Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Javier was freezing.
He stood just outside the cabin at a small fire, his gold, tan and grey fur doing only slightly better than his human clothes against the cold. He was much more adjusted to the heat of Mexico, despite not being down that far south-west in a long time. Javier was supposed to be on guard, watching for if Pinkertons somehow made their way up through the mountains to the old mining town. He doubted they would, but stood tall on his hind legs, his fur bristling as snowflakes speckled him. The nimble desert werewolf growled quietly, his dark eyes watching the exit to the makeshift camp.
Soon Javier’s name was called, and eager to be relieved from his duty, he turned to the voice. It was Hosea, asking him to ride out with Arthur and search for John.

* * * * *

John was freezing.
He had no energy left, his werewolf form had shifted back to his human body involuntarily leaving him exhausted, and on top of the burning wounds across the right side of his face and body he almost wanted to throw himself off the ledge he was stuck on and finish the half-assed job by himself. It had been two days since he was sent ahead to search for a place to shelter in after the failed Blackwater heist, and it had been around 10 hours since he was attacked by a pack of wolves and left to die on the edge of a cliff. He mulled over the last few days, wondering if this was it.
Until he heard a familiar howl in the distance. At first he jolted, wondering if the pack had come back for seconds, only to quickly recognise it as Javier’s crisp howl. Soon Arthur’s rugged, deeper howl joined in. He cried out, yelling over the wind, desperate to be heard. Something primal in John’s head tried to make him shift, to howl back at his packmates, but it went unanswered as his body was too exhausted. He felt a wave of shock and relief as he looked up above the ledge, seeing a bulky, dark brown werewolf peering down at him. A nimble, gold and tan werewolf was perched next to the other.
Arthur and Javier.

* * * * *

Arthur was freezing.
He had just been in a shootout, luckily resulting with no wounds, and had rescued a young widow by the name of Sadie Adler. Almost as soon as he settled by the fireplace, shifting comfortably back to his human form, Abigail turned to him and asked about John. Arthur huffed, a slight growl rising in his throat at the thought of his brother. He answered back brashly, only to be confronted by Hosea. And soon he was off with Javier at his side, Boaz and Taima snorting underneath them.
They pair talked briefly, tracking John fast. The Blackwater heist was brought up, and Javier answered none of Arthur’s questions well enough. Something seemed suspicious about how quickly the Pinkertons appeared, but now was not the time.
Eventually, the pair found themselves scaling the edge of a mountain, each in their werewolf bodies. Javier howled, ears pricked for an answer. Arthur followed suit, picking up the howl when Javier stopped to take a breath. John shouted in the distance and the pair picked up the pace.

Chapter Text

John had been laying on the cot for what seemed like days already. He had been in and out of sleep, his dreams were either filled with gunfire and screaming, or howling and sharp teeth snapping in his face. The failed Blackwater heist or his attack in the mountains. Both experiences filled his mind with daunting ‘what if this’ or ‘what if that’ thoughts. His silent rants weren’t helped by the faint scent of death that clung to the cot from its previous inhabitor.
Davey Callander.
He had been a crazy bastard, that was for sure. John wasn’t close with him, or his missing twin Mac, but he had been friendly with the fiery twin werewolves. He was quickly pulled from his thoughts, as Susan had sat next to him and was muttering under her breath.
“Wha- Mrs. Grimshaw…” John managed to rasp out, but she strictly hushed him, gesturing to the others in the dark building who were mostly asleep. He jolted and growled in pain as Susan suddenly pressed a cold, wet rag to one of his scars on his arm that had started bleeding again. It was drenched in what John hoped was a health tonic, but was more than likely whiskey. As she worked on redressing most of his wounds, he succumbed to sleep again.

