Archive of Our Own

It’s hot, this time of year. When the sun reaches its zenith, only the foolish, the poor, or the drunk are left outside. It’s the kind of sweltering heat that sucks the air clean from your lungs, leaving your tongue dry and heavy in your mouth as you wish for either a cool breeze or sip of water.

Arthur’s cheeks are red as he sits slumped in the shade, his too-large hat resting low over his eyes. He smacks his lips, wishing for nothing more than something to quench his thirst. Then, when he reconsiders it, he wishes for his weight in gold so he’d never have to bother being thirsty or uncomfortable again. His ratty shirt is plastered to his back with sweat, peeling off with a wet squelch each time he moves. His arms and feet are covered in dirt, but that’s not his fault, Arthur likes to think; he can’t fault himself for choosing a meal over a bath. Only one of those things kept him alive.

In this heat, though, maybe a cold bath wouldn’t be so bad. He relishes the idea of sinking into cool water, submerging his head wholly for as long as he could hold his breath. He’d clean the dirt from his fingernails and scrub away the dust that has been caked onto his skin for months, watching in satisfaction as it swirled down the drain.

He dismissed that idyllic train of thought for now— he’ll day dream when he can afford it. Hopefully, that time will come soon.

Arthur Morgan has taken up his usual post. Sitting back against the side of the gunsmith, he has the perfect vantage point of this god-forsaken town. He can see who comes and goes from the shops and the small houses, and, most importantly, the saloon. Arthur has picked his fair share of pockets, and he likes to think he knows how to spot an easy target. It just so happened that the drunk ones were the easiest and most abundant.

If there is one thing his late father taught Arthur, it was how to be a good thief. The licks he received if he ever got caught were inspiration enough to hone his skill. Thin and unassuming, he was easy to overlook but also easy to overpower. Trying to steal from the big guys was never wise, no matter how drunk they were, and avoiding the loud ones was also smart; these were the two types who got aggressive a few drinks in.

It wasn’t very often well-groomed men in suits came by their little old saloon. When they did, Arthur’s mouth would salivate as he eyed their fancy watches and the gleaming gold accents on their outfits. Stingy and greedy, they were quick to notice when a score had been stolen off of them. The few times Arthur ever dared to rob these high-society men, his take had been nothing short of plentiful (to him, at least).

The poorer and more frequent saloon patrons had more to lose, in the sense they had little to give. Drunk, their inhibitions were often lowered enough that when someone’s fingers got sticky, they didn’t notice. It was all about knowing who to lift something off of, knowing the types of people that ran in this town. Luckily no gangs ever came though— or if they did, Arthur never heard tale of them— because those outlaws are vicious enough to kill a boy for looking at them funny.

 As a general rule of thumb, Arthur likes to keep his neck unhung. 

So, he watches. With his hat low and posture relaxed, he looked sound asleep in the shade with a sleeping dog at his heels. To strangers, he was a boy skipping out on his chores at home or a kid who’d spent his early morning running around with his mutt. And strangers were the ones he watched the closest. Ones that didn’t know his name, didn’t know his father’s crimes.

He closely observes horses he doesn’t recognize, matches faces to voices that lack the thick accent he had begun to equate to his home. Shined boots and pristine pants: all indicators of an out-of-towner. Arthur’s favorite.

Currently, he has his eyes set on a couple down the street. A gentleman is offering his lady assistance, holding out his hand as she descends from their stagecoach. They seem giddy. Looking around bright-eyed and curiously, Arthur decides they are surely new in town. Before he can deduce any more information, his view is suddenly obscured.

He quickly forgets the duo when his eyes focus on what has blocked his view. At the mouth of the alley, two horses have stopped. He can’t see the riders with his head this low, but he can see one of their steeds, and he doesn’t think he’s ever laid eyes on a horse so fine. Her black coat is shining, the white that creeps up her hooves and speckles her legs as pure as snow. He sits up a bit straighter to see her better.

Arthur had always wanted a horse of his own. He never got one. “You ain’t got the sense to look after yourself, boy,” Pa used to scold. “Ain’t no use in wasting money on somethin’ you’re gonna let die.” That sentiment always left him feeling bitter. Arthur would take better care of a horse than his father ever took of him. Least, he liked to think so.

Arthur believed he’d take the time to comb through and braid his mare’s mane, in the same way this horse’s hair was done; if only he knew how to braid. When he was younger than he is now and still going to school, the girls would have their clean hair in two nice braids that sat neatly on their shoulders. He should've asked them how they did it. He can’t quite contain the jittery way his knee bounces. What he’d give to ride a horse that fine. Arthur tilts his hat up hesitantly, just enough so he can catch a glimpse of the rider himself. He immediately wishes he hadn’t.

Once his father tried to beat the curiosity out of him. Arthur can’t even remember what he had asked or done, but he remembers the welts on his arms and how it hurt to move for days. His father did not accomplish his goal, but Arthur distantly wishes he had as he locks eyes with a tough looking man.

His dark hair is pushed back in a stylish way, unlike Arthur’s. The boy had run a sloppy hand through his hair, greasy and sweaty, before putting his hat atop his head. This man preferred a clean appearance, and everything about him screamed “sharp” aside from the stubble on his chin. He scrutinizes Arthur from atop his horse, and the boy swallows hard, not liking how easily the man seemed to see through him. The man’s partner says something to him, drawing his attention away from Arthur.

There’s a quick, low exchange of words, and that intimidation suddenly disappears. The dark-haired man laughs, the sound something so jovial and light Arthur can’t help but envy it. His mannerisms are simple, a stark contrast to his appearance. Leaned back in his saddle as he discussed something with his associate, he looks at ease. He angles his head back slightly, lips parted around a half-formed thought as his eyes search the shadows once more. Where there once sat a boy, now lays only a dog, his tail thumping in the dirt as he gnaws on a treat.

But Arthur never strays from his spot for long, not when his stomach constantly reminds him there is work to do.

He trods towards the saloon rather than posting up outside of it. His feet burn, the ground still hot even though the sun set an hour ago. He had outgrown his boots some years ago, but he only recently gave up on wearing them. They pinched his feet far too tightly, making them blister and bleed and cramp after only a few minutes of wear. They had served their purpose then, but he must make due now. Besides, Arthur tells himself, his steps are quieter when his feet are bare.

He enters the saloon with no fuss.

The night is already in full swing. Drunkards sing off-key to whatever melody they have coerced the pianist into playing, and the more subdued sit at the bar with their glasses and shots.

Some men have women hanging off their arms. He scowls, turning away from them. Arthur never liked when his Pa dragged him out drinking. He hated to see how handsy Pa got with the working girls a few drinks in, hating the idea that his Mama was handled with the same roughness. Though, maybe Pa treated Ma with a tender hand he never could afford Arthur. He isn’t sure. But on nights where it gets particularly rowdy, Arthur keeps a close eye on the women, sitting in the corner as he twiddles his thumbs, just to make sure they’re alright. 

Arthur currently leans against one of the walls, surveying tonight’s potential suspects. One stands out.

An oddly familiar man sits alone at the bar, and Arthur feels he should recognize him from somewhere. The hard set of his jaw and eyes seems so distinct, so recognizable.

