Chapter Text
The crisp, cold forest air rumbled in his chest, assaulting his lungs. His feet pounded against the forest floor and every running step he took made his entire legs dully throb. The almost healed gunshot wound in his shoulder shot jolts of pain across his torso, despite being weeks old. He had been chasing this god damned deer for more than an hour, not stopping for a moment.
Earlier in the day, in a rush to get back to camp with some actual food, he had shot the same deer. Shot from too far a distance and inevitably missed, that is. Well, technically he hadn’t missed entirely. The bullet had pierced its hind leg, causing the animal to limp and scream in anguish. Arthur had thought he’d simply chase it down with his horse, but that had proven difficult the second the creature scrambled its way into a particularly dense patch of forest, impossible to safely maneuver with his large shire at any speed higher than a gait. So, he decided to abandon his horse and gave chase on foot.
Any sane person would have let the deer go and most likely die in a matter of hours or days. But when you’ve been avoiding heading back to camp for nearly a week, to the point that Javier had come to track you down days ago and told you to drag your ass back to Clements Point, a man often feels prompted to come back with presents. So here he was, in the middle of god knows where, without his horse, chasing a deer that– thinking back– looked skinnier than a stray dog on the streets of Saint Denis.
He was just about to let the trees know all about his frustrations, when a familiar whitetail clumsily jumped out from behind a bush, only a few dozen feet away from its hunter. Arthur immediately got down and shuffled behind a close-by boulder, hands flying up to tightly grasp his Springfield rifle. The deer remained still, basking in the sunshine peeking through the thick foliage and eating the green grass below. The entire display looked almost– peaceful. Or it would have, if Arthur ignored the gashing hole in the deer’s leg and its strained whimpers.
A pang of guilt rose in his stomach, only to be quickly brushed aside in order to finish the job at hand. Slowly, he propped up his rifle on the steady surface of the rock, trying his hardest to calm his ragged breathing. Jesus, his shoulder was giving him a hard time.
As he lined up his sights and gently placed his pointer finger on the trigger, the deer’s head rose from ground-level. The frail creature was looking straight at Arthur. If he’d been a religious man, he would have taken it as a message– a sign of some sort. But he’d grown far too accustomed to the cycle of nature–life and death– to believe in talks of eternity or salvation. With a swallow, he pulled the trigger.
BANG
The deer fell with a heavy thud and the echo of a gunshot. Arthur quickly shot up from his position to confirm the kill.
“That’s it!” He couldn’t help himself from exclaiming. Jogging over to the fallen animal, a breath he hadn’t been aware of holding left his lungs. The sharp, iron-like- yet familiar smell of blood soon overpowered that of wet grass and pine trees. Despite the leg wound being almost two hours old, it had remained as wet as the new one in its head. Looking at it made Arthur wonder, how the hell had it continued to run for so long with an injury that severe. Judging by the amount of blood on the deer’s leg and how skinny it was, it was practically running on empty, like a steam train without coal.
He had to give it to the deer. It was one hell of a fighter. He swung his catch over his shoulder carefully so as not to get too much blood on his jacket. Also in an attempt to not absolutely destroy his shoulder.
–
Arthur was lucky his horse was a lazy bastard, as the raven black stallion had stayed exactly in the place he’d left him, happily munching on the tall grass. Luckily, he had managed to find the clearing relatively quickly, not having ended up more than a mile away from his original starting point. The deer and him had been running around in circles. He chuckled to himself, and whistled his horse over.
Brutus, he had named the large equine. Thinking back on the incident that led him to pick the name, Arthur swore he could still feel the pain of hitting the ground, after being thrown into the air like a first-time bull rider. The O’driscolls that had been after him were only a quick and metaphorical pain in the ass. Landing on his behind, on the other hand had not. After sorely climbing onto his (then unnamed) horse, he recounted muttering some words along the lines of “traitor” and “backstabber”. Although he couldn’t stay sour for too long. Especially when he had bravely dragged Arthur home after his recent run-in with the O’Driscolls.
