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The Van der Linde gang had set up camp at Clemens Point, having left Horseshoe Overlook not too long ago. The night was quiet, most members either out, or having gone to bed hours ago. The campfire was flickering softly, casting shadows that danced around the campfire’s occupants. Arthur, on one of his rare breaks of days spent in the saddle, sat slightly apart from the others, his gaze fixed on the flames but mind elsewhere. He held a half-smoked cigarette between his fingers, mostly forgotten.
Around the fire closest to him was Charles, his strong frame relaxed but alert, and Hosea, who was busying himself with his current novel. Tilly was perched on a nearby log, her fingers rhythmically stitching an old shirt as she hummed a wordless tune. There was a peacefulness to the scene, a rare moment of calm away from Pinkertons or O’Driscolls.
This quiet, however, was laced with a subtle tension. They had all noticed the growing strain on Arthur, the tired look in his eyes, the way he seemed to exist on a diet of cold coffee and sheer will before he headed back out to hunt or gather supplies for the gang. He was like a workhorse, never stopping, rarely seen sleeping, and their concern had been growing with each passing day.
Hosea was the first to break the silence. “Arthur,” he said, lowering his book to give the younger man his full attention. “You've been running yourself ragged lately. You’ve hardly slept a wink by the looks of it.”
Arthur shifted, glancing down and flicking ash from his cigarette. “Ain’t got time for such things, Hosea,” he muttered, “Got work to do.”
“Always work, Arthur?" Hosea pressed, concern bleeding into his tone. “You’re gonna burn yourself out if you don’t slow down.”
Arthur didn’t reply, staring back into the fire, his jaw tight. To his side, Charles observed him closely, his dark eyes studying the lines of strain etched around Arthur’s eyes and mouth. He knew Arthur’s stubbornness well, and he knew that Hosea’s words wouldn’t break through.
“There’s always more work to be done, Arthur,” Charles finally said. “But even a horse needs rest. The land, the animals, they teach us that. We're not so different.”
Arthur scoffed, a short, humourless sound. “Horses can rest, Charles. I can’t. There’s the gang, they need food, medicine, debts I need to collect, the…” he trailed off, the weight settling heavily on his shoulders. “We can’t continue running like this no more. Dutch needs-”
“I know, Arthur. But what Dutch doesn’t need is you falling off your horse half dead from exhaustion.”
Arthur looked up, his gaze flicking from Charles to the others and back to the flames. He could see the worry in their eyes, the genuine concern that he tried to ignore. He knew they were right. He knew he was pushing himself too hard, but he couldn't stop, couldn't shake off the relentless pressure that built with every injury or death, each new plan that somehow always goes wrong.
“It’s… it’s not that easy,” he mumbled, his voice barely above a whisper. There was a vulnerability in his tone that he rarely allowed to show, a crack in his otherwise rough demeanor. Hosea nodded slowly, leaning forward slightly. “No, Arthur, it isn’t. But you don’t have to carry it all yourself. We’re a family, for better or worse, aren't we? We’re supposed to share the load. Let us carry some of yours. Charles hunts and Javier can fish more, the girls help in town. We all do some to help.”
Arthur snorts. “Some help indeed. Let me think about that the next time I rescue goddamn Micah from another jail cell after he shoots up a town, or shove Swanson out of the path of moving trains.”
Hosea blinked, then smiled. “I’m sure Mister Bell has his own ways of… helping per say. Perhaps it is the thought that counts? Though I do agree that perhaps some members of the gang could assist a bit more going forward”
Tilly cut in, her voice soft. “We’ve all been worried, Arthur. I rarely see you around camp any more, and you always provide, but you rarely even touch the food or sleep at your tent. Even when you do, you always come back late and leave terribly early.”
A sigh escaped Arthur’s lips, a sound of surrender. He dropped his cigarette in the dirt, putting it out with the heel of his boot, and looked at Hosea with a hint of a smile, “Maybe you are right, maybe I have been getting on a bit.”
Hosea nodded, a small smile playing on his lips. “Good, now how about you try and get some food in you and get some rest. No running off into the night, you hear? You need to slow things down, let the others help out some.”
Arthur nodded slowly, his gaze settling on the flames again. “Yeah, alright. Guess I could do with that.”
The tension that had hung heavy in the air seemed to slowly dissipate, and Arthur finally allowed himself to relax. Wishing the others a good night, he stood with a groan and made to go over to his wagon intent on following Hosea’s advice.
Removing his boots and falling back on his cot, he finally allowed himself to close his eyes, the gentle murmur of the few people left awake a soothing lullaby in the quiet night.
And if in the early morning, if Hosea accidentally runs into Dutch on their leader’s path to Arthur’s wagon, and very urgently requires his assistance elsewhere as Dutch could ‘always talk to Arthur later’. Well, then that’s nobody’s secret to share.