Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Arthur would never forget that icy February morning when John had entered their lives.

A gentle dusting of snow still coated the ground, and the air was crisp and cold. It was the type of weather that would make someone want to huddle up by a fire. Springtime had yet to show her face; evidently, winter would be clinging on a little longer. 

Arthur had never minded the cold much, anyway. As long as he was dressed warm enough, he could withstand the average winter temperatures. Just as Arthur was pouring himself some coffee by the fire, Miss Grimshaw began to lament about the weather.

“I cannot stand this damned cold,” Miss Grimshaw griped. She reached her gloved hands out closer to the fire, a shudder wracking her wiry frame.

“Oh, now, I don’t think it’s too bad, Susan,” Uncle replied, slightly slurring his words. The old man was more falling off of his chair than sitting on it, having barely enough energy to keep his drink upright.

Barely even eight in the morning and the old leech is drunk, Arthur mused, sipping his coffee. 

“Maybe if you weren’t intoxicated, you’d be more aware of your surroundings,” Grimshaw shot back. 

Uncle put a hand over his heart dramatically, although the movement was sluggish in his inebriated state. “You wound me, my lady,” he bemoaned.

A scoff. “Good.” 

At that moment, Annabel emerged from her shared tent with Dutch, making her way over to the campfire. 

“G’morning, Arthur.” She greeted, ignoring Uncle and Grimshaw’s bickering (the former was defending his lack of work, whilst the latter was nagging him about said lack of work). 

Arthur swallowed his last sip of coffee, dumping the rest out on the ground. “Morning, Annabel.” 

“Dutch is by the horses. He said something about needing you,” 

Arthur nodded and excused himself, curious as to what was in store for today.

Running with Dutch’s gang for as many years as he had, Arthur knew that it could be anything from a simple stagecoach robbery to a long-planned con. 

Dutch waved Arthur over, currently in the middle of brushing his mount, The Count. Dressed in a thin coat and casual clothes, Arthur guessed that a con was not in the works today. 

Dutch adjusted the collar of his coat, and Arthur wondered if it was even providing him any warmth at all. Of course, Dutch never appeared to have trouble with any temperature — be it the unforgiving California heat or blistering cold brought on by the Rocky Mountains. It was almost as if he thought himself above being affected by even the most extreme weather. 

“Arthur, my dear boy! Care to accompany me on a trip to town?” 

“Alright,” Arthur replied. “Anything, in particular, that we’re doin’?”

“Nope,” Dutch said, emphasizing the ‘p’. “We need some odds and ends, and Hosea asked for a new pocket watch. Other than that, I think we’ve earned a relaxed sort of day, don’t you think?”

It was somewhat of a rhetorical question, but Arthur agreed anyway. “Sure,” 

Forty minutes later, Arthur was hitching his horse in front of the general store.

Dutch had simply said Arthur ‘lacked the proper finesse’ — whatever that meant — to charm the general store owner into giving a good deal. Personally, Arthur thought he was half-decent at bartering, but whatever Dutch said went.

"I know you've been wanting a new gun, and I know you've been saving up," Dutch started, reaching into his satchel. He pulled out two dollar coins, placing them in Arthur's hand. "Here's a little extra; consider it an early birthday gift. Buy yourself something nice." 

Arthur's mind excitedly raced to the possibilities – he had originally planned on replacing his worn, shoddy, hardly working pistol with a just as cheap (but still new) pistol. But with some extra money, he could potentially get a really good new gun. 

"Thank you, Dutch." 

Dutch clapped Arthur on the shoulder. "You've earned it, son. I'll meet you back here in fifteen minutes."

Just as Arthur had purchased his gun, Dutch was dragging Arthur out of the gunsmith, in a rush and seething.

"Dutch, what–" Arthur began, but he was cut off.

"Goddamn hicks." Dutch fumed, pointing to the gallows. "Some fucking bastards are about to hang a child today, and you and I are stopping it." The deadly serious tone in his voice left no room for argument (not that Arthur would have disagreed). Anger rolled off the elder man in waves; come to think of it, Arthur wasn't sure if he had ever seen Dutch so angry.