The man’s light hair is short, pushed back, but a few stray pieces fall to rest above his eyebrows. He’s nursing a whiskey, one he seems to be in desperate need of if the bags under his eyes are any indication. Arthur gnaws at the inside of his cheek, noting the way the man is dressed. His clothes are nice, but they’re wrinkled and dusty. Aside from the blood on one of his sleeves that has Arthur wondering if it’s his, they’re in good condition. Arthur glances at his own rags, the haphazard stitches he’s sewed into his pants and shirt nothing short of embarrassing.

He looks back. Despite the man's gruff outward appearance, he seems to be enjoying the conversation he’s having with the bartender, gesturing emphatically with one hand. The other, Arthur realizes, lays protectively over a heavy-looking bag in the chair beside him. Arthur stands a tad straighter.

The man was lean and relatively jovial, but he also carried an air about him that warned Arthur not to venture too close. He seemed dangerous. Dangerous, but notably alone. All other seats at the bar were full, aside from the one right next to the man— marked occupied by an untouched drink on the bar. His companion likely went outback for a piss break, or upstairs with one of the working ladies and left his friend to drink by himself. 

Arthur usually wouldn’t risk it with these types of men. The ones who brandish shining guns on their hips have a wild enough look to them that most people steer clear; however, Arthur is desperate, and he hasn’t seen any other patrons worth note. There’s no telling when he’d have new pockets to acquaint himself with. Most folks don’t travel in the heat, rightfully so.

But three days without eating has Arthur feeling weak, and if he doesn’t take this chance he may well die before he gets another. He doubts any good could come from attempting to hunt, either. He’d collapse from heatstroke or get torn to shreds by a bear or wolf or whatever other animal that hunters often fall victim to.

Arthur knows he can’t pass this chance up, not when whatever rests in that bag is valuable enough for its owner to keep looking over his shoulder when the bartender isn’t paying attention. He didn’t know how much time he had— there was no telling when the man’s companion would return or when the man himself would retire for the night— so he tried to think quickly. 

A group of men were playing poker at a round table. One had stepped away from the game, and Arthur took to making his strides longer. He kept his chin high when he said, “Hey, mister.”

He grunts in acknowledgement, eyes glued to the game his buddies were playing. He even makes a joke, content to ignore Arthur.

“Mister,” Arthur repeats.

“What the hell do you want, kid?”

“Well, damn. Don’t want nothing no more,” Arthur snaps back, jerking his chin so his head is inclined towards the bar. He hopes the bartender and the man are still chatting. He risks a glance over his shoulder, pleased to see the blond’s head on a swivel as he once again took a scan of the room. He overlooked Arthur easily, eyes never lingering on him any longer than they did on the man beside him, which inclined the boy to think he was looking for someone specific.

Arthur huffs, continuing, “Just was gonna tell you them two folks is talking ‘bout you. Ain’t nothing nice and I had thought it to be a courtesy to tell you, since they’s staring and laughing and all and you ain’t noticed. But if you’re gonna piss on my good deed than I ain’t stickin’ around to smell it.”

Arthur watches the man’s eyes shift to the two men at the bar. A pleased smirk slips onto his face when the man in front of him scowls, shoving past Arthur and making his way towards the counter. The boy keeps close behind him, acting as the shadow under his feet. Already riled up and ready for a confrontation, the man steps up right next to the blond. Obnoxiously inserting himself into the two men’s conversation, he also stands between the bag and its owner, providing a nosey thief the few moments he needs.

Arthur shoves his hand into the bag, quickly grabbing whatever he can get his hands on. He didn't take two handfuls, unwilling to push his luck, and drew out what he could. He stuffs his earnings under his short without checking; but he can feel it.

Cold, hard cash. Lots of it.

As calmly as he could, Arthur began to slowly make his way through the crowd. He felt giddy, though he swallowed those feelings down for now. While no-one paid him any attention currently, sprinting out of the saloon would raise some suspicions, maybe cautious drinkers would pat down their pockets— or check their bags. Suspicions were never good for a boy like him.

He wouldn't be a boy like himself much longer, though. 

This was it.

Arthur didn’t know how that man came about such a large sum— or why he was carrying it on his person like a damned fool— but it was Arthur’s, now, and he’d always been fond of the finders keepers rule. Come sunrise, he would take his earnings and buy the most expensive saddle the stable had to offer, and a horse to go along with it. He wanted a nice horse, one that would have every stable hand jealous as Arthur Morgan himself trotted out of this sorry, cow-shit, infection festering excuse of a town. Arthur Morgan, local street urchin and pick pocket. Arthur Morgan, son of the sorry Lyle Morgan who got hanged a few years back. 

Arthur Morgan, riding so far west into the free country that he met the pacific and outpaced Manifest Destiny herself.

But first, he had to lie low and make it to morning. 

When Arthur’s feet hit the dirt and he saunters past the hitching posts outside the saloon, something catches his eye. A horse, hitched on the side of the saloon with a dark coat and warm brown eyes. White specks danced up her legs, and his eyes widened when he finally recognized this as the mare from earlier. 

The sight gave him pause, and he hesitantly patted the money that was tucked into his waistband. His fingers brushed it lightly, just to be sure it was still there. It was. And no-one had come for him yet.

Surely, he could spare a minute.

He creeps towards the hitchpost, but his caution is unwarranted. No one is out this late, and if they were it’s unlikely they would care— Arthur was merely some poor boy worshiping and fawning over something he’d never have. Besides, stealing a horse, even at night like this, wasn’t too smart of an idea. 

Arthur couldn’t contain his grin as he stood in front of the mare. He extended a flat hand for her to smell, and she huffed as she nuzzled against it. His crooked smile grew wider. 

“Sorry I don’t got nothin’ for ya,” he lamented, stroking her nose appreciatively. She huffed again, stomping her hoof as if to shame him for his lack of treats to offer. Nonetheless she allowed his affections to continue, seeming content. He cooed at her softly for a few minutes, wholly transfixed by her beauty. 

A low whistle sounded from behind him.

“She’s something, ain’t she, boy?”

Arthur startled, his body going stiff. He recoiled, tucking his hand away from the animal and swallowing hard. His heart pounds in his throat. He tried to recover from his blunder, taking a step back before turning around slowly. He kept his chest puffed out and chin jutted up, though he knew his eyes betrayed his fear.

Two men were staring at him.

“Calm down, calm down. I’m not gonna shoot a boy because he has an eye for beauty,” the dark-haired man laughed, stepping down the saloon stairs. It was the same rider from earlier this afternoon and, when Arthur glanced behind him, he realized what an idiot he truly was.

The reason the pale man in the bar had seemed so familiar was because Arthur had seen him before— just this morning, riding into town, part of a set. A satchel hangs from his shoulder.  The money in Arthur’s waistband was suddenly searing his skin, and he wondered if they, too, could smell his flesh burning; the heat more unbearable than that of the noon sun.

“Told you she was perfect, Hosea,” the man drawled, coming up beside Arthur to pat his horse’s neck affectionately.

Hosea, Arthur figured, only hummed in response. He was busy studying Arthur, his eyes crinkled at the edges, but shining not unkindly. It seemed trying to figure him out from looks alone. His eyes flickered down to Arthur’s unkempt clothes and lingered there, a wrinkle forming between his brows. The boy’s cheeks flushed with indignation. He was never a fan of being seen, because being seen meant you were caught doing something you shouldn’t have. If this fella figured out Arthur had all this money in his britches, then he’d likely put those guns on his hips to good use.

