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The weather in Illinois was nice this time of year. Even in the evenings when the setting sun painted the horizon, there was a warm breeze.
Arthur Morgan sat on the front porch of the run down house - really more of an oversized shack - whittling away at a piece of wood. Dutch and Hosea had elected to move the gang a bit further northwest after a very successful robbery in Kansas. A little livestock town, with an equally little bank that happened to be stuffed full of cash the day they hit it. The take was good, better than expected, even after donating some of it to a local orphanage.
They’d been settled in this spot for just over a week now. Miss Grimshaw, as she always did, had put some real elbow grease into setting up a half-decent camp. Arthur, by extension, had been ordered around for three days straight. Moving firewood and their chuckwagon full of supplies to and fro until Susan was apparently satisfied. Earlier that day, Arthur had headed to a saloon in a nearby town to snag a few leads. He got some half-decent information, but nothing they could act upon immediately. Dutch and Hosea decided to check out one of the other towns. It’d been almost — Arthur checked his stopwatch — seven hours since they departed. They should’ve been back already.
Sure enough, as he set his knife down and stood up to stretch his legs, he saw two horses riding down the dirt path. Arthur squinted as they approached. Hosea was riding ahead of Dutch, who had something that Arthur couldn’t quite make out in front of him in the saddle.
“Dutch! Whatchu got there!?” Arthur stepped down from the porch and towards the slowing horses, his hands resting lazily on his belt. He paused when he realized it was a child.
The scrawny thing jumped off Dutch’s shire, feet planting awkwardly in the dirt. All elbows and knees like a newborn fawn. What the hell are they playing at?
“This here,” Hosea strode past Arthur, clapped him on the back, “is young John Marston.”
Dutch’s voice boomed as he placed a hand on the kid’s shoulder, guiding him towards the house. “Hosea and I saved him from the California collar! Can you believe the injustice, Arthur? Hanging a goddamn boy! And over what? A couple dollars?”
“And a platinum necklace, if I recall correctly.” Hosea called back.
As Dutch and the boy, John, walked past, Arthur got a better look at him. Shirt stained with blood and dirt, one sleeve nearly ripped clean off at the shoulder. His hair falling into his face, hanging in stringy clumps like he hadn’t bathed in a year. Big, dark eyes met Arthur’s for just a moment, then they continued to dart around. With his chin slightly tucked down and his bony hands curled into fists, Arthur realized with some amusement that the kid had the same look about him as a cornered animal. He was gonna bolt the first chance he got. Arthur just knew it. He would come inside, eat their food, rob them blind in the middle of night and take off with a shiny new pistol and — if he knew how to ride — one of their horses. Still, Arthur knew better than to question Dutch outright. The man had never given him a reason to, but he couldn’t help giving the kid another wary once-over anyway.
“He’s a tiny little thing, ain’t he?” Arthur called out to Dutch, beginning to walk alongside him.
“I ain’t little.”
Arthur stopped in his tracks. Shit, the kid really was hanging when they got to him. Nothing else could explain how hoarse he sounded. John was staring straight up at him now, apparently feeling much braver. His chin jutting out and shoulders tense.
Arthur took a step towards him, straightening his posture. He crossed his arms and frowned. John standing at full height hardly reached Arthur’s squared shoulders.
“That so?” Watching the kid’s expression falter as his gaze flitted back and forth between himself and an unimpressed Dutch satisfied Arthur than he cared to admit.
“Don’t start, Arthur!” Hosea’s exasperation was clear even across the yard. Arthur held his hands up in surrender, giving the boy space to continue following Dutch into the house. Dutch stepped back and placed a hand between John’s shoulder blades as they walked, guiding him forward. With his face out of the boy’s sight, he shot Arthur one of his looks. Don’t mess this up.
Hosea pushed the door open and clapped his hands together. “Susan, would you be so kind as to fix this boy something to eat?”
As usual, Arthur heard Susan before he saw her. “Mr. Matthews, that boy eats more than the rest of us combined! And he is certainly not a boy anymore! He’s been sitting out there for the past hour doing nothing. He can grab it himself! I swear I—“
The heavy creak of her boots on the wooden floor stopped as she rounded the corner. Her blonde hair half-falling out of its updo, making her look all the more ridiculous as she opened her mouth and closed it again without saying anything. As she turned on her heel and headed back into the makeshift kitchen, Arthur swore he heard her mutter something about, “not running a goddamn orphanage.”
