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It was a nice night.
The sun had set a few hours ago, and the soft sound of katydids echoed from the bushes and trees dotted around the ranch. Flowers from the wedding still littered the dirt and the last straggling remains of the party were cast in shadow, the glimmer of the steady-burning campfire flickering them in and out of the darkness.
John stepped off the porch, still in his suit, if not a bit rumpled; his tie was loose and his jacket was missing, and his hair was even more of a mess than usual. He sort of wished he had his jacket now, though, as the air has cooled significantly since the sun’s disappearance. He can distantly hear Abigail inside the house– their house, and if that doesn’t still fill him with confused glee every time he thinks it– getting Jack ready for bed. John can hear his son’s complaints that it’s not even that late, mom, I’m not a little kid anymore, cut off by Abigail’s gentle shushing. He smiles a bit, at that.
He’s a little bit drunk, but he figures that’s what you’re supposed to do after you get married, anyways. He stumbles slightly as he meanders off the porch, making his way toward the beacon of the campfire. The shape of Uncle, passed out against a tree and snoring loudly, swims into his vision as he nears, and he rolls his eyes. Some things never change. He shifts, moving to aim a kick firmly at the old man’s ribs before a voice says:
“Don’t wake him up.”
John’s head shoots up, surprised, and he sees Charles watching him from across the fire, a bottle of amber whisky hanging loosely from his fingertips. His face is cast in shadow, but John thinks he’s smiling. “He wouldn't stop talking about his ex-wife. I nearly sent him back to the Skinners.”
John falls onto the bench next to him and sighs, “I understand the urge.”
Charles silently offers him his half-finished bottle of whisky, and John contemplates it for a moment before taking it and putting it to his lips. It burns a bit going down, and he hands it back to Charles. They sit in silence for a moment; Charles has always been a man of few words, and John’s head feels pleasantly fuzzy and he basks in the quiet for a moment before asking, “where’s Sadie?”
Charles gestures back to the ranch house with the whisky bottle and says, “she’s just gone to bed. Going to be heading out early tomorrow, so she figured she’d go in early.”
John feels disappointment rise in him at Charles's words. He wasn’t surprised; Sadie was not one to stick in one place for long, and John knew that she had been chomping at the bit to leave for a while. He’ll miss her– riding with her had been fun, and reminded him of times long gone. Charles would likely be leaving soon too, and John couldn’t help but feel like something was coming to an end. He didn’t like the feeling.
“The wedding was nice,” Charles says, startling John out of his unconscious brooding, “I’m very happy for you and Abigail.” He takes a sip of the whisky.
“Thanks,” John says automatically, his thoughts slow. He huffs out a breath, and says somewhat wistfully, “I would never have expected I’d ever get here.” He thinks of Abigail in her dress, the tears in her eyes when he proposed to her on the boat, the ring on her dainty yet calloused fingers. The thought of the ring sobers him, slightly, and he continues, “I just wish–” He cuts himself off. He doesn’t know exactly what he was going to say.
An owl hoots in the distance, and Charles breaks the silence, saying in his gruff and soft voice, “I understand.” They pass the bottle back and forth a few more times, watching as the embers of the fire dance in the night air.
“The ring,” John blurts out, and Charles looks at him sharply. “The ring,” he says, “it was Arthur’s. I think it was supposed to be Mary Linton’s, but she must have given it back. Bitch,” he adds offhandedly. He doesn’t look at Charles, and chuckles a bit. “He would’ve loved this. He’d probably have made fun of me endlessly, but he would’ve loved this.”
Charles doesn’t say anything, just raises the bottle to his lips again and takes a long drink. It’s nearly empty, now, a smidge of amber liquid still residing in the bottom of the bottle. John gestures for Charles to keep the bottle when he offers it, and instead takes a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and lights one, puffing smoke into the air.
“It makes me angry, sometimes. He’s really the one who deserves all this, not me. The ranch, the stability, the peace; it wouldn’t exist if not for him. It’s not fair.” A rueful smile spreads across John’s face, smoke slipping between his lips, “It’s just– I owe him everything and I don’t know what to do with that kind of debt, I guess.”
“He was a good man,” John continues. He doesn’t know why he keeps talking; he never talks about Arthur, but the combination of drink and Charles’s steady and comforting presence is making his lips loose. “He ain’t deserve what happened to him. Those last few weeks were– rough. I can only hope he’s in a better place, now,” he takes a deep breath and breathes it out, and his voice only cracks a little as he says, “I hope I’ve made him proud.”
John glances up through the smoke at Charles. The other man is staring into the fire and looks almost– haunted. The whisky bottle is clutched in his fingers, empty. He doesn’t say anything.
So they’re silent, again. John finishes his cigarette and lights up another one, and Charles stares into the fire. Moths flutter around them, and John can hear the distant howls of coyotes. Uncle snores along.
“Before the end,” Charles begins, his voice rough with repressed emotion, “we talked. Eagles Flies had been captured, and we went to rescue him,” he waved off the cigarette that John offers him. “We had to wait until dark, so we sat in a cropping of trees a bit away from the fort, and waited.”