So busy spiraling, Arthur didn’t realize the other man was still talking. “—to ride, boy?”

“Huh?”

“I asked if you could ride,” the man repeated. When he had unhitched his horse, Arthur couldn’t recall, but now he was guiding her onto the main road.

Arthur shakes his head, but the man remains undisturbed as he gestures for him to come closer. When Arthur doesn’t move, he sighs, “Just get over here, boy.”

He hesitantly steps forward, not expecting the man to crouch and hoist him up by the underarms. He throws Arthur over the saddle and the boy scrambles to keep his hat from flying off his head. The dark haired man laughs, the sound just as loud as it had been that morning.

“Dutch,” Hosea says, voice cautious, but he’s smiling.

“I’m not such a fool I’m gonna let ‘im ride off with her, Hosea.” Dutch shakes his head, hands firmly grasping the reins as he walks the horse in a slow circle. Arthur clutches the saddle horn, unsure of how to sit. His feet don’t quite reach the stirrups, so his legs dangle uselessly on either side of the horse as he fights for balance.  Dutch, so Arthur assumes his name is, thankfully never goes fast enough for him to topple over.

“Just lettin’ him appreciate her. Lord knows you don’t,” Dutch snarks. Arthur gets the feeling these grand gestures are nothing abnormal for him, judging by the way Hosea rolls his eyes. He regards Arthur warmly, though there’s still something skeptical in his face when he asks, “Got a name?”

“Callahan,” Arthur responds, then snaps his mouth shut when the horse momentarily speeds to a trot. The movements, however shot, are jerky, and he can feel the bands of cash beginning to dislodge from where he had snugly tucked them. He curses internally, but he can’t make a grab for it with the two of them watching him closely. He at least has enough foresight to grab his hat as Dutch sets him back on the ground.

“Impressive name there, Callahan,” Dutch muses, clapping his hands to rid them of dirt before settling them onto his hips. He checks the pocket watch dangling from his breast pocket, then hums in consideration. His face darkens slightly, shifting to something more wild as he glances around. Hosea straightens in response.

Arthur stands stock still, not wanting to move and cause the stolen cash to slip. He holds his breath as he wills these men away; he doesn’t know why they’re suddenly on edge, but he doesn’t like it.

Over Arthur, they lock eyes. An unspoken conversation occurs, coupled with a slight head shake from Dutch and a clenched jaw from Hosea. He seems to be the winner of their slight dispute. Dutch sighs eventually and  motions dismissively with his hand when he says, “Hosea, let’s leave dear Callahan something to take home.”

Hosea smirks, pleased with himself as he reaches for his satchel. Dutch opens his mouth to speak as he claps Arthur hard on the back. Unprepared for the gesture, Arthur stumbles slightly, quickly regaining his footing just as a soft “thunk” lands at his feet.

He looks down dumbly, the cash resting in the dirt beneath him.

“Dutch.”

Hosea’s single word explains the entire situation.

Before Arthur can sprint away, already having turned on his heel, Dutch snags the back of his shirt. He holds him tight by the scruff of his collar. Arthur kicks, trying to scratch the man’s arms so he’ll let go.

“Ya ain’t gonna kill me!” He screams. Kicking his foot backwards, he manages to land a blow on Dutch’s shin. He doesn’t even budge.

“Boy, if you’d—”

“Dutch Van Der Linde!” 

On the opposite end of the street, four horses slowly walk closer. One man in particular leads the group, and Arthur can only stare at them: there’s more guns on those horses’ backs than he’s ever seen in his life.

“We have your money,” Dutch shouts back. He sets Arthur down, but doesn’t let him go. Rather, he shoves him towards Hosea, who clamps a hand down on his shoulder. With a low voice, he murmurs, “Don’t move, kid.”

Arthur is smart enough to know that any sudden movements could result in a dozen bullet shooting through him, but by who is the question. Dutch and Hosea, or perhaps these newcomers? Or perhaps, holes would be blown through the three of them indiscriminately. 

Dutch stands tall as the leader slips off his saddle, straightening his blue vest with his gloved hands. Then, his fingers brush the handle of his gun, and Dutch mirrors the stance. The hand on Arthur’s shoulder tightens.

“That’s well, dear friend, but I have recently come across some interesting information about you. Or, more specifically, about the price on your head. You are worth more than double what you owe me,” the man laughs, the sound humorless. “Not to mention Hosea and…”

His voice trails off as he sees Arthur. His skin begins to crawl and he wants to shrink away from the gaze laying thick on him.

“Well, any associate of Van der Linde’s has a price on their head, alive or dead.” The entertained tone leaves his voice, and his words become clipped. “And after all the shit I’ve been through because of you—”

Arthur is thrown to the ground behind a water trough before he can even register what is happening. He wheezes, the breath knocked out of him as bullets fly overhead. Hosea is kneeling over him, gun drawn as he waits for an opportunity to take a shot. Bullets are splintering the trough already, and Arthur knows they don’t have long before their cover is little more than a pile of damp wood chips.

From somewhere to Arthur’s right, Dutch yells, “I thought we could discuss this like gentlemen, just you and me! Use our words!”

“Your words ain’t good enough, Dutch! I seen Hosea, and I seen that boy, and none of you are getting out of here alive!”

More gunshots sound in response.

Arthur sits up slightly as he regains his bearings, trying to wriggle away on his belly. A hand lands on his back, and he looks up into a pair of startlingly concerned eyes. Hosea's words are straight to the point.  “If they see you, they will shoot you, Callahan. Doesn’t matter if there’s a price for you or not, these folks don’t care, and I can’t turn my back to ‘em because you got brave. So choose: stay here or crawl off.”

Stay and let me protect you, or crawl off and deal with this yourself.

He should crawl away; he should take the chance to flee the moment it presents itself, because strangers never look out for other strangers unless they have cause and reason. As far as Arthur can tell, they have more cause to let him get gunned down than they do reason to help keep him alive. Or maybe they’re just kinder folks than Arthur’s ever known, and isn’t it a sorry thought that of all the people to ever come through this town, two outlaws are the first to ever show him a lick of kindness.

After a few moments of contemplation, Arthur nods slowly. He settles into the dirt and covers his head with his arms. His breaths are coming so fast that dirt rises and floods his nose, making his eyes water. Arthur’s heard a gunshot before, but this many so close have his ears ringing something fierce. Bullet casings fall into the dirt each time Hosea ejects them to reload his revolver, clattering in a pile. Arthur wonders how long they can keep this up for before their ammunition runs out.

Sitting up on his elbows, he looks around. At the other end of the street, at least six men are shooting at them— more seem to have arrived since the shootout began; however, they are stuck, no cover afforded to them. Past the troughs, there is nothing to duck begin, and they’d be killed before clearing the distance from the saloon. At this end of the street, about thirty yards away, Dutch’s horse is rearing up anxiously. She must have fled when the shooting started, and she paces and kicks the dirt.

To their immediate left, down the slim alley, Hosea’s horse is still hitched to the post.

Arthur hears the two men shouting at one another, but he isn’t paying attention to them anymore.

In the chaos, people began to emerge from the saloon and whatever other shops were open nearby, fleeing the scene to avoid catching a stray bullet. 

“Hey,” Arthur screams, grabbing Hosea’s left arm and yanking.

“What?”

“Your horse!”

