole of the damn camp.

So Arthur reaches out, tries to grab hold of the mutt. Tries to wrap bloodied fingers about his muzzle to quiet him, but Copper ain't having none of that. The hound skitters away without much trouble, takes off running into the night and much as Arthur wants to stop him, he don't have it in him to chase after, so he lets him just go. Might be better, he thinks, for the dog to take off for a bit, let folk calm on down.

Though Copper ain't gone long. No—he comes back only a moment later, and this time he's got Hosea on his heels.

Arthur feels a little defeated at that, a cross of shame and embarrassment, but he can't think on that much on the count of the offending light that seems to slice right on through his temples. Hosea holds the lantern on up high and that seems to make it all the worse, forces him to wince and grunt against the pain that comes on up without warning.

“He's on over here,” Hosea calls on out to someone, 'fore he kneels on down next to him. Copper's there again, nosing his way on in and Hosea has to shoo him away. Arthur opened his mouth, a meek attempt to apologize, but what came out instead of words was more a whimper, a streak of pain tearing through him as he tried to sit on up.

Hosea presses him back on down, hushes him all gentle like, a hand sat firm on his shoulder—the other, plucking at the collar of his shirt and then—

“Shit.”

It was him who swore. The stinging pain like a scorpion, burning all the way from neck to chest as the cloth was pulled away from they drying wounds, invoking that sort of wrath. He grit his teeth tight, eyes pressed closed against the onslaught, tears pricking at the corners and threatening to let loose. He reached up with a shaky hand, fingers curling about his wrist. Not so much to stop, but to ground, though Hosea ain't see it that way.

“It's alright, Arthur—being careful as I can, just—just let me have a quick look.”

He swallowed, sucking in a shallow breath as those hands ghosted down, poking and prodding, find every cut and every wound that he might have. He takes a moment, looks on down to where his chest is now exposed, wincing at the red that he can see there.

Why was there so much blood?

“How bad is it?”

Dutch now. Dutch was here now, which meant he was royally fucked.

Hosea—now he has his moments, but he's a lot more calm and far more forgiving than Dutch is. Dutch, he gets particular, especially 'bout his sleep and how he don't like it interrupted and Arthur can't help but feel like this might be thing that pushes him on over and forces him to leave Copper on behind. Man always jokes about it and till now, Arthur has given himself to think that's all it's been is a joke, but all the same he can't help but worry.

So he tries to get on up, tries to make it look like he's dealing with it all but his legs don't want to work and his head spins whenever he tries. Not that he can get on anywhere anyhow, not with how Hosea's done keeping him pinned against the tree. Arthur, he tries to apologize, tries to explain it away, but he's hushed by the pair of them and if he looks real close, he can see they ain't really mad. Rather they look...concerned.

Dutch—he's crouching now, on the other side of Hosea and his face is all grim and stern like he's just seen something he'd rather not. Their gazes meet just then, but Arthur ain't able to hold it for more than a few seconds, cause he feels like too much a fool, sitting here and still not too sure what's all taken place.

So he looks elsewhere while they do their thing, cause it seems like they gonna do that anyhow, no matter what he says. He hates that they're looking after him like he's some sort of child that needs looking after, though Arthur guesses that must be all there's to it seeing as he can't even think straight. They talk amongst each other and while they do that he stares on up at the stars, and down across the plains to where them lights still are shining bright and moves on next to where Copper's sat, the hound watching inquisitively with his cocked to one side. And on the ground near him is the cougar and memory seems to slam back into him just then.

“Cougar,” he croaks out, as though that sort of information is important. Kinda is, he guesses—though he's not too sure why.

“That we can see. Got you pretty good, ain't it?” Hosea hums, and he sounds not at all surprised. Though why he should be, Arthur don't know. Man's a born hunter, second right after a conman, that is. Hell, Hosea probably knew that bastard was hanging around before they'd even gotten here.