* * * * *
Arthur dragged himself towards the small shack that some of the men were holed up in. He held his coat tight to his body, but it did not do much against the cold wind biting at his face. Kicking snow off his boots at the door of the shack, he stepped inside and was greeted with Micah and Bill arguing, the pair both in their bulkier wolf forms.
“-up with you boys, because I thought you liked action. Couple of days on the lam... and you lot have all turned yella.” Micah growled, and Arthur took a bottle of beer from the blond wolf’s bloodstained paw. “Apart from you, of course.” Micah turned to Lenny, who was sitting up on one of the bunkbeds.
“Shut up, Micah.” Lenny huffed, blowing smoke from his cigarette. Arthur stepped between the arguing pair, bending to check on the rusty old furnace that kept the room somewhat warm. Much better than the snow, at least, Arthur thought. Micah said something more, but Arthur was more focused on stacking up the furnace. He soon stood up as Javier stumbled into the shack to probably escape the cold.
“I guess- I guess folks miss them... that fell.” Bill spoke, lighting a cigarette and gripping it between one of his large, dark brown paws.
“Well, when I fall, I don't want no fuss.” Micah butted in, leaning forwards in his chair and baring his yellowed fangs.
Lenny turned to him from the bunk with a chuckle, “When you fall, there'll be a party.” Lenny’s chuckle turned to laughter, and Bill joined in as Arthur finally decided to sit down by the furnace instead of stand while he watched the fools. He itched to pull out his journal and sketch the werewolves opposite him but held back, in case the quips against each other got heated. Bill repeated something about the possibility of a party as the laughter died down. Micah stood on his hind quarters, the fur along his back upright and bristling. A snarl pierced the air as the light furred werewolf stuck his muzzle into Bill’s personal space.
“That funny, huh?” He glowered.
Bill rolled his eyes and chuffed, a mix between a growl and a huff, “Sure.”
Swift as the wind that ravaged Colter and the surrounding mountains, Micah swiped Bill across his dark furred cheek and muzzle, clipping one of his ears too. Bits of blood flew like tiny sparks, and Micah’s claws dripped with some of the crimson liquid as he turned away with a sinister chuckle. Behind Micah, Bill growled low and lunged forwards, his maw snapping and drool flicking off his jaws. Arthur, Lenny, and Javier all rushed forwards to hold back the mahogany werewolf, and Arthur found himself shouting ‘Leave it!’ before he even realized he was. He was far too used to settling petty fights like these.
Micah turned back around to face Bill, his lips pulled back in a sneer to reveal sharp teeth. Bill snapped at him with a harsh bark that basically meant ‘fuck you’. The three eventually let their grip slack as Micah pulled away with a huff.
Micah started up again, “Maybe I don't feel like being laughed at by the likes of you two-”
“Stop it! Now!” Dutch ordered as he slammed open the door upon entering the room, obviously having heard the argument. Javier tried to close it, to save the group from the relentless cold air but Dutch held the door open firmly with a stark white paw. The white werewolf gazed down his muzzle at the group, taking in what had happened before speaking, a growl lacing his words.
“You fools clawing each other...when Colm O'Driscoll's needing clawing, hard!” Arthur sighed and stepped through the shack, out the door as Dutch continued to talk. He felt Dutch’s tail flick him in acknowledgment as he went by.
“You wanna sit around waiting for him to come find us? All of you, we got work to do- come on.” Their leader commanded, ushering the boys out,
At that, Arthur called over his shoulder, “Are you sure about this, Dutch?” Dutch responded positively, as he came to stand by Arthur. Micah, Lenny, Javier, and Bill - who sported a minor scrape across his now-human cheek - passed by, heading for their horses.
“Folks been through a lot recently... we hardly back on our feet yet.” Arthur tried to reason, but Dutch waved him off with a flick of his paw. The bold, white werewolf closed his eyes for a moment and Arthur watched with minor anticipation as his father figure shook out his fur, speedily contorting and shifting back to his human form smoothly. Dutch readjusted his coat, settling back into his human body. That was one of the good things about being a werewolf, Arthur thought, that unlike the fables, you didn’t have to worry about waking up naked in the woods- your clothes would just… be there when you came back to your human form. Magically.
“The last thing we need is to get bushwhacked by Colm O'Driscoll.” Dutch patted Arthur on his shoulder, bringing him out of his thoughts. “Let’s go.”