“I know my horse is right here, kid, but I can’t leave him,” Hosea shouts over the noise, gesturing with his gun to where Dutch is crouched across the street. He’s using a house as cover, pressing his back flush to the wall and peaking out to take his shots.

“I ain’t sayin’ you leave. Just—” Arthur grunts in frustration, struggling to explain his plan. “We can’t win against ‘em like this, but maybe there's a way. If you sneak away to your horse, you could loop 'round and shoot them from behind. Surprise, and all.”

Hosea blinks down at the fourteen-year old boy, brows drawn together.

“They’ll notice if I stop shootin’.”

“Then let me shoot. So long as they’s bullets flyin’ they wont know if it's me, you, or the devil with the gun aimed at ‘em. But sittin’ here, we all die.”

Hosea clenches his jaw, turning away to stare at Dutch across the way. The muscles in his neck tense before he’s shoving his gun into Arthur's hands. “Stay low,” he instructs, voice tight, and hands him bullets from his pocket. “That’s all I got with me, so make them count, Callahan.”

“Arthur,” he corrects swiftly.

“Make them count, Arthur.”

Hosea waits until the saloon doors swing open once more and people come stumbling out. With some cover, he dives for the mouth of the alley and rises to his feet. Arthur watches him unhitch his horse before remembering that he needs to keep shooting, and he turns his sights back towards their assailants. He aims his gun sloppily, not used to the weight of it in his hands, and shoots. The bright flash of the gun strains his eyes, a stark contrast to the dark night street, and the sounds from the other guns all leave his head pounding.

All of his shots are off, and he only pulls the trigger frequently enough to avoid suspicion. He doesn’t want to waste these bullets. 

They’re advancing quicker than Arthur’s inexperienced hands can shoot and reload. Dutch has gunned a few down, but the rest of the posse seems to have joined in on the fight. Devastatingly outnumbered, Dutch alone can’t hold these men back but for so long; the boy doesn’t even know if Dutch has realized he’s currently the only one keeping death at bay.

Then, Arthur sees a dark shadow moving in a blur behind the men.

He doesn’t wait to see how many of them Hosea can take down. He scrambles, kicking up dirt as he bounds for the horse at the end of the street, but Arthur can’t ride her on his own. He gets infront of her to grip the reins, both in attempts to keep her from sprinting off and to try and tug her towards Dutch.

“Over here!”

The man in question whips his head around, and even in the low moonlight, Arthur can see the smile that breaks out on his face. He wastes no time in reaching his horse, throwing a leg over her expertly, and settling into the saddle.

“Go,” Arthur urges, out of breath as he looks back over his shoulder. Hosea must have killed some of the men, but he’s gone now, and those that remain turn back to Dutch and Arthur. Bullets are whizzing by uncomfortably close.

“Afraid I can’t,” Dutch grunts, leaning down to lift Arthur onto the back of his saddle. His horse is already galloping away from the chaos, and Arthur spots two horses parallel to him and Dutch. He grips the back of the man’s vest and points, his head turning to examine the figures. Riding close, they both recognize one of the men, who is trying to both shoot his pursuer and steer his steed.

“Hosea,” Dutch mutters, yanking the reins and heading towards his companion.

Arthur reloads his revolver with shaking fingers.

They’re close enough now that Arthur can watch the man pull back the hammer of his gun, and everything seems to slow down. Arthur takes a few moments to breathe, the blood rushing in his ears louder than almost everything else around him. His eyes pinch near-shut, vision black at the edges, then Arthur exhales long and slow.

Dutch is in the middle of reaching for his own gun when Arthur pulls the trigger. 

The explosion from this gunshot is particularly deafening, making Arthur’s surroundings roar back to life. All at once he feels the recoil of his gun as the cool night breeze licks at his britches. In the saddle, the man jerks to one side before tumbling to the ground.

The soft thump of his lifeless body hitting the dirt echoes even louder than the pounding of the horse’s hooves.

Arthur’s hands shake as he lowers the gun. Muffled voices reach his ears as they ride. His neck is craned backwards at an awkward angle so he can stare at his shitty town shrinking in the distance. Like Sodom and Gomorrah, full of scum and sin, Arthur knew he was better off leaving it behind— in fact, less than an hour ago he thought he’d finally gotten his chance to. 

He can’t help but look back.

He doesn’t feel free like he thought he would; dread wraps around him in heavy shackles, regret twisting his gut painfully. Though maybe, it’s not the fact he’s leaving his home as it is the fact he’s leaving dead men to rot in its streets.

For a couple of hours, they ride in relative silence. The only conversations are between Hosea and Dutch as they plan what route to travel. They need to avoid any law, which will no doubt be crawling the roads when word of such a big shootout spreads, and preferably find a place to camp. Because Arthur doesn't know these roads very well, he doesn’t bother with any input, keeping his lips sealed. 

His exhaustion is catching up with him, and the adrenaline has faded from his system. 

All he’s left with is an uncomfortable weight in his chest, one that tugs him down and makes his arms and legs feel heavy. He closes his eyes, trying to will it away, but that only makes it stronger. Hosea’s revolver is tucked away against his belly, and he’s not sure where the gun provides him with a sense of security or guilt.

Arthur is tired and starving, and he wants nothing more than to rest, yet he forces his eyes to crack open. These men had saved him earlier, but that didn’t mean their good favors would continue.

Arthur shovels his spoon into his mouth, gulping down the canned pears offered to him. They’re a tad sour for his liking, but he’s not going to whine about taste when it’s the first thing he’s eaten in days.

Hosea and Dutch sit opposite of him, staring.

They had eventually decided it was time to veer off the trail and set up camp until morning. Arthur was grateful, his legs and thighs sore from sitting horseback for such an extended period of time— or any time. Hosea had wrangled the gun from Arthur’s hands and guided him to sit off to the side, then assisted Dutch in setting up their bedrolls and lighting a fire. They had some meat provisions roasting, but Dutch had handed Arthur a bent spoon to eat with in the meantime.

The boy swiftly accepted the offer, and they watched him scarf down some of their rations.
Dutch finally breaks the silence.

“You got a good head on your shoulders, Callahan,” he says, placing his elbows on his knees and shifting forward. When he smiles, Arthur could see the lines creasing around his mouth and how his eyes pinched on their edges. He looks amused.

Arthur doesn't respond, looking up at them cautiously. Hosea speaks, supplying Dutch with the fact Arthur’s name was not, in fact, Callahan as he had led them to believe. The two of them share a look, like they had outside the saloon, and another silent conversation seems to be had. Arthur pays them little mind, busy scraping the sides of his can to dislodge any pear remnants. Hosea extends to him a second can, which he readily snatches out of his hand.

“Who put you up to stealin’ from us?” Dutch asks. His tone is more curious than it is angry, and Arthur doesn't know what to make of that. Around a mouthful of pears, spitting, Arthur says, “No-one.” 

Dutch nods, scratching his stubbly chin slowly while Hosea sits back down next to him.

“You needed that money, didn’t you?”

“Don’t everyone need money?”

Hosea laughs. “All folk want money, but not all need more of it.”

Arthur huffs, “I don’t speak in riddles. Just tell me— what’re you gonna do to me? Sell me, kill me? If you’re perverts, I ain’t gonna let you take advantage of me.” He sits up straighter, clutching the spoon tight in his hand as he slowly rises to his feet. “I ain’t gonna—”

“We’re not going to do any of that,” Dutch interjects, face screwed up as he recoils at the mere idea. “We, just… we don't know what we’re going to do with you yet. Do you have any family to keep you? Preferably some nearby?”