It relaxes him a little, the knowledge that they're aware and ahead of the game a comfort to him. Enough so that he feels content to leave it on to them to deal with. For now, he's exhausted, and he thinks, just then, that he might get some rest, see if that helps to soothe any of his hurts.

But his eyes ain't even closed for a minute when there's a tapping on his cheek. Light slaps that peck and batter along his face, coaxing him back to the waking world. It's Hosea whose done pestering him, telling him he's needs to stay on awake for now. Arthur wants to protest, but he ain't really get much a chance.

There's pressure, sudden, pressing down on one of the wounds that makes him tense. A hiss escapes him as he jolts, trying his best to pull on away. Fuck does it ever hurt; it's a type of pain he ain't ever had to deal with before if he's honest with himself. Bumps and bruises ain't ever bothered him, but this...well, this is something new and he ain't much a fan of it.

“Sorry, Arthur—just trying to keep what blood you got left in you, is all.”

“Should we take him to the doctor?” Dutch wonders just then.

There's a hum of dismissal. Don't surprise him much; Hosea's never been a fan of them. “He's lost a lot of blood, but I reckon it ain't anything we can't handle. Getting him on home gonna be the worst of it, but once he's there, we can patch him up and he'll be fine.”

Home.

Camp.

He ain't quite remember where camp is. Even if he did, it ain't like it'd help much, seeing as he ain't got no damn horse. He says this, mutters it more like out under his breath and it seems like they almost ain't hear him. But Hosea's still got a hold of him tight and reassures him all the same.

“We'll get you on back just fine, don't you worry. Come on then, let's get you on your feet.”

He don't know if he can manage that. Seems like far too great of an effort to try, but it don't seem to stop them. Hosea's on one side, Dutch his other, and he's pulled upright, dragged onto his feet. He staggers, his legs ain't wanting to really work and his head spins and the world churns and he—

He thinks he might have passed on out.

He comes to, the world a blur before him. Trees and rocks and grass all racing by in silent display. Horse is under him, moving at a steady gait and he's leaned back against someone. Dutch, he thinks—he can see the glint of the lantern off the rings, his arm wrapped about his torso, keeping him upright.

He moans something, even Arthur ain't sure what, his mouth and mind wholly not working together to form anything coherent, but he tries nonetheless. Dutch don't seem to be bothered by his incessant mumbles. The man, he don't miss a beat, and he's quick as he always is in saying that they're nearly home, promises him in that way he always does that things are gonna be alright.

Dutch though, if there's one thing he's learned about Dutch in all these years is that he often likes to talk. Likes to make promises of all sorts. Some times, those promises—they come on through. Others, well, other times, they ain't so lucky.

And as the glow of the campfire draws on near, he can't help but wonder which time this one is.

Chapter Text

They got him on home well enough.

He weren't too far, really. They'd found him just on the outskirts of town, not even half a mile from camp. Well, Copper'd found him, if he were to be precise.

Dog had come bounding in while they were having supper; they'd expected Arthur before then, but it weren't too rare a thing for him to get caught up in things and lose track of time, so there hadn't been any sort of worry. Least not till they'd seen Copper and how his russet fur was swathed in blood. It all added to that worry when the hound refused to let up, kicking up a fuss, racing to and from the outskirts of camp and back.

Hosea thought him dead when they first came upon them. He remembers seeing him there, can still feel the cold dread that swept through him at the sight.

Of Arthur draped against a tree, a mere shadow in the midst of night, the heavy tang of blood and decay greeting them as they'd come up close. Most of that rot, he learned, had come from the cougar that lay not two feet away from the boy, half-gutted and already beginning to fester. The rest, he presumed, was from Arthur who lay similarly coated in bloody stench.

He weren't dead and for that Hosea was ever so grateful. Rather he was sluggish, eyes half-open and trying his best to say something without much luck. Was trying to get himself up as well to which Hosea wouldn't allow, seeing as what they needed at the moment was for him to not exert himself any the more. He ain't like all the blood there was about him, nor how damn sallow he was as a result, but these were things they could fix on up later.