He stowed the deer on Brutus and jumped up onto the back of his not-so-trusty steed.
-
Fresh forest slowly transformed into warm and humid swamp, causing him to have to shed his coat and roll up his sleeves. As Clemens Point came into view from behind the trees, Arthur felt the pit at the bottom of his stomach deepen. The same feeling of ever-lasting dread that had arisen in him after the disaster Blackwater, had since dug a comfortable home for itself in the confines of Arthur’s stomach.
It made him want to run, even when his feet were tired and eyes could barely hold themselves open after a long day– or rather days, as sleep had become less and less of a priority, being given a job after another at an increasing rate. He didn’t want to run away , no. He’d never do that. Looking back to his shot up deer swaying in the rhythm of Brutus’ hoofbeats, a phrase stuck to the forefront of his mind. Running on empty, like a steam train without coal.
Arthur felt like he was being stretched far too thin from all directions. By Dutch and his big plans, by Strauss and the poor bastards he was robbing blind, the Grays, the Braithwaites, hell even Mary and old heartaches never properly healed. Almost a month ago, he had decided to take a day– one day– for himself. To read a book, have a shave and a bottle of whiskey. He ended that day hiding in an actively ablaze shed while getting shot at with Uncle, Bill and Charles. Although he only had a problem with the first two. Still, it was like he was the only damn outlaw in Lemoyne.
With a sigh, he dropped down from Brutus’ back, gaining a satisfied snort in response. Arthur patted his companion's neck a couple of times, before swinging the deer back over his shoulder and sending the horse on its way to the rest of the herd.
He turned his attention to the camp and begrudgingly made his way in. They had really hit the jackpot with deciding to camp down here, instead of Micah’s utterly ridiculous and honestly idiotic suggestion of Dewberry Creek. Seriously, not only was the entire place surrounded by higher ground and open plains, but anyone with a set of eyes would have noticed that the bottom of the small ravine flooded the second it rained.
Apart from simply being better than Micah’s idea, the lakeside was beautiful. Looking out into the far distance– nearly being able to see all the way to Blackwater, Arthur could almost forget about the chaos that often overtook the camp. The calm lapping of waves against the rocky shore, the birds that sung out their consistent chorus and the hum of grasshoppers that emerged out of the camp's most quiet moments, were all things Arthur felt himself getting lost in at times, before getting pulled back to reality by one thing or anoth-
“Hello there, Mr. Morgan! You got something for me there?” Pearson chipperly called out from behind his table. At first Arthur only blinked in response, being snapped out of deep thought so suddenly. He’d been standing in front of Pearson's wagon, mindlessly staring at the shore. Pearson gave him an anticipating look, his eyes set on the deer carcass over Arthur’s shoulder.
“Yeah-” Arthur said and flipped the deer from his shoulder onto the wooden table with a grunt. “That should do for a bit, right?” Looking up from the deer, he could see Pearson’s disapproving expression upon inspecting his new cooking material. Pearson shook his head and gestured to the animal.
“I’ll be lucky to scrape two pieces of meat off this thing, Arthur.” The man complained. His round features seemed frozen in place, looking at Arthur like he’d lost his mind for even bringing it in.
An annoyed groan escaped Arthur’s lips as he threw his head back in frustration. “Well, I’m sorry but that’s all I got! If it ain’t up to your standards you can do with it what you please. Make a hat outta’ it for all I care.” He grumbled at the camp cook. “I wouldn’t have spent all day tracking the thing, if I knew you were only gonna whine-”
Pearson cut him off, throwing his hands in the air in surrender.“Fine–Fine, I’ll take it. But we’re gonna need more, real soon.”
Arthur sighed and began to turn away. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“And Mr. Morgan!” Pearson yelped out from behind him, causing him to turn back around. “Almost forgot, no more venison. People are getting tired of it.”