Shrugging, Arthur takes to chipping the label from his can with his nails. “No.”

“No, as in you don’t have any nearby?” Hosea digs, knee bouncing slightly.

“I ain’t got no-one period,” Arthur snaps. His tone is defensive. “‘S just me. Been just me for a while and I was doing just fine until you ruined it all.” He glares up at them through the orange flames.

“We,” Dutch stammers, eyes wide in disbelief. “Are not the ones who ‘ruined it all.’ You, boy, stole from us if you don’t remember.”

“Yeah, but you’s the ones who set up a shootout in the middle of the street!”

“It wasn’t meant to be a shootout—”

“But it was,” Arthur interrupts, staring down at his pants. His hands are filthy as they curl into the fabric, coated in a layer of dirt and streaked from the bits of pear that slipped down his wrist. One of his fingernails is half-missing, and he hadn’t noticed the throbbing pain until now. “It was, and I shot a man.”

His breath hitches. “I shot him. I killed him, and I’m going to hang. I’m going to hang, I’m gonna hang ,” he repeats, unable to form any other thought. Arthur was going to hang just like his Pa and prove that he was no more than a bastard’s son. Gasping, Arthur realizes that his entire life will have been spent as a street rat, and he was going to die as one, too.

“They’s gonna hang me when I go back. My lord. They’ll lynch me when—”

“You ain’t going back, boy.”

Dutch kneels in front of Arthur, gently patting his knee to get his attention. “Hear me? You ain’t going back. Hosea and I will get you someplace far from here so you can start fresh. Won’t be no law after you. We’ll set you up good, and you can make something for yourself that’ll last, alright?”

Staring down at Dutch, the words take a few moments to register in his head. Arthur nods slowly, wiping his eyes roughly with the back of his hand and smearing dirt along his cheeks.

He’d make this work. They’d take him to a new city, somewhere no one knew his name and his past. He’d start all over and make money, good and honest. The way Pa never liked to. He just had to get there, and he couldn’t do it by his lonesome.

“Okay,” he agrees, as if he had much say in the matter. “Yeah, okay.”

Dutch squeezes Arthur’s knee, but when the boy stares at it with an odd look, he slowly draws his hand back.

“We’ll talk more in the morning,” grunts Dutch as he pushes back to his feet. Hosea is removing the provisions from the fire, letting them cool. “Until then, you oughtta get some meat on them bones.”

In the morning, before the sun has even risen, Arthur hears shuffling around him. Distant voices reach his ears, though he doesn't rouse from his sleep just yet. It’s likely some shop owners getting an early start to the morning, their voices carrying down the alley Arthur has claimed for the night. Even when he hears horses huff, he hardly stirs, just burying his face into the crook of his elbow to rest a little while longer.

It’s not until he hears the distinct sound of a gun being loaded does he startle. His eyes fly open and he sits up, quickly trying to blink the sleep from his eyes.

Instead of being greeted by the barrel of a gun pressed to his forehead, dirt beneath him, he sees the early sun peeking through the leaves. The trees rustle quietly in the morning breeze, one that causes Arthur’s hair to blow softly in front of his eyes. His fingers brush it back, then he drags his hand down his face with a stifled yawn. He usually isn’t up this early.

A couple yards away, he sees Hosea with a rifle in his hands. There’s ammunition on the ground by his foot, and he’s currently wiping down the gun’s barrel with a rag. He glances over in Arthur’s direction, and when he notices the boy is awake, he smiles.

“Morning, Arthur.”

The boy grunts as he sits up, looking around.

“Dutch is getting the horses ready,” Hosea explains, slipping his gun over his shoulder. He leans forward, studying Arthur with that same scrutinizing eye he had yesterday. Still, there’s a distinct kindness to it that makes Arthur’s skin itch.

“What for?”

The man blinks, then looks away from Arthur to the campsite around them. He only now realizes Dutch and Hosea have already picked up their beds and put out the fire. Arthur wrinkles his nose, saying, “It ain’t even sun-up. Why’re we leavin’ so early?”

“Because leaving early means beating the heat. Not sure about you, but riding trails when it’s ninety degrees at noon don’t exactly sound too nice,” Hosea laughs, rising from his spot in the dirt and brushing it off his pants. 

“I aint keen on that, neither,” Arthur says defensively, feeling a fool. He usually sleeps until noon— no one worth hassling is out before twelve o’ clock nohow—- so he’s left stifling another yawn as he tries to wake up.

Dutch comes back with the horses just as Arthur tugs his hat down onto his head, making sure it’s resting snugly without risk of flying off.

“Look who’s awake,” he kids, and Arthur sends him a glare. The dirty look is received with a blinding grin, and Dutch drops the horse reins to dangle. He throws his hands up in mock surrender, then takes a staggering step backward as a hand clasps at his heart.

“What are you doing?” Arthur snaps, and he hears snickers behind him. Dutch feigns a pained expression and groans dramatically, head lulling to the side. “Hosea, the boy done and shot me,” Dutch groans.

“I ain’t even got a gun!” Arthur shouts.

“He gave me such a dirty look, it felt like a bullet piercin’ my heart.”

Arthur scowls, choosing to ignore Dutch’s teasing, much to his amusement. When he steps past Arthur, he nudges him with his shoulder hard enough to make him wobble. Settling onto his horse with a snicker, he gestures for Arthur, balance regained, to get on with Hosea. 

All the while, he teases, “You got such a charming disposition for a boy your age.”

“And you got a silly one for a man your age,” Arthur shoots back, lifting his hand and letting Hosea hoist him into the saddle. 

This earns a true laugh from Hosea, and Arthur takes delight in the wide-eyed look Dutch sports before he gathers his wits enough to craft a retort. Not bothering to listen, Arthur makes himself content with sitting behind Hosea as his horse, Clementine, and tilting his head back.

He’s left staring at the bits of lightening sky that peek out from the spaces between the trees. It doesn’t take long for Arthur to truly understand why they were heading out so early— he’s already sweating— and the sun is quickly creeping into the sky.

When it gets too bright, he looks down, admiring the horse beneath him. One of his arms is wrapped around Hosea so he doesn’t topple over, but his fingers gingerly brush the horse before patting her. He can feel her muscles straining under his palm, and an overwhelming sense of adoration has his lips turning up into a smile.

Arthur isn’t sure how long they’ll ride for— if it’ll take them days or weeks to reach this promised “new start”, but he hopes there won’t be too many delays. They’re riding much slower than they were last night, likely because lawmen aren’t tailing them, but their pace is steady. Occasionally when other riders pass by, Dutch or Hosea call out a friendly greeting.

Though he sees no sense in drawing any sort of attention to themselves, he keeps that thought to himself. As he’s already discovered, these men are strange, and it’s a waste to try and figure out what’s running through their heads. Simultaneously, in fact, because Arthur has never seen two men so in sync with one another before. With less than a look they could have entire debates, and Arthur could be none the wiser.

Arthur hated it when folks made him feel stupid. He may not be as keen as other kids his age, and looking too long at words tended to make his head throb, but he wasn’t dumb. He was smart in all the ways that mattered— all the ways that kept him living.

