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John had seen these men before.
They were playing nice though, nothing like men on the posters would have.
He couldn’t read them, sure. But he knew what they meant. These men were lawbreakers, and he had seen their bounties in town, lining the walls of the sheriff’s office.
There had been times where he’d sat outside, staring at the lines of the drawings, passing the words over and admiring the craftsmanship of the art. Always looked pretty, in a scary sort of way.
They were vicious folks, the people on the posters. He knew that.
But the young one- Arthur, he’d introduced himself, was a bit gruff, sure, and John had seen him shoot a man, but it was in defence. I’m defence of John. Evil folks didn’t kill for strangers.
Unless they wanted something from him. Arthur didn’t seem to care if he stayed or went, brushed him off easily. But the other two, the older men, they seemed to care.
They wanted him to stay as long as he wanted, they’d told John himself over beans and bread, the hartiest meal John had eaten in ages. They would like to have him around, they’d said.
So he went to bed with a full stomach, tucked into a bedroll they’d given him, soft and warm and god it was the best thing he had ever felt. But he couldn’t sleep a wink.
He laid there, his eyes fluttering open every so often, hoping none of them could tell he was awake. John wanted them to start talking, to explain whatever they were going to do, then he could figure out how quickly he needed to be out of there.
Arthur was talking, low drawled tones carrying through the small campsite that John strained to hear, but the words were unintelligible.
It made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end, a steady spike of fear shot through his chest.
What did they want from him? He sure as hell couldn’t offer much.
Money? He had none, but they knew that. They might want to hold him for ransom, get the town to pay for his release, but then, they’d saved him from the town, from the law. That couldn’t be it either.
People didn’t just take in scrawny boys for fun. There was a reason. These men were outlaws, dangerous outlaws with posters in town, men worth money.
If he had the guts, the strength or even the firepower, John might have been inclined to go for them himself, if he could run fast enough, maybe he could alert the law, they’d follow him back and arrest Arthur, Hosea and Dutch.
Why had they told him their names? Seemed pretty useless to a boy they didn’t care about, to spread that kind of information. Fake names, then.
Damn, he should have given them something made up. He could have been Clay or Charley or Billy or something. But he was still John. Just John.
It was messing up his head, the waiting.
If he got up, would they be mad? If he stayed, what would they do? If he ran, would they shoot him in the back?
John jolted, sitting up, the anxiety seemed to have clouded his thoughts in a tired state. He had almost fallen asleep, almost.
“Jesus, kid.” He heard, it made him jump.
Arthur stood near John’s bedroll, which was set up on the outskirts of the camp, a fair distance from the rest of them. He brought his knees up to his chest, hoping to shield himself from whatever might come.
“Didn’t mean to frighten you.” Arthur squatted down next to him, John noticed a small mug nursed in his hands. “How’s your neck?”
Absently, John reached up. Pressing his fingertips against the newly formed bruises.
“Okay.” Was all he said, his voice scratchy.
“Well, Dutch and Hosea thought this might help.” Arthur held the mug out towards John, who took it, holding on delicately to the handle.
The rest of the metal was hot, the top steamed just slightly. Inside, a brown liquid sludged. It was paler than coffee, not quite the right look to it.
“It’s chocolate, Hosea used to melt it down for me when I got sick, try to cheer me up.” Arthur shrugged. John tried to look past the outlaw, the man on the poster. Tried to see what he really meant by doing this, why he cared to.
John stared at it uneasily.
“Ain’t trying to trick you.” Arthur told him, looking him straight in the eyes with an earnest expression. “Hosea and Dutch are good men. You can trust them.”
“What about you?”
Arthur huffed a humourless laugh. “Don’t gotta worry about me, kid. You can trust me too, if you’d like.”
“Do you trust me?”
“You haven’t done shit to prove I should.” Arthur said, a little defensively. Then he seemed to notice his words. “I mean, I do. A bit. But Dutch and Hosea’s trust you immediately, all you gotta do is prove them right—“
“Right?”
“They think you’re a good kid. Don’t let them down and everything will be alright.”
It sounded intimidating, normally people saw him as scum of the earth. But maybe among scum, he was worth something.
“And if I let them down?”
“Well it depends on what you do, I guess.” Arthur paused a moment, he reached out a hand, laying it on John’s shoulder gently. “You’ll be alright, just don’t do anything too stupid. They’ll forgive you.”
He pulled away, a look on his face like it was already too much contact.
John couldn’t help but gape at the outlaw, the man who killed, who robbed. Maybe these were the good men, maybe they really did believe in forgiveness.
“I’d drink that up, if I were you.” Arthur said as he stood up. “If it goes solid again, you’ve gotta scrape it out of the cup.”
“Right.” John said quietly. “Thank you.”
Arthur nodded silently, already turning on his way.
John settled back on the bedroll, taking slow sips from the mug.
Maybe, he wondered. Maybe they weren’t so bad as the posters made them seem.