Arthur only closed his eyes momentarily, biting back a snarky remark about turning into the camp errand boy. Instead of starting an argument, which someone would most definitely have to break apart, he simply nodded and began making his way to the coffee pot.
Only the coffee wasn’t the sole thing boiling over. Molly and Dutch were at each other's throats, once again. And from where he was standing, Arthur had the perfect view of their unfolding melodrama. Their arguments had begun far before their hurried escape to the East, but had gotten noticeably nastier and–to all their misfortunes– louder.
The bitter scent of coffee in the air was accompanied by equally bitter comments from the couple. Arthur tried his best to not listen, having bigger matters to concern himself with than his friend's relationship issues. But through all his trying, he could very much still hear Molly screaming her head off. Something about him looking at someone else, not paying enough attention to her, not loving her right. The usual.
Arthur felt bad for the woman, having left her previous life filled with riches, only to fall in love with an outlaw. One who most certainly couldn’t–and wouldn’t provide her with anything close to an ideal partner. His cup was now full of the almost black, scorching hot liquid. Wanting to leave the two to their bickering, he decided to head for the beach.
The yelling soon faded into the background, nearly inaudible to Arthur’s ears. He found an old, dried up log right next to the water and sat down. The tension leaving his tired legs, he let out a deep exhale. He rolled his left shoulder, which eased some of the remaining pain. Despite the southern Lemoyne air feeling suffocating at times, Arthur felt the air returning into his lungs. He took careful sips of his coffee and let his tense shoulders drop. His gaze traveled to watch the bold colored cardinals dance in the air, swaying and flipping from one direction to the other.
After a while, a pair of bright red birds landed on the beach, only a few feet from where he was sitting. A small smile rose on his lips as he watched them peck at each other and search for food from the ground.
Suddenly both stopped what they were doing and went still. Arthur looked around, but couldn’t find the culprit for their disturbance. The birds quickly took flight and flew away back in the direction they came. He returned to watching the horizon, until he heard footsteps behind him. Turning to look who was approaching, he sighed in relief upon discovering that it was only Charles. The man walked over to him.
“Mind if I sit?”
Arthur set his coffee cup down. Looking up at Charles, he noticed how the gentle sunlight behind him turned his few loose hair almost a shade of gold. It was a sight he felt strangely grateful to bear witness to.
“Sure, but I’m afraid I ain’t too much company at the moment” He responded as Charles sat down a foot or so to his left.
“I understand,” Charles stated. Of course he did. Sometimes it felt like Charles made it his personal job and duty to understand him. He turned to look at Charles, to find him already gently smiling at him. “everything alright?” He asked. For a moment, Arthur considered telling his friend the truth, that he was so spent that he was unsure if his eyes would stay open for the rest of the conversation. But his stubborn nature instinctually opted for lying in matters such as these.
“Yeah m’ fine– just thinkin’, ’s all” He drawled. Charles gave nothing but a neutral hum in response and pulled out a pack of cigarettes out of his breast pocket. His eyes came to meet Arthur’s in question. Arthur nodded at his wordless request and took a stick from the near empty pack. His own hands traveled down to his satchel in search of a box of strike-anywhere matches.
After successfully obtaining the matchbox, he struck one on the bottom of his boot. He gestured with his free hand for Charles to scooch closer to the flame.
As he leaned in, Arthur suddenly found it hard to take his eyes off him. The warm, subtle glow of the flame caressed Charles’ features. The way he guarded it with his palms made it appear as if he was the source of the light himself.
The moment was quickly over, but the man remained in the same position, taking a long, drawn out drag of his cigarette. Arthur followed in suit and flicked the flame away, their faces only inches away from each other. The burn of his throat as he inhaled emulated the burn that settled somewhere in his lower stomach as he met Charles’ gaze, replacing the dread and exhaustion.
His lips were draped in a small, knowing kind of smile. They often were, which at times annoyed Arthur, and at others made him feel all kinds of things he didn’t have enough words to describe. Especially in the grueling weeks after getting shot, Arthur had found that smile a relief from some of the pains tormenting his body and mind. He cleared his throat, ridding his head of strange thoughts. Although glad of Charles’ friendship, the amount of silence he offered often gave too much space for Arthur’s mind to wonder.