* * * * *

“You two! What’s taking so long? Dutch Van Der Linde and his posse of bastards are around these parts!” Colm growled, stalking towards a pair of his men who were perched upon their horses. Colm’s black fur was quivering with rage, not at all helped by the cold air whipping at his muzzle. The two men shared a look between themselves, before the one closer to Colm pointed towards another man, who was feeding his horse nearby one of the rundown cabins of Ewing Basin.
“You with the horse!” Colm turned sharply, snarling and gesturing wildly at the now startled man. “Get over here!”
The younger man hurried over, trudging through the snow haphazardly. It slowed him down slightly, which only infuriated Colm more. The werewolf snapped in the boy’s face, before pulling away and grabbing him by the collar of his shirt. Colm leaned in slowly, a growl lacing his words.
“Get out there and get me some more goddamn information! Where is Dutch camped? Why is he here?” With that, Colm threw the boy from his grip on his jacket, and chuckled as he watched him scamper towards his horse and take off.

* * * * *

“Alright, boys, kill these sons of bitches!” Dutch shouted, and gunfire broke out. Arthur had shot early, which prompted Dutch’s words, but he hadn’t wanted to risk waiting and an O’Driscoll seeing them in the crumbling shelter. The four of them pushed forwards, taking shelter where they could as they put down the O’Driscolls. Arthur and his skillful aim quickly killed three men of Colm’s, and he continued picking off more until a bullet managed to dislodge a piece of the rotten wood crate he had taken cover behind.
Bullets flew like startled birds around Arthur as he moved forwards to a new bit of cover, knocking a man who tried to block his way to the ground. With a glare, he put his carbine repeater to the O’Driscolls chest and pulled the trigger, not faltering when the spray of blood hit his blue coat. Arthur ducked into the new cover, hearing something about ‘more men’ and ‘cabins from the right’ from Dutch, and proceeded to take aim. Hitting the O’Driscolls wherever he could, Arthur almost felt sorry. Some of the men he had shot during the fight had collapsed but not died yet due to being shot in the arm or leg. Keyword ‘almost’, as these were O’Driscoll boys, but Arthur always tried to give people a quick death. It’s what he would want too. A quick and merciless death.
The gunfire ceased for a moment, and Dutch commanded to loot the bodies. They were quickly interrupted by a few gunshots echoing out from the other side of the building.
“Oh, shit! Look out, more of the bastards coming outta the trees!” Dutch hollered, and the gunfight steadily picked up again as the group started to pick through the second wave of O’Driscolls, gunning them down as they came out of the trees. Soon enough, bodies bearing the signature black and green of Colm O’Driscoll laid lifeless amongst the trees, and the group got to work on searching through the ruins of the buildings for any signs of a plan.