“Sit down, son.”
Arthur moved to follow Dutch’s instructions, but when he glanced over he realized the man had been speaking to John instead. He shook his head and took his hat off, setting in on the counter before taking a seat in the chair next to the boy anyway.
Arthur took stock of John again. Sitting with his arms pressed by his side, hunched over in his chair. He realized the kid wasn’t just looking around in fear. As he followed the boy’s line of sight, he saw John was scanning the room in a pattern. Hosea’s holster. Dutch’s holster. The knife on the counter. Arthur’s satchel. The door. Over and over again, even as the older men made their way around the room. Survival instincts like that weren’t the most common to come by, especially in someone so young. Either the boy naturally had them, or he had been on his own for a while. Given the state of him, Arthur imagined it was likely the latter.
“Here.” Susan came bustling back in the room, bowls of stew in hand. She set them in front of John and Dutch, who was pulling up a chair for himself.
“Thank you, Miss Grimshaw.” Susan waved Dutch off as she left the room again, presumably to bring over dinner for the rest of them.
Arthur sighed and pulled his satchel off, leaning over to set it on the counter next to the knife. One less spot for the kid to keep an eye on. Susan returned, setting down three more bowls and taking a seat herself.
“Eat up.” Hosea was sat now too, elbows propped up and fingers laced together.
Out the corner of his eye, Arthur watched John warily picked up his spoon. He hesitated, looking around one more time, before shovelling spoonfuls into his mouth. Whatever carefully practiced caution he seemed to have before was thrown to the wayside, no match for his hunger.
“Easy, kid,” Arthur took on the same tone he did when Bodicea got spooked. “Nobody’s gonna take it from you.”
John blinked up at him, orange broth dripping down his chin and cheeks stuffed full. He gave an almost imperceptible nod, and slowed down a bit. Not enough to convince Arthur he still wouldn’t choke, but at least it was something.
Susan was watching the boy eat with her lips pursed in displeasure. Arthur knew that look. She would no doubt whip some manners into the boy soon enough.
“So,” she started, “how old are you…?”
“John.” Hosea clarified, while the boy swallowed a bite.
“I’m twelve.” He said quietly before diving back into his bowl.
“And you tracked just about twelve years worth of dirt in here.” Susan’s tone was stern but not unkind. At least not by her standards. “You’re taking a bath straight after you finish dinner.”
John paused, still looking down. His nose wrinkled in distaste.
She scoffed. “Don’t you disagree, boy. And you sound like you’re coming down with something.”
John looked at her, brows drawn together on confusion. “No, I don’t.”
“Yes, you do.” Susan frowned. “Even if you didn’t, Mr. Morgan here would not appreciate you dragging all that mud into his room.”
Arthur whipped his around head to look at her. “ My room?”
“Unless you’re suggesting John here sleep on the porch,” Dutch’s tone was far too casual for Arthur’s liking, “yes, your room.”
Jesus Christ. Why the kid couldn’t sleep on a bedroll in the hallway was beyond Arthur. He didn’t argue further.
“Now that that’s settled,” Dutch leaned back in his chair, “let’s talk about tomorrow’s plans. Arthur, you find anything?”
“Yeah. Apparently the sheriff’s been having trouble with some gravediggers. Willing to pay handsomely for some kinda solution. Oh, and somethin’ about some prized sheep or other. Should be easy enough to rustle but I need some more details first.”
Dutch nodded. “Hosea—“
The older man waved his hand. “First thing tomorrow I’ll go make friends with the local law and see what we can do about those gravediggers.”
“Alright,” Dutch continued, leaning forward now and lacing his fingers together. “I do believe I have an appointment with that loose-lipped fellow at the train station.”
Arthur nodded between spoonfuls. “Guess, I’m lookin’ into the sheep, then.”
“No.” Dutch’s tone brooked no room for suggestions. “You’ll stay here and show John the ropes.”
Arthur carefully took a deep breath through his nose. He glared at John, lip curled in displeasure, but the boy didn’t notice. He was all but face deep in a second bowl of stew.