"How are we going to do this?" Arthur questioned, his voice hushed. 

"I have a plan," Dutch retorted, still heated. Before he could say anything else, the sight before them stole both of the men's attention: a frail, panicked, screaming dark-haired boy who was doing everything he could to wrestle out of his would-be killer's grip. Angered with the child's fighting spirit, the man hoisted the boy in his arms and walked up the last few steps. 

With a look of grim determination, Dutch continued, "I'm going to distract them. You need to take out the executioner before he pulls the lever." With a tilt of his head, Dutch beckoned Arthur to go towards the edge of the small crowd that had gathered in front of the gallows. 

Arthur nodded. 

Dutch's booming voice cut through the tiny crowd (who quickly parted like the Red Sea, leaving Dutch front and center). "Gentlemen, gentlemen!" Dutch had a thin smile on his lips, arms outstretched. "Now, what's all this fuss about? Surely, this young man can't have caused such an issue." 

"This fuckin' kid stole from me!" the man holding the boy spat, jostling his arm for emphasis. 

"Perhaps I could repay for whatever he stole. There's no reason to hang the boy." Dutch said calmly, hands now resting on his gun belt. 

Arthur inched closer to the gallows, drawing his new gun silently. No one paid any mind – Dutch always was good at garnering people's attention. 

"Why's it matter? Ain't nobody goin' to miss some orphan." Someone from the crowd piped up. Other townsfolk began to interject with their own opinions, most clearly craving blood, others less in favor of killing a child. 

"I've had 'nuff of this shit! This little bastard needs to pay!" He shoved the boy over to the executioner, who was ready with the noose. 

Instinct kicked in, and before Arthur could think rationally about what he as doing, he shot the damn hillbilly. The bullet entered the upper-left side of his neck and exited cleanly through the right, the man instantly collapsing.

People began shouting at the commotion; most ran, and a few pulled their own guns out. Dutch was now brandishing his own gun, now in something of a shootout with the other townies.

The executioner's reaction was swift — he pulled the lever. 

Arthur was equally as swift. It was almost as if time had slowed — he shot at the rope, severing the noose, and the boy was free. One well-aimed shot to the head had the executioner down.

Arthur rushed over to the kid, ignoring the way bullets whizzed past his body. Adrenaline coursed through his veins. 

Luckily, the kid was alive. The boy was on his knees, and the rope was still hanging loosely around his neck – Jesus, the kid was so frail – his thin arms barely held him up. 

Arthur kept a careful step back, watching as the kid inhaled gracious lungfuls of air. His chest punched in and out quickly, gasping sobs escaping his lungs. 

Eventually, his breathing slowed. He let the kid fully catch his breath before approaching him. He didn't want to startle him – but there was also a gunfight going on currently, and Arthur would rather get out of this shitty, no-good, podunk town before one of them got injured. 

"We're gonna get you somewhere safe, alright?" Arthur said as gently as possible despite the surrounding chaos. As for where safe was, Arthur hadn't the faintest idea. 

The kid didn't really seem like he grasped any of that, but Arthur didn't blame him.

The sounds of gunfire suddenly came to an abrupt end — as did the ringing in his ears.

“Arthur! Come on!” Dutch urged, already having whistled for his horse. 

Arthur picked the kid up. That finally snapped him out of his haze – and sent him directly into hysterics. Suddenly panicked, the boy flailed like a bird caught in a net. He tried everything to escape Arthur's grasp; from kicking (as frail as he seemed, he certainly knew how to kick, goddammit), to scratching, to going so far as to attempt to bite Arthur's hand. 

All of this stopped when Arthur put him in front of Dutch on the older man’s saddle. The boy froze. 

Lawmen would soon be at the scene. Just as Arthur had mounted up, Dutch was already spurring The Count. 

The ride back to camp felt closer to twenty minutes than it did to the forty Arthur knew it took. Dutch hadn’t let up his furious pace the entire time — and Arthur’s horse, Winona, had struggled to keep up.