And living is what he is, though he’s on horseback a few dozen miles away from home with aching legs and a sore back. His smarts kept him from getting beat to death, or starved to death, or shot. They’re the reason he’s alive and all those men that died yesterday aren’t.

He’s breathing, clean and deep, and he supposes that’s as great a gift as any. That, and there’s a nice breeze today; he lets it carry away the memory of a body thudding against the ground and how his finger twitches the way it had when he pulled the trigger. It will return, but for now, he lets it go.

When the heat is unbearable, they take a short rest in the shade so the horses can rest. Arthur sits in the dirt, leaning back against the trunk of a tree, and drinks from Dutch’s canteen when it’s offered to him. Then they saddle up and ride until it’s time to settle down for the night. Once again, Arthur is the late riser when he awakes. 

The next few days are much of the same.

It’s startlingly easy to fall into rhythm with Dutch and Hosea.  

“Boy,” Dutch calls from the outskirts of camp. Arthur looks up from where he’d been lighting the fire to see Dutch waving him over. Hesitant, he eventually abandons his current task— when Hosea returns from gathering more firewood, Arthur’s sure he’ll take up the task— and walks over to where Dutch is standing. He has two bottles in his hands and turns, venturing further into the woods, expecting Arthur to simply follow.

He does, but he badgers Dutch as they go, demanding, “What do you want? Couldn’t you see I was busy? And why you got bottles with you?”

“Will you ever quit whining?”

“Sure, when you quit bein’ a pain.”

Arthur doesn’t have to see Dutch’s face to know he rolled his eyes. His whole head moved with the action, shoulders rising and falling in a deep sigh. Dutch’s tendencies, Arthur has learned, never lack flare. He’s the living embodiment of extra, though now he’s more resigned when he grumbles, “Just come on.”

Holding his tongue, Arthur follows Dutch deeper into the foliage. His feet hurt when he steps on twigs wrong, and rocks dig into his soles, but eventually a small path opens up with a fallen tree ahead of them. Instead of hurdling over it, Dutch stops before it, and sets the two bottles up on the stretch of the trunk. A proud gleam is in his eyes when he turns back around.

Arthur is unimpressed.

“Balancing two glass bottles ain’t that grand.”

“That so?” Dutch laughs, resting his hands on his hips as he saunters back to where Arthur stands.

“Yes. That’s so.”

“Well, damn,” he sighs, turning back to face the bottles. Swiftly his hand drops down to his gun holster, fingers expertly drawing his revolver. There's a click, then one of the bottles explodes as a bullet flies through it.

Arthur’s mouth must be agape because an overwhelmingly smug pride is radiating from Dutch’s face. Proud, he asks, “That grand enough for you? Because now you’re gonna give it a go.”

He takes ahold of Arthur’s wrist and slaps the gun into his palm. 

Trying to shove the gun back, Arthur panics. “I don’t know how to shoot.”

“I’m gonna teach you.”

“I don’t know,” he reiterates, “how to shoot.”  Each word is clipped, and he grits his teeth. Arthur wishes Dutch would just hurry up and take the gun; holding it, his hand shakes are too prominent and visible. He presses it flat against Dutch’s chest, trying to force it back to him.

He only lifts his hands, refusing to accept it.

“You will. You can learn—”

“I don’t need to learn! I ain’t a killer like you!” Arthur snaps, slamming the gun down into the dirt at their feet. He takes a defensive stance, arms wrapped around himself.

Dutch looks down at the gun, then up at Arthur. He refuses to meet his eyes, keeping his head down and hat low, but his watery voice speaks volumes. “That ain’t… that ain’t me. I’m not a murderer.”

“No, You're not. Of course you’re not,” Dutch agrees. There’s a striking conviction in his voice that has Arthur lifting his chin to meet his eye. All humor has seeped out of his face, and what’s left there is a stern determination Arthur’s never seen before.

“You and me? We’re victims, Arthur. Victims of a country that values the idea of ‘progress’ more than it values people. Uncle Sam has no loyalty, and that’s the only goddamn thing that matters in a land like this.”

A pause.

“And if you ain’t got no-one to be loyal to?”

Resting a hand on Arthur’s shoulder— a soft, caring hand, never raised in violence against the boy— Dutch squeezes gently. The other, wrapped around the barrel of the revolver, offers the gun to him once more. “You find someone. And you love ‘em, boy, ’cause love and loyalty is all we got in this world, and some men never find it.”

Dutch’s words settle snugly behind Arthur’s ribs, rattling the breath in his lungs. They embed themselves deep into his being and burn, like a lit match has replaced his heart.

Arthur reaches out and accepts the gun.

“It’s true!” Hosea laughs, wiping away tears from the corners of his eyes. Arthur laughs, too, turning to look at Dutch who rides alongside them. His cheeks and the back of his neck are flushed red with embarrassment, lips pursed in a petulant manner.

“When you tell it like that —” he tries, glaring hard at Hosea, who promptly cuts him off with an incredulous look.

“You mean when I tell the truth?”

“No, I mean when you tell it in a way so you can embarrass me infront of the boy!”

Arthur chimes in helpfully, saying, “Sounds like you embarrass yourself just fine.”

“Ridiculous,” Dutch mutters, slouching in his saddle. “This is ridiculous.”

Hosea snickers once more, and continues the story. “After Dutch lost the third game, we went back to camp so he could lick his wounds. He can cheat a game of cards like no other, but when he has to play clean?” He snorts. “Worst damned player I’ve ever seen.”

Arthur smiles, and Dutch is now pointedly ignoring them both, squinting against the sun. It’s cooler this morning than it has been all week, and the overcast sky provides them with more refuge from the sun’s beams. Dutch says they should be coming up on a little town today, and that means they’re only a day or two out from Westray, where Hosea claims to know a man who can set Arthur up with a good job and place to sleep.

The idea makes his stomach lurch. Close. He’s so close to that fresh start he’s been craving for so long, but something still holds him back and makes him second guess what he wants. He doesn’t  dwell on what that may be.

They come across a trail sign that reads Bradford, and soon after, buildings poke up on the horizon line. 

“What’s the plan, Dutch?”

“Well,” he begins, letting the reins rest on the saddlehorn for a moment as he uses both hands to carefully brush his hair back. He smudges at the dirt on his face as well, cleaning himself so he doesn’t look quite so wild. “The main goal is not to make too much noise. If we get into trouble with dear Arthur present, it could follow him to Westray. So just keep our heads down and our noses clean. Get in, get what we need, get out.”

In town people pay them little mind. Aside from glancing curiously at the new arrivals, no-one seems to recognize them or tries to stop them from hitching their horses outside of the general store.

Arthur drops to the ground with a grunt. He leans forward, letting his upper half danger and fingers brush the dirt as he takes a much needed stretch-break. He’s gotten more used to sitting horseback, though he isn’t completely adjusted to it, a fact the Dutch and Hosea relentlessly tease him for.

Hosea attracts the boy's attention by speaking, though his back is to him as he ruffles through his horse’s saddlebag. He fishes out a sealed letter and passes it to Arthur. 

“Head over to the train station and mail this for us,” he requests. Arthur follows Hosea’s line of sight to the station sign that pokes up over the sheriff’s roof, just past it. He shrugs, glad to have something to do, and takes the letter. Shoving it into his pocket without reading who it is addressed to, he sets off down the road. His feet burn when he steps out of the shade provided by the store’s canopy, and walks swiftly towards his destination. 