“John.”
His head snapped up at Dutch calling his name.
“Tomorrow, after Arthur’s done with you and you’ve helped Miss Grimshaw with the laundry, you and I are going to sit down and do some reading.”
At the word “laundry,” John’s mouth twisted. He looked just as displeased as Arthur felt.
It was Hosea who commented on it. “We all have to pull our weight around here.”
John, thankfully, didn’t bite the hands currently feeding him. Dutch and Hosea had just saved his life and were offering him a place to stay. Laundry was a fair enough price to pay, boring as it was. Arthur knew the feeling all too well.
While Dutch and Hosea continued discussing tomorrow’s outings, Arthur continued eating in silence. He still wasn’t convinced that John wouldn’t steal the valuables from his room and take off before sunrise. However, as tense as the boy’s shoulders still were, he was fidgeting much less in his chair. It was easy for Arthur to forget how he himself felt those first few days after being brought in by the gang. It had been eight years since Dutch took him under his wing and taught him how to read, write, and live . Live, not just survive. Arthur didn’t know if he would’ve made it to twenty-two had Dutch not come along. Surviving on your own is never easy, he knew well. Trusting the wrong people was often fatal. Especially when almost everyone out there was bigger and stronger than you. As much as he wasn’t pleased about the whole situation, Arthur reasoned to himself that John was probably just a scared kid. A filthy, thieving kid who was currently sitting in his spot at the table and eating their food. But a scared kid nonetheless. The sound of his own name pulled Arthur back to reality.
“—wasn’t much older than you when he joined us.” Hosea was speaking to John now.
“Really?” John wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Oh, yes.” Dutch chuckled. “Remember those days, Arthur?”
“Sure.” Arthur leaned back. “Don’t reckon I needed a bath quite so bad, though.”
“Don’t flatter yourself, Mr. Morgan.” Susan broke her silence and gave him a pointed look. “Finish that bowl quickly, boy. The sooner you stop attracting flies the better.”
Less than ten minutes later, John was all but dragged outside, frowning indignantly. Arthur had headed upstairs to his room in the meantime — and tucked all the valuables from his satchel into the locked chest hidden underneath the bed. Just in case. Despite asking for another arrangement after dinner, Dutch had remained adamant that John stay with him. As Arthur pushed his belongings around, he supposed it wasn’t exactly fair to the kid, either. John was likely more uncomfortable with the arrangement than Arthur was, if he was anything like Arthur remembered himself being at that age. He gave it some more thought as he scrawled in his journal, and was sitting propped up against the headboard, ankles crossed, when the door creaked open.
John was standing there, cheeks pink from where they’d been scrubbed clean, with his wet hair still falling limply into his eyes. He was wearing a shirt Arthur recognized as one of his own. Red, faded some over time, and currently hanging loose on John’s shoulders. Even buttoned to the very top with the sleeves rolled up multiple times, he looked like a kid playing dress-up in his father’s closet. His jeans weren’t much better. Likely Hosea’s, Arthur realized. Pant legs still brushing the floor despite being cuffed and belt pulled to the tightest notch.
“You sleepin’ in jeans?”
“Didn’t have nothin’ else I could wear.” John shuffled awkwardly on the spot.
Arthur sighed and swung his legs over the side of his bed. “Get yourself settled.” He nodded towards the bedroll set up on the left side of the room. As John made his way over to the spot set up for him, Arthur knelt next to his clothing trunk. He reached down to the bottom and sifted through it until he found what he was looking for. One of his old union suits. Still much too large for John, but it would do. He grabbed his knife from nightstand, and sawed the union suit in half at the waist. He folded the top part and placed it neatly back in his chest and turned around to face John.
The boy was sitting cross legged, hands tucked into his lap, just staring blankly at the fabric of the bedroll under him.
“Here,” Arthur held the makeshift pants out to him. “These’ll still be too big, but ‘s better than jeans.”
“I-“ John started and then stopped, looking up at him for a long moment as if trying to figure out if this was some kind of trap, before reaching his hand up to take the pants. His voice was quiet. “Thank you, Mister.”
“Arthur.”
“Huh?”
“Just call me Arthur, kid.”