As soon as he was on the ground, the kid looked like he wanted to bolt, but he remained still – nonetheless vigilant and on edge. 

"Nobody is going to hurt you, John." Dutch coaxed gently. Arthur had no idea when Dutch had learned the kid's name (it would have been nice if Dutch had bothered to tell Arthur at some point, because he'd been referring to John as 'kid' all morning).

Still, the kid – John – looked wary. Arthur could remember exactly what the kid was going through; it hadn't been all that long ago when Dutch and Hosea had taken him in. It took weeks for him to fully trust them. Hosea, followed by Miss Grimshaw, came over curiously. 

"Who's this?" Hosea asked, regarding John in his usual calm Hosea-like manner.

"Hosea, this is John. We rescued him from the gallows today.”

Hosea’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, though he quickly composed himself. He crouched down to John’s level, examining the boy. “How old are you, young man?”

John said nothing in response, arms crossed and staring daggers at Hosea. The kid would look more intimidating, Arthur thought, if he weren't so bony.

Hosea ignored John's icy glare. "Do you have someone to take care of you? Family somewhere?" 

For a moment, John kept his stubborn demeanor, as if challenging Hosea to some sort of game of wits, daring the man to back down.

Still, Arthur could sympathize with the boy. There once had been a time when he was just as mistrustful. The difference was that John had a chance at being more than an outlaw. Once they dropped him off, he (hopefully) didn't have to be wary of everyone he was around.

Hosea didn't budge either; which finally made the boy shake his head 'no'. 

Arthur had no idea if this kid was keeping silent due to a possible injury to his throat or neck, or if the boy was just being petty. Something in Arthur leaned towards the latter. 

Finally, Miss Grimshaw spoke up. "You must be hungry. Would you like somethin' to eat?" she said in a gentle voice. It reminded Arthur of when he was younger and she would occasionally talk to him in the same way. Arthur wasn't sure what happened first: if Grimshaw simply got hardier or if Arthur got too old to be treated with kid gloves. 

John looked at Miss Grimshaw with suspicion, then he eyed the stew pot. He shifted his weight, seeming to weigh his options. It seemed that hunger outweighed his mistrust, because the boy reluctantly nodded. 

Arthur busied himself with brushing his horse. He couldn’t help but absently listen to Hosea and Dutch’s hushed conversation.

“—I’m telling you, Hosea. There’s a fire in that boy’s eyes. He just needs some proper guidance.” 

“I don’t know about this, Dutch.”

“Trust me.” 

Wait. They were keeping him? Arthur wasn't entirely sure that was a good idea; he had assumed they were going to take him away from the town that tried to hang him, maybe give him a meal, and then drop the kid off somewhere else. Things had just been getting relatively good for the gang – having a child around would only make things messy. Arthur was twenty-one now, finally old enough to make meaningful choices, to go on robberies, and have other such somewhat new responsibilities. Besides, nobody had even asked John if he actually wanted to stay. Hell, maybe the kid would escape at the first possible moment. Maybe he'd even steal some money and food along the way. 

Arthur began, "Dutch, I thought–" 

Dutch cut him off, exasperated. "Arthur, you can clearly see that I am talking. If I want your opinion, I'll ask for it. Now please, go make yourself useful." 

"Why don't you go check on John?" Hosea added, his tone far more gentle than Dutch's currently was. 

With an indignant huff, Arthur made his way over to the campfire. Leave it to Dutch and his damned mood swings (sweet and sour Dutch, as Uncle once put it). He should have expected something like this to happen, considering how much of a good mood Dutch was in at the beginning of the day. 

Copper’s tail immediately began happily wagging as Arthur approached. Arthur bent down and gave the coonhound a scratch behind the ear.

Glancing upwards, Arthur could see a little pair of eyes staring daggers at him. John’s brown eyes bored into Arthur, seemingly on a mission to burn a hole through his skull. 