* * * * *

Kieran kicked Branwen on, fear fueling him as he spurred his stallion forwards. The snow laden landscape looked eerily similar with each glance Kieran gave his surroundings. He could barely find the roads he was supposed to follow, and at the same time Kieran wondered if this was his best chance to escape the clutches of Colm. Ride south to the nearest town- one called Valentine last he knew, and catch a train away from all this mess. He couldn’t, surely Colm would send someone to track him down and kill him- or hunt Kieran down himself. He felt tears prick his eyes and he tried to blink them away, until a sharp, pained whinny from Branwen broke him from his thoughts.
“Shit- sorry.” Kieran must have kicked Branwen too hard or too much, and he immediately slowed for his steed, spotting an icy creek ahead. He swiftly dismounted, letting Branwen rest a little bit and drink some water.
Until he heard the snorting of horses and the crunching of hooves in the snow. Kieran whipped around, seeing six figures come down a hill, approaching him on horseback. He heard someone say something about ‘That feller’ and ‘Camp with Colm’ but it was mostly lost in the wind. Despite it all, that gave him enough knowledge to throw himself haphazardly onto Branwen’s saddle before taking off, silently apologizing to Branwen.
The bulky man behind Kieran was closer every time he glanced over his shoulder, and he knew this was one of the Van Der Linde Gang’s members. Kieran gritted his teeth, kicking Branwen again in a means to make his horse go faster than he actually could. Kieran twisted himself, looking over his right shoulder but the man and his speedy horse wasn’t there. He sighed in relief, but kept pushing Branwen forwards just in case. He could barely hear anything over Branwen snorting in complaint, and the wind howling and whipping at his face did nothing to help. When Kieran turned around to face forwards, he saw something in the corner of his left eye that he could have sworn was a horse. He turned to see what it was.
It was the man. Kieran wanted to shriek. He didn’t, until he watched the man stand on his horse’s saddle and leap at him through the air with a- a growl?!
It all happened within a couple seconds. The man crouched in his saddle, and leapt at Kieran. The man’s body contorted and changed into a dark brown wolf-beast. It’s maw snapped open and Kieran shrieked. Hot pain shot through his right shoulder like a bullet, and not a second later the werewolf collided with Kieran, knocking him straight out of his stirrups and into the snow which fluttered around the pair. They messily rolled for a moment and Kieran’s whole body ached.
He cried and begged for a swift death, only to falter when the werewolf snarled in his face and pulled back. A snowflake landed on it’s wet nose and it sneezed, fixing Kieran with a glare before it stood up on its hind legs and shook out it’s fur. The snow fell off in waves, and Kieran watched in fear as the werewolf shifted back to a man, who swiftly hogtied him with a lasso that had appeared, hooked to his gun belt.
“Don't hurt me!” Kieran cried out through a face-full of snow.
A sharp whistle hurt Kieran’s ears and it was followed by a gruff voice speaking, “You're coming with me.”
“You got me mixed up with someone else!” Kieran tried to persuade his kidnapper, but it was no use. Kieran was picked up, and hoisted over a strong shoulder. He tried to wriggle free, but was bound tightly. Kieran quickly found himself on the back of a horse, being taken somewhere. He could see Branwen panicking in the distance, and he weakly whistled for him, hoping he’d follow. He heard an extra pair of hoof-steps over the horse’s he was tied to, but couldn’t see Branwen. He sighed in minor relief.
“What's your name, boy?” The man above Kieran asked.
His mind blanked and he panicked. “I don't know!”
A scoff “You don't know your name?”
“It's Kieran!”
“Kieran what?” The outlaw pressed.
“Duffy! Kieran Duffy.” He admitted, hoping maybe giving his full name would relieve some of the pain about to come.
A chuckle sounded above him as the man spoke, “Well, I ain't gonna lie to you... this is a real bad day for you, Kieran Duffy.” Ah, he was wrong about relieving the pain.
“Where are you taking me?”
“Somewhere you ain't gonna like.”
Kieran wanted to throw up, both from the sickening ‘what if’s’ plaguing his mind and the bouncing canter of the horse. “Why? What are you gonna do to me?”
“Something you ain't gonna like. So I’d advise you to save your breath for screaming.”
Kieran begged for a mercy he doubted would come.