“Got any special requests, Arthur?” Dutch calls after him.

“No,” Arthur shouts back, before he rounds the sheriff’s building and out of their line of sight.

Hurrying towards the train stations, he notes how dilapidated it is. What must have once been vibrant orange paint is dirty, streaks of it stripping off the building. A few horses are tied to the posts outside, and a kind-looking woman sits on a bench with a case, waiting on the train. Shielded by the sun from the roof over the boarding station, she has a book nestled in her lap.

Arthur makes his way inside, pushing open the heavy wooden doors. It’s even hotter inside. More people occupy the space, breathing heavy with open mouths in a way that makes Arthur’s skin feel wet just from standing too close. A short line greets him for the postage worker, and he grumbles as he slots himself at its end.

It moves slowly, and boredom is quickly seeping up the cracks of the floorboards and taking root in Arthur. He shifts on his feet, then remembers he has some sort of entertainment already on his person.

He fishes the letter out of his pocket, turning it over and observing the handwriting on its front. He can’t be sure if it’s Dutch or Hosea’s, though the extra loops on the letters seem superfluous enough for it to belong to the former. It takes him a moment, but after reading the name of the recipient, Arthur lets out an amused hum.

Susan Grimshaw, it reads.

The name of a woman, no doubt, though that fact surprises Arthur. In watching the interactions between Dutch and Hosea, he had made assumptions about the nature of their relationship; Arthur found himself dismissing the idea that this Susan Grimshaw was a lady either of them were courting— not that he thought they’d court a lady at all.

Not that Arthur minded. He didn’t quite care whether they were the woman-loving type, man-loving type, or both, or neither. Love, Arthur believed, always worked out better than hate, and hating someone for loving seemed foolish to him, though he knew most folk wouldn’t share his sentiment.

A man nudges Arthur from behind, and he realizes that as he’s been staring at the letter, still, though the line has moved again and it’s his turn. He slides the letter addressed to the mysterious Susan Grimshaw across the counter, ensures that the address on it is done proper— not that he’d know how to fix it if it weren’t— then steps out of line.

Sauntering to the door, something catches his eye.

Posters and fliers are tacked onto a board on the wall. Arthur spots two familiar faces stuck to it, with hefty prices under their names.

Slowly, Arthur snatches the posters. He tucks them to his chest, rushing out of the station so he can observe the papers without people shoving him aside or cursing at him.

“Goddamn,” he breathes out, transfixed by the bounty Hosea and Dutch have managed to accumulate. These posters alone list fraud, theft, deception, conspiracy to commit murder, and even murder under their list of crimes. Arthur remembers the gang that got him into this mess to begin with, how they had been so eager to claim the bounty on their heads. Running a hand down his face, he studies the black and white picture of the men.

Then, slowly, he lifts his head, and stares hard at the sheriff’s office. 

It has a back door.

Arthur’s not sure why his legs carry him towards it. But before he can quite register what he’s doing, the door is only a few inches away from his face.

 This is it. Arthur’ll knock on this door, explain to the sheriff how there are two dangerous outlaws in town— ones he brought here and that he should be rewarded for turning in— and then he won’t need to rely on strangers’ generosity to make a life for himself. He’ll have clean money to support himself with.

Building an honest life from the ground up should surely start by committing a good act, like turning in fugitive criminals.

Arthur raises his hand to knock, shifting his weight from side to side. He opens and closes his fist, looking back down at the papers in his hand.

Hosea and Dutch, murderers, were on the run from the law with a number on their heads that was bigger than one Arthur’d ever seen. If he got the money for both their bounties, he wouldn’t have to worry about starving ever again. 

He’d be able to do anything he so desired, and yet, he wouldn’t turn them in.

Because they weren’t murderers, really. Victims— Dutch had said— they were victims. Arthur could turn them in, and get his money, but just as soon the law would be after a new outlaw, a new gang, a new survivor to turn the people against.

They were kind and clever, Arthur thought, as well as generous. And generosity had to count for something more in a world like this because you sure don’t run into it often.

Arthur steps back, tearing up the posters and making the shredded bits aren’t too large, that they don’t contain too much detail regarding their appearance. They won’t be in town much longer, but had someone recognized them in this short escapade, Arthur didn’t want them stumbling across the papers.

Arthur rounds the front of the sheriff’s office and spots Dutch and Hosea by their horses. Dutch is loading their newly acquired, though slim, supplies, and Hosea has a new pair of boots dangling from his hands.  They seem to be engaged in a conversation before they spot Arthur, and when they do, their faces break into a grin. Hosea hides the boots behind his back.

Arthur finds he ain’t so terrified of these blood-thirsty outlaws like he ought to be.

It only takes another two days to reach Westray.

Dutch had described it to him a few times before.

Gathered around the small fire they had lit, Dutch was nursing his own bottle of brandy, the light bouncing off the intricate glass detailing. The hour was later than usual, the three of them often weary and travel-worn enough that they fell asleep minutes after stretching out on the ground. That night, however, they sat up, and Hosea was teaching Arthur to play blackjack.

He could hardly win a hand— though he had successfully managed to cheat once— and Hosea’s hand always seemed to add up to a perfect twenty-one. Between a game, Hosea was shuffling the cards, which Arthur watched closely. He was trying to single out the moment Hosea rigged the deck, much to the older man’s amusement, when Dutch interrupted both of their concentration.

“Have you ever been to Westray, Arthur?” he asked, wiping his mouth with the back of my hand.

“No. Honest, I ain’t been much of nowhere.”

Dutch chuckles. He points his finger at the card dealer and scolds him good-naturedly. “I saw that, Hosea.”

Hosea grumbles, wriggling a card out from under the cuff of his sleeve, and Dutch continues despite Arthur’s shocked look and mouthed how the hell? “Well, it’s as nice a city I’ve ever seen. Lots of buildings and houses and such.”

He shakes his head, smiling. “Me and Hosea visit every so often and stay at that hotel on a street corner, just by the edge of town. You’ll have to rent a room there one day, Arthur. By god, is it nice.” He sighs, then goes on to describe the city. He says the streets aren’t much cleaner than those of any other town, but they’re paved with stone, and there are street lamps that light the sidewalks. Arthur isn’t sure if he buys that, especially since Dutch rambled on about some sort of street light that didn’t need gas or even oil to burn.

Such fancy ideas, Arthur had dismissed them to be.

Those ideas aren’t so silly as they stare him in the face.

Clementine’s hooves clatter noisily on the stone, but the sound is easily lost in the city’s bustling atmosphere. Everywhere Arthur looks, there’s folks of the likes he’s never seen before. Some talk different, and that floors Arthur more than just about anything, since he can hardly use his own language all that well.

Since they’ve entered the city limits, Dutch and Hosea have gone somewhat quiet. Occasionally, they draw attention to points of fascination Arthur may have missed. He feels so small in a city like this, and his mind tells him this’ll be the perfect place for him to start new. With so many people, he bets dozens of people come and go on the daily, and he won’t stick out sorely if he keeps his act straight. Depending on what kind of job he’d be working— Dutch had no details to offer about his pay— Arthur wonders if he could send himself back to school if he scrimped and saved. Maybe he’d get into politics, and wouldn’t that be something?

It’s about midday now, and Hosea lightly tugs on Clementine’s reins. She stops to the side of the street, and Arthur glances around. There’s a group of clustered shopping stalls to their right, and the small market stretches around winding corners that Arthur knows he can’t see.