Arthur stood up and placed his hands on his gun belt casually. He tried to start an easygoing conversation with the boy. “You getting warmer now?” He had noticed that Grimshaw must’ve given John a blanket at some point.

The boy’s eyes narrowed, and he shifted to the left slightly, as if trying to protect his bowl of stew from being stolen. 

“Mind if I sit next to you?” he asked, feeling rather silly – asking for permission to sit somewhere in the place where he lived.

The kid considered it for a moment before he slowly nodded.

Just after Arthur sat down, however, John took the bowl of stew and proceeded to down it quickly, finishing it in a few gulps. Then, he tossed the bowl to the ground in a defiant show.

“If I wanted some stew, I would’ve gotten my own bowl. I’m not— I’m not going to steal from you, kid.”

That frosty glare returned, and John finally spoke, his voice hoarse. “Well, y’must want somethin’. So, out with it already.” Goddamn, it sounded like the kid had been swallowing glass.

“Don’t want nothin’,” Arthur returned breezily. “Maybe I just wanna get to know you.”

“Well, maybe I don’t got nothin’ to tell you,” John spat, crossing his arms.

Were all children this difficult to converse with? He couldn’t recall the last conversation he had with someone dramatically younger than him. Of course, John had several reasons to be mistrustful, Arthur guessed. There had once been a time where he had been suddenly surrounded by adults that he had no reason to trust. Still, he figured it would be helpful to break the ice a bit.

“You could start by tellin’ me how old you are,” Arthur suggested.

John looked him up and down, a look of scrutiny on his face. Like he was trying to figure out what Arthur’s motive was. “…Eleven.” He finally muttered, eyes trained on the fire.

Now that was surprising. The kid was so wraithlike he could easily pass for maybe eight years old (but of course, Arthur wasn’t around children enough to properly guess their ages). 

“I know you don’t have much reason to believe me,” Arthur began, “but none of us want to hurt you. Dutch, Hosea, Miss Grimshaw, Annabel, Uncle — they’re all good folk.” 

He wasn’t sure if they could be the classical definition of good, considering the robbing and con artistry, but for what it was worth, he knew they were good enough. 

Hopefully, with time, John would figure that out for himself.

Where to even begin with today? 

Dutch and I had rode into town for a simple supply run. Was supposed to be in and out, real quick. As per usual, it was anything but. Damn near as soon as I got out of the gunsmith, Dutch was dragging me by the arm across the street to the gallows.

Much to my surprise, they were going to hang some kid. I couldn't have imagined what he could've done that was offensive enough to get him KILLED – either way, Dutch and I weren't going to let the boy die. Kid was yelling, kicking, and fighting the entire way. Just as they were about to get the noose around the boy's neck, Dutch got to the front of the crowd and distracted the executioner. I snuck over to the gallows and shot the first guy, and from then it all went to shit. 

At some point, some jackass pulled the lever, and if I had been slower, the kid would've died. Somehow, I managed to save him. There was chaos all around, and I was trying to calm down the kid and not get the three of us killed in the process. 

We brought the kid — John’s his name — back to camp. Personally, I still don’t know if it’s the best idea; but he’s got no one else in life, so for now we’re all he’s got. He doesn’t trust any of us, though I can’t really blame him for that. He flinches every time anyone puts a hand on or near him, like he thinks we’re going to hit him.

I know what that’s like.

Still, he’s got this aggressiveness in him (in fact, he bit my hand more than once), and I don’t know if it should amuse or frighten me. Maybe it’s both. Dutch thinks he’ll be useful as he gets older — that he might grow into a gunslinger, something or other. 

We shall see.

Chapter Text

Having a little brother, as Arthur quickly was discovering, was downright miserable.

Though initially distrustful, John had began warming up to the gang. In a way, John’s growing trust reminded Arthur of himself. It was easy to embrace the kindness when you hadn’t experienced any in years — if at all. John didn’t speak much about his past, despite being a chatterbox in almost every other way. Arthur could tell from both personal experience and even the kid’s body language that he’d had a rough youth (the kid was always flinching; always recoiling away from touch). John’s icy demeanor had gradually melted away, though, revealing a very interesting personality that Arthur wasn’t sure exactly what to make of.