They had been riding for twenty minutes now, Kieran’s head being filled with threats of torture and broken bones. He had tried to explain that he was only a recent addition to the O’Driscolls- and that he was just a simple stable-boy who had been kidnapped and forced to care for the O’Driscoll’s horses. Eventually, he was scared into shutting up, and he did so quickly.
Soon enough, Kieran saw a crumbled building go by his vision, and another, and one more as his kidnapper halted his horse.
“Here we are, you sack of shit. Let's introduce you to the boys.” The man chuckled, dismounting and harshly pulling Kieran down. He shouted in agony as the bite on his shoulder was shoved around.
“Don't hurt me, please!” He tried to plead, only to be interrupted by the man dragging him.
“Oh, don't worry, they're real nice.” The man was sarcastic, and Kieran could hear a snarl lacing his words. A man who held himself confidently high soon stepped out of the cabin, even rugged up in a thick coat the man oozed with control. Dutch Van Der Linde. Kieran could have sobbed.
“You found the little shit, did you, Arthur?” Dutch chuckled, ignoring Kieran.
“Yep…” His now-named kidnapper, Arthur, scowled and began to untie Kieran’s hands and feet. “I got him.”
“Very good.” Dutch sounded very pleased and he finally spared Kieran an angry glance. “Welcome to your new home... hope you're real happy here.”
Kieran felt Arthur grip his hands from behind, and he subconsciously curled up as Arthur leant down and snarled his words next to Kieran’s ear. “Want me to make him talk?”
“Oh no, now all we'll get is lies-” Dutch waved him off, turning around as two more men walked out behind him. “Uncle. Mr. Williamson. Tie this maggot up someplace safe. We get him hungry first.”
The pair harshly grabbed each of his shoulders, and he cried out as the bite was clamped by a strong hand. The taller one muttered something under his breath about ‘Stupid fuckin’ O’Driscolls’ whereas the shorter, older man made a complaint about his back.
Kieran gasped as a stark white muzzle was suddenly in front of him, with dark, slitted eyes staring into Kieran’s. The white werewolf was Dutch. “I got a saying, my friend... we shoot fellers as need shooting... save fellers as need saving... and feed 'em as need feeding. We're gonna find out what you need.”
Kieran heard something along the lines of ‘O’driscoll in my camp!’ as he was dragged away, and he shouted out in a burst of confidence, “No, I ain't an O'Driscoll, mister! I hate that feller!” His head was shoved by the taller man, and he was told to keep walking,
“Oh, whatever you say, son!” He heard Dutch call back with a chuckle.

Kieran had been tied to a post inside a damp barn, a few horses sniffing him curiously. He thought of Branwen, who had followed him and the man who kidnapped him, Arthur, until they reached the camp. The two men, of which he couldn’t tell who was ‘Uncle’ or ‘Mr. Williamson’, had finally left him alone, the older looking one cursing Kieran for ‘making his lumbago spike up’. The bite in his shoulder burned as the fabric of his torn shirt rubbed against it. He hoped that if someone came to check on him, they would be kind enough to bandage it.

Chapter Text

Kieran woke up to a soft nose bumping against his ear. He jolted, pulling away only to be stopped by the rope that tied him to the post. It had been a couple hours since he had been tied up by the two men, and night had swiftly fallen on the cold camp, but thankfully a dim lantern sat in the corner of the barn on an old barrel, illuminating the lower half of the barn. The rafters ominously creaked, loud among the silent snowy landscape, save for the snuffling and quiet steps of the horses around him. Kieran sighed, at least he was somewhat in his element like this, he mused.
The horse that was grooming at his coat snorted briefly when he startled, and he watched the dark grey leopard blanket appaloosa bumble around him, nosing against Kieran curiously. He couldn’t tell if it was a mare or a stallion, or perhaps even a gelding. The appaloosa kept poking him, sniffing him curiously. He summed it up to the fact that he was a new person to this horse, and maybe they could also smell Branwen on him.
He was pleasantly surprised the gang’s horses didn’t dislike him - save for one, a big, chunky bay ardennes who had thrown a fit when Kieran was initially tied up in the barn. The draft horse was currently in the furthest corner from him, huffing occasionally as he stared at Kieran menacingly. He gulped, avoiding eye contact and instead turning to make kissy noises at the appaloosa, drawing them closer to him and encouraging them.
It nickered, nibbling at his coat. Kieran sighed and looked around the barn, eyeing the hayloft above him, wondering if the creaking meant the barn might collapse. He found himself staring up at a suspicious patch of shadows between some old crates, tilting his head in confusion. Two glowing eyes soon met Kieran’s and he paled. The shadow turned its body to face Kieran entirely, smoothly moving to crouch on the edge of the hayloft.
“She likes you.” It spoke confidently, yet soft enough that Kieran had to strain to hear it. It was a man’s voice, and Kieran looked at the horse he was talking about, the appaloosa.
In the back of his mind, Kieran was panicking, but he mustered up the courage to respond. “I- I s’pose she does…”
The other stayed silent, expertly climbing down one of the cracking beams that held up the rafters and the hayloft. It creaked slightly and what Kieran could now see was a werewolf leapt the last two feet and landed with ease, standing up to its full height.
Kieran took in the dark grey werewolf. He had symmetrical black patterns that Kieran assumed was a part of a large mottled patch on his back, similar to that of a husky or a common grey-wolf. His muzzle, paws and ears all had flecks of brown around them, and Kieran noticed a bandaged wound on the left paw of the wolf-beast. He tried to act tough, dragging himself to stand tall against the beam and rope bindings, ready to look the werewolf in it’s reflective eyes.
Only, the werewolf paid him no mind, opting to turn and fiddle with the appaloosa’s mane. “Her name is Taima.”
Kieran gulped, “That’s a… a pretty name for a pretty horse.”
The werewolf nodded, before turning to Kieran with a knowing gaze. “How is the bite on your shoulder?” He asked. Kieran grimaced as the pain in his shoulder pulsed, as if it had heard the question and yearned to answer.
“Not good, Mister. Would you… Would you be kind enough to bandage it?”
The werewolf nodded slowly, moving over to peel Kieran’s coat off his shoulder. Kieran could feel the warm breath on his cheek, and he turned his head away to give the werewolf a better view. The wolf-beast hummed in annoyance, fiddling with the torn up shirt to inspect the semi-covered bite. He eventually pulled away from Kieran, sighing.
“It’s healing as fast as any other bite, you should be fine without a bandage.”
Kieran gawked at his words. “It must be bandaged- cleaned out even! What is wrong with you? Ain’t you s’pose to be keeping me alive!?”
The werewolf’s head tilted, setting Kieran with a confused, but hard glare. Within another second, he had whisked away, exiting the barn swiftly with a flick of his fluffed tail and a low growl.
Kieran tried to call out, wanting to apologise and ask about Branwen, though it was too late. The door shut heavily behind the quiet werewolf, and Kieran found himself standing slumped with tears sharply pricking the corners of his eyes. He was gonna die here, wasn’t he? His shoulder ached like hell and he was hungry and no one here truly cared about him. Even the horse who had been curious with him, Taima he recalled, had turned away- opting to groom a tall and slender, silver horse.

