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Tumbleweed fits its name. A dry, dirty town named after a dry, dirty bush that should have been washed away by the sand years ago. It was crumbling, dingy, and neglected, and Arthur loathed the town with all his heart. Yet, Dutch had said it was a great place to camp out for a while while they planned Armadillo's bank heist. Saying they could easily pull some money through and lay low while the law went searching north. Arthur wished Susan and Hosea fought harder when they said they should just go to Armadillo, yet despite it all, here he was stuck in Tumbleweed.
Arthur stared at the bottle in his hands, sloshing the drink around to try and amuse himself, following the small waves that hit the side of the brown bottle. He sighed, taking another swig, and avoided the eyes of the other patrons that entered the bar by turning his head down, his hat cutting off his line of sight. He swished the bottle again, watching as droplets fell from the sides and into the small amount of beer that remained at the bottom. He tilted his head back, allowing the last few drops to enter his mouth, before sliding the bottle to the side of the table and grabbing the next bottle.
His bottle was hot.
Arthur was going to lose it. Why had he not gone with everyone else to Armadillo to scope out and plan for the heist? Why couldn't he have stayed with Susan at camp where he could mope outside of Tumbleweed? Why did he have to be stuck in the saloon with a hot beer in a gross town?
The table shook slightly, the chair across from him scraping against the decaying wood, causing Arthur's empty bottle to clatter onto the table. Arthur tilted his head slightly to look at the person under the brim of his hat. John Marston. Right, that's why he couldn't go anywhere; he had to watch John. Because John pissed Susan off and got them both kicked out of camp for the day, and because the last time John went anywhere with Dutch, they both got shot at, That's why Arthur was so miserable. Because he was stuck in this stupid town with John.
"The guy who runs the general store almost shot me." Arthur groaned at that. Of course he did. Of course, the boy got kicked out and was almost shot at. Of course, he had to piss off a shopkeeper.
"You got a death wish or something," Arthur took another swig, the alcohol burning his throat. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, slamming the bottle onto the table and watching droplets splatter onto the dark wood. "You ain't even 15."
John gave a small huff as he leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest.
"He told me if I laid a finger on those marbles he'd shoot me," John said, giving a small huff as he leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. Arthur rolled his eyes, took another swig of hot beer, and coughed again. They sat there quietly, Arthur watching the three other patrons in the bar. He sighed; he needed something to do.
"The general store has marbles?" John looked up at him, nodding.
"Yeah, they're in a bag near the cash." Arthur turned to look at the door. He slowly set his beer down, standing with a huff. He turned to John, raising his finger.
"You stay and don't do nothin'; I'll be right back." Arthur ignored John's protest at being left alone, opting to start whistling to drown out the boy's cries. Arthur left the saloon, the oak door hitting him in the back and causing him to stumble slightly. The sun was beating down on the road ahead of him, causing ripples that looked like water in the distance, and he had half the mind to just turn back into the saloon where he couldn't fry. He pushed open the door to the general store. A small bell rang, and the shopkeeper jumped at the noise, turning to look at Arthur.
"You got marbles and a piece of chalk?" He wandered over to the shopkeeper. Even the store was dingy.
"It'll be.20 for those two." Arthur slapped down the change, grabbing the bag and chalk before heading back to the saloon. John was still sitting there, sulking, when Arthur arrived. He ignored John's question, setting the bag down and drawing a circle on the table.
"What's that for?"
"Were we going to play marbles, ever played?" Arthur sat back across from John, moving the two bottles off the table.
"No." Arthur dumped the marbles into the circle, grabbing the two largest marbles he could find.
"It's easy," Arthur said, handing a white marble to John. "And it's better than sitting here doin' nothin'."
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"They had been playing for hours. John had won 12 times, and Arthur lost track of how many times he had won, forgetting to keep track after the 5th round.
"Last marble." John smiled at Arthur, who was grabbing his marble from across the table.
"Last game." Arthur chuckled, leaning back in his chair. He watched as John placed the marble between his finger and thumb, watching how his eyes flickered between the last marble sitting on the table and the marble in his hands.
John shot the marble, Arthur watching as it hit the final marble with a small click, knocking the thing off the table. John looked up at Arthur, a grin spreading across his face.
"Did I win?" Arthur looked to the floor, eyeing each marble that had scattered against the dust-ridden floor. 36 in total, including Arthur’s marble, which was sitting on the leg of John's chair. He looked back up, grabbed the half-empty beer bottle, and took a sip.
"Yeah, you won." John pumped his fist in the air, letting out a small 'yes'. Arthur huffed out a laugh, standing up to wipe the chalk off the table with the end of his sleeve. John stood with him, humming to himself a little victory song that Dutch probably taught him.
"Make yourself useful and pick up all the marbles." Arthur flicked his finger on John's arm, watching the kid hurry to pick up each marble and place it in the small leather bag it came in; a click from each marble filled the silent saloon with the relief of noise.
Arthur stepped, avoiding the swinging door by sitting on the ledge of the platform. The smell of alcohol and sweat left his senses when the desert air hit him. It was colder at night, with the only lights being the small flickers of street lamps that danced in the night air. He took a deep breath before turning to his pocket to pull out a cigarette and lighter. The smoke filled his lungs, giving him some relief. Arthur looked up to the sky, his eyes glazing over each star.
The doors swung open again, and the sound of a small pair of boots approaching Arthur from behind was followed by the owner of the boots sitting down next to him, John's shoulder brushing against Arthur’s arm.
"You think we can go back to camp?" Arthur felt the weight of John lean into him, his hair poking Arthur's arm through his shirt. Arthur hummed in response, blowing out another puff of smoke. Watching it swirl
"You think we’re going to leave Tumbleweed soon?" Arthur let the cigarette fall from his fingers, smushing it under his boot.
"God, I hope we do." Arthur looked back at the sky, another cool breeze brushing his face. "Every day in this town is a nightmare."
"Even today?" He felt John's fingers squeeze his arm. Arthur's head dropped to look over his shoulder. John wasn't looking at him; he was staring off into the distance. His arm was squeezed again, as though John was waiting for an answer.
"Nah," Arthur let out a breath, turning back to the sky. "Today was fun."
"We should play marbles again."
"We should."