“This is your stop,” Dutch comments. 

None of them move.

“Follow the road to the right,” Hosea instructs. “And you’ll come up on a butcher’s stall. His name is Dillis. Tell the man you’re with Dutch Van der Linde, and he’s cashing his favor.”

Nodding, Arthur swings his leg over and dismounts the saddle. His boots squelch in mud as he lands, though he doesn’t mind that terribly. Arthur finds himself stalling, hand lingering on the bag dangling from Clementine’s saddle. He reaches up and situates his hat, unmoving, but he notices how Dutch and Hosea don’t move, either.

Arthur turns around, pointing over his shoulder. “Should I— what if he don’t believe me? Ain’t it better if you come, too?”

“We can’t, my dear boy. Hosea and I… we’re leaving town early, ‘round dawn, I fear. We’ve got our own errands to run between then and now.”

“Oh,” Arthur says dumbly. He nods, licking his lips. “‘Course.”

This isn’t right. It isn’t supposed to go like this.

“Well, goodbye, I ‘spose. Thank you” he forces his mouth to say. Dutch and Hosea wish him farewell, he's sure, but the words are a little fuzzy, and Arthur wonders why that is. Dragging himself into the market is far more challenging when the weight of the word is shackled to his ankles. Arthur thought he’d left that behind, but now it returns, and the feel of it is crushing.

He goes slow, and though he’s listening, the sound of them trotting away is indistinguishable from all the other ruckus around him.

All Arthur knows is that when he turns back around, no-one is waiting for him. 

He’s on his own, in a town where no-one knew his name or his story, just like he’d wanted. 

Hosea buttons up his shirt with tired eyes, and Dutch stands in the mirror beside him, shaving his face. It’s a quiet morning, nothing short of ideal for the two of them, and they stand so their arms brush together just barely when they move.

The sun isn’t up yet, and the streetlights still burn outside, but they’ll be leaving soon.

The morning is void of chatter or spirited jabs at one another. When Hosea tugs on his boots, he sighs, finally breaking the silence. “You think it went alright?”

Dutch doesn’t have to ask to know what Hosea is referring to. “Of course. Dillis owes me a favor, and he knows that. That boy will be fine— actually, I’m sure he’ll do more than fine once he gets a hang of the work. It’s no more strenuous than riding horseback all day. For him, it might even be preferable.”

Hosea chuckles, holstering his revolvers after he rises from the bed. He and Dutch exit their hotel room, and Hosea says, “I suppose that’s true.”

Idle chatter is easier after that, though it’s nothing of much interest. 

It’s not until Hosea mounts Clementine does he most feel a deep absence, and his stomach curls. Admittedly, riding with Arthur had been nothing short of a frustration at first— the result of a lost bet with Dutch— but he’d grown accustomed to the extra weight on the back of his saddle.

He shifts slightly, trying to adjust. After two weeks of changing his riding style, he struggles to sit comfortably, and eventually gives up. He’ll get used to it eventually, though the silence that was lingering in the hotel room now pervades the air around them. Where there were once muffled snickers that were presumed unheard, the rushing of Hosea’s own blood fills his ears.

Maybe they should have walked Arthur in, Hosea thinks; however, reason quickly takes this idea apart. That boy wanted to distance himself from gangs, understandably, and Hosea knows he wouldn’t have been able to resist offering Arthur a more permanent spot with them. He and Dutch had even talked about it the night before, when Arthur was asleep. They’d worked through the pros, and the cons, then went back to the pros before reconsidering the cons.

Arthur’s being here or not being here wouldn’t bother Hosea for long. Soon, he and Dutch would craft up a new scheme, score a big take, and be skipping towns once again, leaving all thoughts of a lonely little boy behind. Though Hosea’s no fool, and he knows, from time to time, he will wonder.

Wonder what happened to that starving boy who’d tried to steal from them. Wonder how he got on in such a big city that was no doubt out of his element. Wonder if he got himself a family, some people worth looking after.

Hosea sighs, carding a hand through his hair, and resolves himself to a long day of speculation.

“Hosea,” Dutch says suddenly, startling the man. He jerks his head up, and notes how Dutch has stopped. He’s staring off, and Hosea tries to follow his line of sight.

There’s a bench at the end of the street they’re traveling on. A street lamp is lit above it, casting a small halo of orange light around the area.

The fire illuminates a beaten black hat that sits atop a mop of blond hair.

Closer, they can see that the form is clearly that of Arthur Morgan. He’s drawn one knee up to his chest, and he so much resembles that boy Dutch and Hosea first spotted sitting in the shade. His head falls to the side, and before he can topple over, Arthur jerks his head upright, blinking the sleep from his eyes.

“What are you doing out here, Arthur?” Hosea inquires, and the boy jumps to his feet.

“I ain’t— This city ain’t a good fit for me.”

Hosea sees Dutch’s eyes widen in surprise and knows he mirrors that expression as well. Dutch leans forward, confusion written on his features. “What do you mean it ain’t a good fit? Did Dillis turn you away?” As he asks, his hand creeps towards his gun. If Arthur sees the motion, he makes no indication of it.

He shakes his head. His words are frenzied, like he’s struggling to properly articulate his thoughts. “No, he was mighty fine. This city just ain’t a good fit. These folk… they ain’t my kind, is all I’m saying.”

"What folk are?"

"Folk like you, I guess."

Dutch looks at Hosea, and he can’t hide the cheek-splitting grin on his face. “That so?”

“That’s so.” Arthur is resolute.

“Well,” Dutch rubs his chin, as if he’s in thought, but any fool could see the shine in his eyes and know his mind is made up, through and through. “We’ll just have to keep looking, then. Ain’t that right, Hosea?”

Hosea can’t bite down his own smile, and voices his agreement. Arthur stares up at them with a smile, the realest Hosea has seen from him yet. He’s got a dimple on his right cheek, and a chipped tooth Hosea hadn’t noticed before.

“Besides,” Arthur says, stepping up to Clementine and taking Hosea’s hand when it's offered to him. “The two of you ‘re better off keeping me ‘round.”

“And why’s that, son?” Dutch laughs, sharing a bemused look with Hosea.

“‘Cause you both do a piss-poor job of not gettin’ robbed.”

With that, Arthur removes his hat and tosses a compass into Hosea’s lap. He hadn’t needed it this morning, considering they knew the route from Westhurst pretty well, and he hadn't bothered to check for it last night. When he peeks into his saddlebag, sure enough, his compass is missing.

“Figured I’d sell it if I need to,” Arthur explains, and goes on to recount how he lifted it from Hosea whenever they dropped him off. They've left the city limits by now, and the sky is a soft pink, blue creeping in the higher the sun rises.

As Arthur’s story nears its close, however, his voice gets all quiet and subdued. 

A peace settles in the air for a few moments, then something settles against Hosea’s back.

He glances over his shoulder and finds Arthur’s head resting between his shoulder blades, eyes shut and lips parted as he snores slightly. 

Arthur may never be an early riser by nature, Hosea concludes. 

Living as an outlaw with them won’t be easy for him— this life never is. It’s harsh and unkind and it takes things from you before you get a chance to enjoy them, Hosea knows that first hand.

But Arthur ain’t an outlaw just yet, so Hosea lets him rest, and sets aside all his worrying for later.