* * * * *

A howl echoed off the cliffs above the measly town of Valentine. Eerie and filled with adrenaline, it was obvious to anyone within around 10 miles that it wasn’t a dog… or even a wolf. That it was something much more deadly, much more smart. With the claws and teeth of a wolf, and the knowledge and greed of a human. The people of Valentine connected the howling to their suspicions of a curse, though they ushered indoors after dusk sooner rather than later, and children were kept supervised almost always. Their graveyard added two more crosses within a few days.

For two weeks now, he had prowled around the outskirts of the muddy town. He was freshly scraped up from a fight with a pack of wolves he had started, and he was pretty sure he broke some minor bones during his recent… crimes. Jesus, crime was a small word for what had gone down back on the docks… He shook his head, ridding himself of those thoughts. That was behind him for now, until he heard wind of his pack and could rejoin them.
The moon rose swiftly, full and spiteful. He was itching with even more adrenaline now. His werewolf form hadn’t been given rest for too much time now, and it was getting to him. Dirty blond fur with darker points quivered as he paced in a circle on all fours. He snapped his maw at nonsense in the air, wildly flinging his head around. His tail flickered in the corner of his vision and he leapt, rolling through underbrush and swiping at his tail. But, he soon received a new distraction; some nocturnal bird shrieking as he thrashed past it.
In an instant, he was in the air, gleefully chomping his jaws around the bird which let out a quick squawk before a vomit-inducing crunch followed. Feathers slowly sprinkled the ground only to be roused again as he trotted around smugly. The bird was eaten with no remorse.
The werewolf yapped as he bounced around the forest, following different noises and scents and sights until he came by a road. He snuffled around a clump of grass on the edge of the road, fresh human scent along with horse and a hint of… fish! Fish! Fish! filled his nostrils and his eyes seemed to lock onto something a human could never see. A faint, pale track that pulsed along the wheel-flattened ground lead onwards, going south. Fish! Tongue lolling, he followed swiftly, indecisively switching between trotting on two legs or using his extended arms to run. Fish!
A homestead soon stood before him. He licked his jowls greedily. Fish! A long whine filled his throat as the werewolf sat back on his haunches and scratched at his neck with his left hind leg, flicking some fleas or something or other out. Fish!
Eagerly, he sprung forwards, propelling himself with all four of his limbs- the scent of cooked fish wafting from an open window was sending his over-wolved mind feral. Fish! Dirt sprayed up as he bounded over the yard in three long strides. Fish! He barreled against the front door of the house, slamming his large body against it. Fish! It splintered and creaked loudly as he felt himself fall inwards, before he yelped and leapt, panicking. He felt himself practically flying, only to harshly land on a dining table which was quick to snap in half under his weight. But a familiar scent right in front of him caught his attention. FishFishFish! A scream, a gunshot, and more screaming followed. Was there pain in his leg? Nah, don’t matter, there’s a nice big chunk of warm fish in his mouth! His fish!
He finally lifted his head, eerily turning like an owl to look at whatever was causing all the ruckus. A man cowered, clumsily trying to reload a shotgun. A woman clutched herself behind him, wailing and crying. The werewolf growled, stalking towards them, jaws still clamped onto his fish prize. The aroma was making him drool heavily, his body already heaving and twitching from his wild antics. With a sharp bark, he dropped the fish and lunged forwards, yanking the shotgun out of the man’s flimsy grip. He spat it out beside him, before swiftly dispatching the man.
He picked up his fish and high-tailed it out of the house, cantering away from the tiny farm and towards the cliffs he had been hanging around most often.