Which was what they was doing now.

Hosea appreciated the fact that Grimshaw weren't put out much by what she saw. Course she reckoned something was was wrong with all that had happened and she gotten things prepared. Fresh water boiled over a fire, needle and threads for sewing, some tonics and tinctures for whatever might come.

He and Dutch had dragged him off the horse and over to his bed seeing as Arthur weren't really even awake then. They'd laid him on down and Hosea worked in getting his shirt off so that they could clean his wounds proper.

He ain't look so bad once they done that. Worst of it all was a gouge near his neck, a pretty bit of skin torn free and it followed a gash that went on down towards his sternum. The rest were mere scratches in comparison and wouldn't even need stitching; just watching to ensure infection didn't set in.

What worried Hosea most was him being as pale as he was, as well as his listlessness. Arthur weren't ever one to be compliant as he was being now, and it weren't like he was passed out, seeing as he could hear each grunt and groan that filtered out between clenched teeth as they set to work getting him fixed on up. He ain't fight them though, hazy eyes staring out somewhere beyond at things they rightly couldn't see.

Hosea talked to him as though he were lucid. Told them all that they was doing and reassuring him all the same. Told him of the time he'd been set on by a bear when he was kid and how's he come out that just fine and said the same was going to be for him.

The last one might have been a lie, but Hosea found it fitting all the same. Helped to keep things on positive because otherwise he'd start worrying about the inevitable himself and it'd help no one. Helped, too, to hear himself talk instead of having to listen to silence, and he liked to think it helped Arthur as well, hoped that it gave him something to focus on other than the hurt.

Dutch, in the meantime, had taken off to town to stock up on supplies. They'd need more bandages and tinctures and Hosea hoped the man would be wise enough to settle on some morphine to help with the pain. For now, they'd enough stuff to make things work and Hosea wanted to get some color back into the boy's cheeks.

There was still stew left; stuff that was nearly forgotten in the commotion that followed and Hosea had Grimshaw go and skim off some of the broth. Then carefully he maneuvered him on up, settling in on behind him and bringing him down to rest, back to chest, so that he was resting at an incline.

He was chilled to the touch, a slight tremor in his muscles, nearly a shiver in his hold. That fact was remedied by draping extra blankets atop him, as well as the offering of stew held up before him. The bowl pressed against slack lips and tipped ever so slowly, trying to coax it on down him.

That he did fight against, though fight might not be the right word for it, seeing as to how weak he was. Arthur, he'd rather not have any of it, turning away from the offering with a half-contorted whimper. Hosea ain't blame him much; food was surely the last thing on his mind and he'd have no doubt as to how sour he must be feeling given all that's happened, but he also knew it was needed on account of his body not having much to fight with.

So he ain't let up, kept up with the offerings, using a mantra of reassurances and partial demands to get him to cave. One of them must have worked, either threat or promise, seeing he finally did take a sip. Small as it was, it was improvement, and Hosea couldn't help but praise him all the same.

“Atta boy,” he hummed, coaxing him to take on some more. “Get something in you, get you feeling better in no time.”

In the end, it weren't nothing more than a few mouthfuls, but he was pleased with the result. He set the bowl onto one side and for a moment just sat where he was, letting Arthur's weight settle in against him. Boy was barely lucid, fighting against the draw of exhaustion, eyes darting about camp and taking in that which he could see, which weren't all that much.

Grimshaw had left them, had gone about to finish cleaning up the mess they'd left behind and Dutch weren't back yet so it was just them. Copper was watching, head titled to one side, quiet this whole while though his tail quickened when Arthur's gaze settled down on him.

Boy loved that dog despite his shortcomings and it showed here. First words he'd spoke since they gotten on home and though it was more a croak then anything else, Hosea could hear it clear as day.

“Hey boy....”