As the rest of February passed, John had begun to blossom. Really, for such a small individual, he certainly had a big personality to make up for it. He was just about the most hard-headed kid Arthur had ever met, not to mention how he had a reckless, tempestuous streak. The adults — particularly Dutch — simply couldn’t get enough of the boy, and Arthur couldn’t for the life of him understand (for the most part, anyway). 

For whatever reason, however, John stuck to Arthur like glue. Perhaps it was due to the fact that they were closest in age, or maybe Arthur had done something the day they had met that really struck a chord with John. Whatever the case, no matter what Arthur did, John would be just a step behind. The kid was always in his business; he couldn’t seem to get a moment’s peace anymore. For Christ’s sake, the kid shared a tent with him; even at nighttime there was no escape. 

That wasn’t to say John was all bad. He had his moments here and there, but for the most part, one would think that the boy made it his sworn duty to be a complete nuisance to Arthur. Now that he had learned the ropes of the gang, so to speak, John's new favorite activity was tattling on Arthur for even the most minuscule of things.

"Hey, Arthur. Hosea says you gotta help me read my book." John all but shoved his copy of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer in Arthur's face. The book had been a reward from Hosea to John for the progress he was making learning how to read. It was the only thing in camp that John bothered to treat with care, considering it was really the only thing (besides a few articles of hand-me-down clothing) that the boy owned. 

"I'm busy right now, John," Arthur answered dismissively – hoping – hell, praying that John would take a hint and come back later. 

"Well, when will you be done?"

"Dunno," 

"Okay, I'll wait," John replied. He sprawled down in front of Arthur, lying on his stomach with his legs in the air. 

"Sure," Arthur said rather curtly, too busy sketching to care what John was doing. As long as the kid was quiet, he supposed there wasn't too much of an issue at hand. 

John flipped open his book, and almost immediately he was breaking the silence to ask a question. “What does perp-lex-ed mean?” 

“It basically means the same thing as confused. And it’s pronounced perplexed .” He corrected.

"Okay. Hey, what does con-sis-tite-ed mean?"

"Constituted? It means to be considered as somethin'." Arthur answered, hoping that was the last of the questions.

John wrinkled his nose. “That don’t really ‘splain it.”

“Use context clues.”  

John remained quiet for a few blissful moments. 

Arthur shook his head and went back to his journal. He was trying to sketch the scene in front of him. He found the freshly-blossoming trees calling out to him, practically asking to be drawn. As he continued on he found himself drawing the rough shape of a familiar messy-haired boy sprawled on the ground, reading.

It seemed that even in his own artwork, John somehow managed to squeak through. 

Just as he was nearly complete, John was suddenly in his face again. Arthur tried to bat him away, but John was expecting it, and he dodged at the last moment. 

“Can you hurry up?”

“ Can you get out of my face? You’re blocking my light.” Arthur gestured to John’s shadow with his pencil. 

" Hosea ! Arthur ain't helping me learn to read!"

Arthur looked up from his journal and glared at John. "Really, Marston? You're gonna pull that crap?" 

John simply gave him a self-satisfied smirk. Herein lied one of the many benefits of being Dutch and Hosea's favorite: John knew he could get away with basically anything. Arthur only indulged the kid because he didn't need Dutch in his ear lecturing him with something along the lines of "Whether you like it or not, Arthur, John is your brother, and I expect you to treat him well". He'd heard variations of that same spiel over and over again. 

"Fine, fine ." Arthur yanked the book out of his hands, motioning for John to sit next to him. "If you ever miraculously get a girlfriend, John, I can't wait to scare her away with stories about how much of a little shit you are."

John crossed his arms. "Good luck with that, cause I ain't ever gonna get a girlfriend."

Arthur hummed noncommittally, only half listening. He scanned the next few pages of the book, past the flattened, wilted dandelion that John was using as a bookmark.