* * * * *

Arthur breathed out deeply, watching the now desolate train heave itself away steadily. He trusted it would drive on its own for long enough that when found it wouldn’t be connected to the amount of bodies that lay in the half-frozen dirt and grass. Probably, at least. Empty trains weren’t common, but they happened occasionally. Most assumed supernatural causes.
He easily lifted himself atop the small but hardy tennessee walker he had taken from the O’Driscoll’s hideout at Adler Ranch, and Arthur bent low to pat his steed’s neck. As he did, he turned the horse around to follow the train tracks back to the original pathway Dutch had led them down. As he pulled himself back up into the saddle to sit correctly and comfortably, he made a point to not look too hard at any of Cornwall’s men’s faces. A simple glance by accident maybe, but any longer looks would plague his mind for days and fill his mind with thoughts that were as terrible as the man he was.
He was thankfully hardly fazed by the sudden gunfight with Lenny, who had handled himself well with only the two of them against what felt like an army of men. But the guilt that these men more than likely also had families to protect just like he did bit at Arthur like fleas. Tiny and itching and hard-to-pin-point emotions. And he could only resist until it was entirely built up and fizzing over until he’s begging to get them out of his pelt- uh, brain. He shook his head, ridding his thoughts of flea-hatred and potential guilt. Cornwall seemed like a man who didn’t play around with outlaws. But Arthur begrudgingly followed the orders he didn’t like being given… most of the time at least.
His horse nickered as he meandered down the train tracks. Arthur really should think of a name for him… the stallion was tough and nimble, but stocky and small- maybe only being around 15 hands tall. But still, he was taller than The Count, so that was a win for Arthur. Sparrow? Spartan? He mulled over the name as he soon started to canter north, enjoying the ‘Spar’ sound in the potential name. Spark? Sparacio? Spare Change? No- money names were Hosea’s thing.
Maybe back to Spartan, he liked Spartan.
“Whatchu think of Spartan, boy?” Arthur asked quietly, patting the horse's neck. The stallion’s ears flicked back to Arthur briefly, before he snorted. Arthur chuckled. “Well, don’t get too comfortable with the name, Spartan, I ain’t sure if I’ll be keeping you.”
With the name official, Arthur spurred Spartan on, heading towards Colter.