Hosea reached on down, gave a pat to the bedside. And Copper, he weren't no puppy any more, big as he was, but it ain't stop him at all from clambering on up and draping himself on over Arthur's legs. And Arthur—weak as he was, still managed to reach on up, fingers curling on into his tacky fur.

Dog would need a bath soon enough—perhaps he'd leave that chore to Dutch. Hosea smirked at the image, reaching on out to give the hound a pat of his own. There was a whine, Copper stretching on out his neck, licking his fingers in return, as though perhaps to say his thanks in their aid. Feeling was mutual, and Hosea told him as much. Copper's tail still beat against the bed, a happy wag as he lay his head atop Arthur's stomach, reveling in the weak pets lathered upon him.

Hosea let it go on for but a few minutes, before he cut him off with a gentle hum. “Alright then, go and get some sleep. We got you; you're safe now.”

There was a grunt; a groan – though hardly any sort of real protest as he followed on through. And these next days, he knew, would be the toughest—but they'd get on them through just as well. They had to.

Because Hosea wouldn't consider any other outcome.

Chapter Text

Hosea was wrong about those first days being the toughest.

In retrospect, they were the easiest. Especially compared to what they were dealing with now. It almost left him longing for those early days, back when Arthur was laid up and compliant, seeing as all he'd done was sleep.

Now though...now he weren't so feeble. Nor was he healed, which with some introspection was perhaps the reason behind all this. Behind his irascibility and dourness that hung thick like a storm cloud threatening to unleash on the rest of them. He'd been bitter and biting and cruel in those times when they'd dared to offer some sort of help.

Arthur weren't one for pity; never was, not even in those early days when they started to run together. He'd been nothing more than a flea-bitten runt, scrawny and gaunt and ever so angry. Didn't want help for nothing, even when he were failing and it took all their effort to not snap in return, lest they scare him off. Somehow they hadn't, and he'd stuck around, happy to help and contribute in return for his fair cut. That boy never did want any charity, nor did he take to lingering about like a unwanted smell, always insistent he be doing something.

Hosea supposed that were the real problem. The mere fact that he weren't put out enough to be subdued, but neither did he have the strength to occupy the budding restlessness that burned beneath his skin. The mere act of walking left him breathless, and his pitiful attempts to contribute left him pallid and shaken to the point he had to be all but chased back into bed and told to rest.

Then, if things weren't already wrong enough, they came all the worse when Dutch had decided to take Susan on into town to see to a job that were supposed to be done by them. A job that had been in the works that they'd been planning and would be well missed if they just stayed put. So it made sense they was the ones to go while Arthur stayed behind. Still, it was taken as though it were some sort of personal slight, even though it weren't. Hosea had stayed behind, if only to keep any eye on the unruly bastard. It weren't presented as that way, but the insinuation was there the same.

After all, this weren't the first time he'd been caught trying to sneak on out of camp.

“And what, pray tell, are you doing with that?”

Hosea didn't even bother to look up from the paper he was reading. News was dull as of late, but he'd run out of things to otherwise read. From his periphery he could see the kid stiffen, his back straight, the saddle clutched still in his hands.

“Going nowhere—just gonna polish it, is all,” he huffed in response, turning around slow. He'd gotten himself into a shirt, had it partially buttoned up until the area that was starting to scar. The flannel he preferred to wear caught along the stitching, bothering it something awful, but Arthur stoutly refused the fancy dress shirts that they'd attempted to press onto him, citing their obnoxious taste.

Hosea set the paper on down. “No need to carry it way over there. You can sit right here and see to it.”

“Just going to the shade, is all,” he protested, though Hosea wouldn't hear none of it. Wasn't like he'd been born yesterday, after all.

“That so? You certainly aren't planning on running off to town, where you would irrefutably run into the others and so decided to make yourself conducive to whatever contrivance they might be engaging in?”

And Arthur just stared at him, mind buzzing, though clearly not clicking with what he'd been accused of. Hosea went back to his reading, not missing a beat.