As much as he wanted to avoid his mind from wandering off, away from his grasp, Arthur found himself to be disappointed when that silence was interrupted by quick footsteps and the ruffling of a skirt.
He didn’t have the energy to turn around to confirm his guess as to who it was. There was only one woman he knew who’s steps could beat against his eardrums from their frustrated determination. Soon enough, the steps ceased in front of him and Charles and left a stern-faced Susan Grimshaw in their place.
“Miss Grimshaw” Arthur greeted, tapping ash away from his half-finished cigarette. In return, he got a menacing smile from her as her hands came to sit at her hips.
“You want us to starve out here, Mr.Morgan?” She asked, not even addressing Charles, as if he wasn’t even there. He might as well have not been, remaining quiet as a mouse and continuing to smoke his cigarette. Charles and Grimshaw had developed a sort of mutual respect — which was rare for Grimshaw, who preferred to take the leading role in whatever she could—mostly caused by Charles not staying stagnant for even a second, always on guard duty, fixing broken down wagons, chopping wood or whatever he could. Even more than Arthur himself.
After a long sigh, Arthur replied: “We ain’t starvin’, Susan.” He paused to take a drag “Just got back with a deer” He gestured with his head in the broad direction of Pearson’s wagon and Susan did not look any more impressed.
“One malnourished deer isn’t going to feed all of us! You of all people should know that”
“Christ, a man’s gotta breathe now n’ then, Grimshaw” He grumbled. Even when he knew ever since arriving, that someone would be on his ass about doing something, it didn’t irritate him any less.
“Breathe on your own time! We need you out there, not lounging by the beach”
“I know, I know,” Arthur mumbled. His free hand ran across his face. She did have a point. Debts needed collecting, prey needed hunting and money needed making. Arthur let his head drop down for a second before continuing in a calmer tone. “Fine– I’ll go. Just- lemme finish my cigarette, okay?”
Grimshaw’s eyes narrowed as she looked between the two, but softened after a short while. “Okay…” She said with a sigh. “Charles?” She continued. Charles turned to face the two, encouraging Grimshaw to go on. Probably hadn’t been listening all that much, as he didn’t usually take much interest in other people’s arguing
“Make sure he actually does something, alright?” She instructed him.
“Alright.” Charles responded dryly with a nod. Grimshaw looked between both of them, and finally walked off, shaking her head. They could hear her mumbling something unintelligible in the distance.
Both of them watched Grimshaw disappear in the camp before relaxing. Arthur sighed for what felt like the hundredth time that day. His shoulders dropped slightly, but stayed tense with the weight having to leave soon. Staying there on that log smoking with Charles seemed like a much more pleasant activity.
“...I could join you? Could finally get some proper game in.” Charles asked suddenly, bursting the bubble of exhaustion Arthur had momentarily found himself immersed in.
There was no actual hesitation or questioning in his mind, the answer was going to be yes, despite the thinking face he put on while taking a long inhale. The question strangely played again and again in his mind, it felt like his head was spinning more than a rancher’s lasso. His eyes met Charles’ and he knew his answer. He puffed out the smoke he had collected in his lungs.
“Sure, wanna head out now or later?”
“I think if we don’t head out now, Grimshaw just might skin you instead of an animal, based on the way she’s lookin’ at you” Charles stated bluntly, but with a humorous tone. He gestured in the direction of the camp, where Grimshaw could indeed be seen glaring at Arthur. With that uniquely intimidating stare only the woman herself could master. Arthur turned his eyes away from her, and chuckled out a cloud of smoke.
“I think you’re right. You ready to go?” He agreed and stumped out his cigarette.
“Yeah, I’ll go grab my rifle” Charles nodded, now finished with his smoke as well.
Both of them got up and headed back into the depths of the camp.