He’d told me was going to die on the ride over. He was so calm about it; resigned, and exhausted, but calm. He hadn’t given up, exactly, but he– accepted it, I guess. Figures,” Charles chuckled quietly, hair falling in front of his face, “he was never really concerned with his own well-being.”
John watched him as he spoke, sucking on his cigarette.
“I asked him, then, why he was so calm, and he laughed.” John can almost imagine it; Arthur, strong yet sickly, leaning against a tree in a field of brambles, his old gambler hat shading his eyes from the sun as he rested, his lips twisted in a familiar smirk.
“He said, ‘I was never getting out. This life… It’s got its hooks in me good, and to live without it would be… unnatural, I guess. I was born for this life, and it’s only right that I die in it.’
“He said, then, that if he could do one good thing with his life, it would be to get you, Jack, and Abigail out. He said, if he could do that, then everything else would be worth it.”
John was silent. He thinks Charles was trying to be comforting, and he’s not entirely sure if it worked or not. John should be over this; it’s been seven years, for God’s sake, and all his moping isn’t going to change anything. He’s not sure if he shares Arthur’s sentiment, but the adamant and almost defiant look in Charles’s eye as he looks at John now shuts down that train of thought.
“He’s proud of you, John. Trust me on that,” Charles says, and his tone brokers no argument. As he continues, he sounds almost reverent. “Arthur was a lot of things, but dishonest wasn’t one of them, even if our profession argued otherwise. He was a great man. He was–”
Charles cuts himself off, taking a shuddery breath. His eyes shine in the firelight, and his face is a crumpled illustration of despair and longing. He seems on the verge of something. What, John cannot tell.
“Charles?” John asks, a mix of confused trepidation and concern.
“I was sweet on him,” Charles whispers, so quiet John nearly doesn’t hear him, “I was sweet on him.”
John blinks widely, startled by the revelation. It’s not like he’s unfamiliar with the concept– living as an outlaw you meet all manner of folk. He’d never expect Charles, of all people, to, uh, be inclined that way, though. The idea disconcerts him, a bit, but he looks over at Charles, whose shoulders have stiffened slightly with apprehension, and he dissolves his misgivings immediately. He can’t say he understands it, but considering everything he’s done and seen in his life, it’s really not that strange. He figures there are far worse things in the world than loving somebody.
And God, poor Charles. No wonder he looks like a man who experienced the rapture. In a way, he has.
Charles is looking at him, now, like a man awaiting sentencing. John takes a long drag of his cigarette. It’s nearly burnt down, now, and he can feel the heat on his fingers. He blows out a plume of smoke, clears his throat, and asks, “did he know?”
He feels Charles relax, slightly, as he is not immediately berated, and the man laughs, a broken sound echoing in the night air. “No, he did not. No one did,” his laugh grows somewhat sharper, taking on a bitter edge, and he continues, “honestly, it’s a relief to finally say something. But no,” he sobers, his hands fidgeting restlessly in his lap, “he didn’t know.”
John thinks about the way that Arthur used to wax poetic about Charles after a successful hunting trip ( “he’s got a gift, man, you’d think a god had blessed him at some point” ), the genuine joy on his face when he and Charles got to ride out together, the longing stares that John would have to startle Arthur out of. The pink blush on his cheeks whenever that would happen, which John had assumed was simply just embarrassment. A wave of crushing sadness nearly overwhelms him, and he squeezes his eyes shut to try and stay afloat. They could have been happy, but they never got a chance.
He is suddenly, extraordinarily angry at Dutch. How many things were ruined due to one man’s ambition? At that moment, he wishes he had put a bullet in him on that mountain, his role in killing Micah be damned. How is it fair that Dutch gets to live on when so many (Sean, Lenny, Hosea, Molly, Susan, Arthur ) never got the chance?
He doesn’t say any of this. Knowing that Arthur loved him back wouldn’t do Charles any good. It would just make an already tragic situation worse.
His cigarette is burned all the way down, now. He stubs it out on his boot. There are many things that John wants to say to Charles, but instead, he simply whispers, “I’m sorry.”
Charles looks almost incorporeal in the firelight. He is half man, half spirit. He breathes out a sigh, and replies, his voice thick, “I’m sorry too.”
The sun was setting. Not long, now.
After they talked, Arthur had settled into a pretty uneasy sleep, his rest broken by the occasional dry coughing. His breathing was steady now, though, and Charles had never seen him look so peaceful. The setting sun lit up their little clearing, turning the grass, the trees, the flowers gold. Arthur nearly glowed in the dying light, and Charles tried to memorize the lines of his face, the curve of his mouth. He wouldn’t have that many chances to, anymore. This may be the last time they get to sit together, like this.
A quick tap of the shoulder had the older man stirring, and he looked up at Charles with a small smile on his face.
“Time, is it?”
“Nearly. Sorry to wake you up, you seemed like you were having a nice dream.”
“Yea,” Arthur said, staring up at Charles with an undecipherable yet undeniably forlorn look on his face. “It was a nice dream.”