“Come sit down, before you tear your stitching again, you idiot.”

He'd done that once before. Trying to carry a sack of grain from the supply wagon. Bled like a stuck pig and been two licks short of the threat of being hogtied to see it right again. Fought like a viper he had, fussing all the while and pretending it were no big deal he was bleeding out in the middle of the damn camp.

“Come on, Hosea—I weren't gonna go that far.”

“Of course not,” Hosea agreed, though he hardly believed it. Arthur'd have the run of the place if he so much took a second longer to blink. “But feel free—after all, I've rustled enough cows in my days; hunting you down wouldn't be much different.”

Arthur sat down at the table across from him, elbows dug hard into the wood, chin resting in his hands. “Can't keep me here forever, Hosea.”

“Won't be forever,” the man reassured. “Just long enough for you to heal, is all. Just—think of it as a well deserved rest.”

“You make it sound like I'm dead.”

“Dead is what you nearly were,” Hosea reminded him.

“Weren't all that bad.”

As if he hadn't nearly been fodder for a cougar. As though he hadn't left a trail of blood in his wake that still to this day marred the landscape. Hosea had come across it the day before, had shuddered at the imagery. Even now it still played on his mind. Gruesome and dark, marring the otherwise quaint day. Hosea set the paper aside, desperate for a distraction from these somber thoughts.

“Tell you what. How about we play a rousing game of dominoes to pass the time? Been a while since we've done that.”

It had been. They'd all been busy with their own thing, Arthur mostly, who in his budding independence had taken to disappearing, only to surface at strange intervals to assure them he was indeed still among the living. Still, he had a set that sat among his things, old and battered from the countless of times it'd been used. It sat now, collecting dust and nearly forgotten.

After all, Dutch weren't much into that sort of thing and for Susan, poker was more her style. Bessie had been the one who had gifted the set towards him, from the last time they'd taken leave on the road. A reminder—a keepsake from the time they'd spent together up near Ambarino.

She'd also been the one to teach to teach Arthur during their last visit. Though since leaving, they hadn't a chance to put his skills to use. Hosea figured now was a good of time as any to see what he remembered.

Arthur, however, didn't look so thrilled on the matter. There was an eyebrow raised, his lips drawn thin and face somber, and all the while his voice was sour. “Why would we waste time on that for?”

“Oh, I apologize,” Hosea returned, gesturing about him. “That is a legitimate concern, considering all the important things waiting to be done around here. And seeing as you aren't all that bad off, you can certainly help. There's wood waiting to be chopped, dishes that need washing, clothes that need mending. We best get on to it, then.”

A mock threat, but one all the same. If the kid was so damn determined to do something, Hosea would certainly put his skills to use.

“Ain't you just said I was supposed to be resting?”

“Weren't you the one just trying to sneak on out of here?” Hosea reminded him.

There was a moment of silence, then a simple sigh. “Fair enough.”

“Now, we can get a move on with chores; or we can take a breather and see how much you remember of what Bessie taught you. What do you say?”

“Fine—but just the one,” he agreed reluctantly.

It was enough for Hosea. Took a fair moment to dig it out, buried as it were. But they splayed the tiles on the board, mixing and mussing and picking each of their own. Arthur had the highest draw and so went first, placing the tile down in the center. Hosea played a tile of his own off to one side.

“We aren't trying to punish you, you know,” Hosea told him gently, prompting him to take his turn. Despite slogging through the motions, Hosea could see he was still bitter about the forced confinement.

There was a sigh as he set down another tile. “I know. Jus' hate being cooped up, is all.”

“You'll be out before long,” he encouraged. “Why, you're doing marvelous, considering the circumstances. Things could have been a lot worse, you know.”

“I know,” he grumbled.

Hosea went on, playing his own tile, “Could have lost an arm, a leg, an eye—course, we'd find you one of those fancy patches to wear, call you Captain Morgan. Find you a nice hat, too.”