He reached the mining town within an hour, Spartan was decent at ploughing through the snow, though all things considered most of the snow south of Lake Isabella was more slush, already on its way to melting. In the near-distance, four wagons lined the sides of the main road of Colter, horses being tacked up to pull the loads. People buzzed around, stocking up the belongings and gear that had been taken out during their shitty vacation in the mountains. As he pulled up to the entry of their makeshift home, he noticed a dark head twisting about. Behind the first wagon was Brown Jack. He was throwing a fit, swinging his head, kicking out and pacing in the spot. The large bay stallion was all tacked up to pull the wagon, but hadn’t been attached yet. It was obvious the ardennes didn’t want to be next to the quiet shire that was picked to pull the wagon with him. Brown Jack had done the exact same thing when they left Blackwater in a hurry, though it was accepted as because of them being in such a rush, especially considering almost all of the horses had been flighty during their escape. What the hell did he have against the shire?
As Arthur approached, he swung himself off Spartan, who snorted nervously before being led away by someone Arthur didn’t care to acknowledge. Rushing forwards to grab the reins that Bill had been struggling with, Arthur’s presence caused Brown Jack to stop throwing his head around and kicking out, but was still whinnying in distress and looking around for something.
“The fuck’s he yellin’ for!?” Bill practically growled, though Arthur heard the worry lacing his voice.
Arthur swallowed hard and he took in the situation quickly. Brown Jack is distressed. He doesn’t know the shire. He was about to be hitched to the wagon. Arthur rode in on a horse Brown Jack also doesn’t know. For wagons, Brown Jack used to be paired with-
Oh.
Oh.
He knew exactly why Brown Jack was panicking. He sighed harshly, focusing on not letting the anxious horse’s reins out of his grip.
“I think- I think it’s Boadicea.” Arthur could almost cry. Almost. He didn’t, but knowing that he wasn’t the only one upset about losing Boadicea was comforting- even if it was Bill’s horse of all creatures. Bill responded with a grunt before he was harshly pulled into the snow. Brown Jack had swung his whole body around to face Arthur, recognising Boadicea’s name. His next whinny was right in Arthur’s face, hurting his ears.
“He pulled our wagons with Boadicea almost every time we moved around, you idiot!” Arthur glowered, watching Bill drag himself upright again, cursing his horse out. Were there tears in his eyes? Yes, and he quickly blinked them away. He let his frustration hide his sadness. Until now, he hadn’t really thought about how much Boadicea had enjoyed Brown Jack’s company, let alone how much Brown Jack must be missing his friend. Brown Jack pushed against Arthur’s shoulder, knocking him back a step. He felt his body exhale.
Eventually, with enough hushing and encouragement (and five somewhat gross carrots that had been found in a crate), Brown Jack was hitched to the wagon, whinnying in disgust at the shire beside him whenever it so much as looked his way.
Bill had thanked him sharply, somehow managing to not mention the stray tear tracks down Arthur’s cheeks. He quickly found himself a moment between attaching the stallion’s harness to the wagon and packing the camp’s shared supplies, moving to check over his belongings one last time. After everything he owned was accounted for, he pinched his journal from a chest and tucked it into his coat pocket.
Arthur soon pulled himself up onto a wagon's front seat. Hosea quickly joined him, and the pair chatted idly as Arthur sketched and Hosea drove.
And soon enough, the gang was heading for New Hanover.

Chapter Text

Arthur looked towards Charles slowly, peering up from his journal smoothly and taking in Charles' profile. Charles was across from him, body turned to listen in to whatever tall tale Uncle was telling tonight. Though already separated by the different logs they sat on, Mary-Beth was in between Arthur and Charles. Despite his fondness for her, he felt a pinch of jealously at not sitting next to Charles. She wasn't even close to him, why was he feeling like this?

Arthur's name was called once, and then twice, before he jolted out of his thoughts and blushed red. He had been staring. At Charles. Jesus Christ, Arthur.

Uncle made some jab at him that he didn't care to listen to. He looked down at the half finished portrait of Charles. Butterflies swelled inside of him. With a suppressed growl, he held his eyes shut for a second longer than a usual blink and stood up, willing his body to shift. It happened almost instantly, coming much more natural to Arthur vs a newly turned. Golden and brown fur rolled over his body, and his clothes disintegrated in his fluffy coat. He shook himself out, grabbed his journal in his hand-paws, and padded towards his tent, intent on sleeping his embarrassment away.