"Girls are gross. I'm gonna be a bachelor forever." John continued haughtily, arms still crossed. 

Good on the kid for keeping his expectations reasonable. "At least you ain't setting yourself up for disappointment," Arthur replied, chuckling to himself. 

In response to that, John's self-righteous smirk melted into a look of disgust. " Hosea ! Arthur says I'll never find love!" 

" What ?! No I didn't, you idiot!" Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose, mentally counting down backwards from five. “You know what, you brat? Go ask Hosea to help you read.” He shoved the book in the pouting tween’s arms, much to John’s complaints. 

John tugged on the sleeve of Arthur’s shirt, and what he said next was enough to give Arthur pause. “Wait— wait, Arthur, I’m sorry.” John sheepishly apologized, eyes downcast (honestly, Arthur had no idea that the word ‘sorry’ was even in the kid’s vocabulary). “I won’t tattle anymore,” 

Arthur sincerely doubted that, but with a resigned sigh, he sat back down. It wasn’t like he had anything better to do with his time — this entire month had been a blur of nothing but what was essentially babysitting duty, anyway. The kid wasn’t all that much of a menace when he was busy trying to read.

John’s smile returned and he eagerly sat himself down next to Arthur.

  Later that evening, Arthur sat by the fire, scribbling in his journal idly. John was finally asleep, and now that he had some freedom away from the boy, he was trying to enjoy himself.

This freedom soon didn’t last as Dutch put a hand on Arthur’s shoulder.

“You know, John really looks up to you, Arthur.” 

Arthur turned his attention away from his journal to Dutch. “Does he, now?”

“It’s a beautiful thing — brotherhood, that is.” 

“I suppose,” Arthur replied warily, not entirely sure where Dutch was headed with this.

“So, listen,” The older man began, and Arthur had to stifle the urge to groan, knowing that Dutch was gearing up to ask a John-related favor. It wasn’t as if he had a problem with doing things for Dutch — that was how life in the gang worked and Arthur knew he had to earn his keep. Still, he would rather do something that wasn’t keeping track of the little cretin. “Since John is so fond of you, Hosea and I thought it would be a good idea if you could teach John how to ride horseback.” 

“Why me?” he found himself asking aloud. It wasn’t as if he was a particularly gifted or special horseman. Hosea, Dutch, and Grimshaw (though he knew that the woman would have no patience for John’s antics) had several more years of experience on Arthur.

Dutch chuckled and clapped Arthur on the back. “Because you’re John’s favorite,” he said simply. “Oh, and while you’re at it, teach him how to fight, too. We all know that boy has a perchance for fighting, but he doesn’t know how to do it properly.”

“Sure,” Arthur answered. He sighed and looked at the stars, knowing he was going to be in for a long day tomorrow. 

"And then on the end, that there's Mean Sally," Arthur introduced the final horse – and his former mount – to John. 

John carefully approached the silver mustang, tentatively giving her a pat. Mean Sally simply huffed in response, ears pricked forward curiously.

"I don't think you're going to want to start out with her, kid." Arthur warned. He had named her 'Mean Sally' for a damned reason, after all. She was exactly what the name downright stated – mean. To anyone that wasn't Arthur (and even to Arthur in the beginning, before they began to mutually respect each other; though she still had her moments) she was ill-tempered and stubborn as all hell – but Arthur had a soft spot for his very first mount. To Sally's credit, she was incredibly brave. Said bravery, of course, went hand-in-hand with stubbornness, or so he liked to think.

Arthur could still clearly remember the day Hosea had taken him to the stable in some random frontier town that he didn't bother to recall the name of. He was fourteen, nearly fifteen, and Dutch and Hosea saw it fit for Arthur to have his very own horse. Not the spare Kentucky Saddler at camp he'd been temporarily using. Arthur had learned to ride a horse on the saddler, whilst he wouldn't have complained if he continued riding him, the prospect of picking, naming, and bringing a new horse home was rather exciting.