“I like my hat,” he retorted without missing a beat. “Fits my head real well.”

Arthur did have a fancy for that, despite how weathered and beaten it was. A relic of his father's, which might have been a sentimental nod, if his disdain for the man weren't so clearly read in his features each time the man had been brought up. Hosea never did quite figure out why he held onto that so hard, nor Dutch—but enough time had passed that they'd long dropped their attempts of getting him to wear something decent.

Hell, half the time Hosea counted his blessings of the fact that Arthur even dressed himself proper, seeing he was far too content to languish in whatever muck he'd fallen asleep in the night prior. That, or reeking of booze. Neither he, nor Dutch, were strangers to the filth found upon the road and sleeping under the stars, but Arthur had seemingly brought that to an entirely new level.

Worse yet was the fact he didn't seem bothered by it. No—rather he was put out by being tethered here, of being kept after and watched as though he'd done something reprehensible. Looked sorta like a mutt that had been kicked aside, he did.

Hosea let out a hum. “Guess you're right in that. Suppose all I'm saying is, well—that we're glad you're still with us, is all.”

“Weren't like I went out looking for trouble,” he returned, reaching over to draw a tile.

“We know that.”

“Dutch sure don't,” Arthur retorted, reaching for another tile.

That was a surprise to him. “Dutch say something about it?”

“Ain't have to,” he shrugged, “can read him plain as day, he ain't happy 'bout the fact I'm down, ruining his plans and what have you.”

Dutch had been nervous, true enough, but that speculation came from nothing more than his own perceived notions. Arthur always had been like that; ready and willing to take blame that weren't rightly his.

“You never mind Dutch, you hear?” Hosea told him sternly, watching as the kid started picking through the tiles again. “Man's got a lot to worry about, and he don't mean nothing by it. I was there when we found you, Arthur—he was just as worried as I was.”

“Dutch, worried?” he scoffed, laughed a little nervously. “We talking about the same Dutch?”

Hosea nodded, “The very same Dutch who I saw slipping Copper a few extra bits of meat over dinner last night?”

There was a smirk there. “I saw that—and to think he done said he weren't ever gonna share his food with that pup.”

Dutch had said as much, the very first time he'd seen Arthur share half his lunch with the hound. Dutch had made a face, his features tight as he declared his opposition, vehemently so. He tolerated Copper on the best of days, but recently his attitude had changed. Softened, if one dared to say. No one would, though—doubted it would do any good if they had. Dutch would go to his grave denying it all the same.

Hosea glanced on over, watching as Copper slept, curled on by the fire. Those first nights he spent close to Arthur's side, unwilling to leave the tent. Brought him a sort of comfort, Hosea supposed, and for that he was glad, because seeing him suffer had been hard enough.

It was good, he thought, to see Arthur on the mend. Kid had been with them for a few years now, but felt longer. As though they'd been together since the beginning. Hosea had grown fond of him, even if he hadn't felt that way in the beginning. Dutch, he knew, felt the same. Could say the same for Susan.

An odd little family they were; a bunch of misfits, all collaborating together, depending on each other and fighting their way through this life. How funny and strange it was to think of, of all those years ago when he'd taken off on his own, to end up here. Never really did think of himself as a father, but sort of felt as though that was what he was.

And in some strange sense, he figured he was. A keen smile on his face as he set down the last tile. Father or not, he still was damn competitive.

“Hope you aren't sore about losing.”

“No,” Arthur grumped, stiff in his seat. “But—”

“But what?” he couldn't help but taunt.

He watched the kid shrug, “Just reckon we should try again; you know, just in case you was cheating or something.”

“Cheating, you say?” Hosea raised an eyebrow. “Is that what you think?”

“You cheat folk all the damn time.”

It was quite the point. Hosea nodded, that smile still on his face. “Alright then—best two out of three; what do you say?”

“Reckon it's better than doing chores.”

And that, Hosea figured, was another good point.