None of the horses seemed to catch his eye, really. There was a Morgan, two Tennessee Walkers, and an Appaloosa available for sale. Just as Arthur was beginning to feel the pressure from the stablehand to "pick already, kid, I don't got all damn day", he saw Sally. One of the stablehands was leading her out of the back of the barn. 

"Where's they takin' her?" Arthur had asked the rather annoyed stablehand.

The stablehand took a long drag of his cigarette. "I’m gonna shoot her out back. Damn mustang is too damn difficult to deal with; ain't nobody want to buy her. She's too much of a burden."

"I'll take her!" Arthur stated without a second thought. The stablehand raised an eyebrow at Hosea, which prompted him to lean down a bit to Arthur's level.

"Arthur, are you sure this is the horse you want?" Hosea asked gently. 

He nodded his head resolutely. "I ain't gonna let her die, Hosea." 

Hosea straightened, placing his hand on Arthur's shoulder. "We'll take her off of your hands. How much?" 

The farmhand scratched his stubbled chin. “Well, I would say she’s the standard fee for mustangs… that’s about twenty dollars. But ‘course, she’s given us a hell of a lot of trouble…”

Hosea sighed in agreement, digging through his satchel. “Arthur, hurry on and go grab your new horse, won’t you?”

These days, he felt a bit silly on the mount; she was rather small compared to his Hungarian Halfbred, Winona. Still, Arthur knew he could always count on Sally if he was going somewhere where speed was a necessity. 

"How'd she get her name?" John asked, cutting through Arthur's train of thought. 

Arthur came over to Sally and gave her an oatcake, which she happily munched away on. "What do you think, dumbass? It's 'cause she's mean." 

There was a snort that could've been from either John or the horse, but considering the downright brattiness of it, it was probably John. "Nuh-uh, she's nice to me." 

"Yeah, for all of the five seconds you've known her." He gave Mean Sally an affectionate pat. "Now, c'mon, I told Hosea I was gonna teach you how to ride."

John patted the mare, admiring her silver coat. “I wanna learn on Mean Sally.”

Arthur snorted. “She’s gonna buck you off, Marston. And as funny as that would be, if you end up with a broken bone, Dutch and Hosea’ll have my ass.” 

John huffed and crossed his arms, looking far less intimidating than he assumed (considering that he was apple-cheeked and wearing clothes that were too large for him). “I ain’t gonna get bucked off,” he groused, obstinate as ever.

Arthur rolled his eyes. “Do you really have to argue with me about every damn thing ? The answer’s no.” 

" Assface ,” John muttered, crossing his arms.

Arthur couldn’t help but crack a smile. “Did… did you call me an assface ? You need better insults, Marston.” 

“Oh, shut up!” John, being the feral creature Arthur knew him to be, launched himself at Arthur.

It was easy to grab the boy by the shoulders, instantly stopping the scrawny, feisty raccoon known as John from doing any actual harm. The kid punched at the air uselessly, trying to land a cheap shot on Arthur.

“Alright, alright, hey .” Arthur said firmly, getting the kid’s attention. “Dutch told me to teach you how to fight, so instead of tryin’ to beat up the air, how about you show me whatcha know.” He released his grip on John’s shoulders, the boy disdainfully rubbing at where Arthur had grabbed him.

Before Arthur had even known what John was going to do next, he was kicked squarely in the crotch. 

He needed a moment to compose himself after that. 

John may have been petite, but he clearly possessed a mean kick. 

“If you ever kick me there again, I will knock you straight into next week, you hear me?” 

“That ain’t fair! You told me–” John squared his shoulders and dropped the pitch of his voice in an imitation of Arthur’s, “‘ Show me whatcha know, boy. ’” his voice returned to its normal pitch. “So, I showed you!” 

“That’s jus’ fighting dirty,” Arthur spat. “Clearly, you need to be taught how to fight proper.”

John shrugged. “I dunno, I’m probably still breathin’ cause I kicked someone in the balls.” 

Arthur clicked his tongue. He probably couldn’t argue with the kid’s logic, but Dutch told him to teach John how to fight, and teach John he shall.