Work Text:
June 4th, Bradford, Ohio, 1877
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Heat crashed into Arthur like waves, sweat beading on his hairline. June had officially rolled in, and along with it came the summers suffocating warmth.
He rounded a corner, going up the stairs that led to the railway platform two at a time. He heard the familiar, high pitched shriek of a train whistle in the distance, and he saw the puffs of black, curling smoke filtering from the canopy of trees.
Arthur tilted his head down, as he slowed his pace, breathing heavily. He casually leaned on a beam that held up a roof over the platform, somewhere for the workers to hide from rain under. A crowd of people talked a just few feet ahead of him, railroad workers, it looked like. Arthur had been around the area long enough to memorize their shift changes.
He waited, doing his best to stay inconspicuous, sticking strictly to the edge of the railway platform. He heard another shrill whistle, just as the train emerged from the in between the trees, chugging along the tracks until it neared the platform, where it gradually slowed to a stop. A beat of stillness swept over the station, before everything suddenly surged to life, the area erupting into a flow of noise and movement.
Arthur hesitated, scoping around the area, watching the network of workers enter and exit the rumbling vehicle as they changed shifts. Once he found that the passage was crowded enough for him to slip through unnoticed, he pushed himself off the beam, joining in the hustle and bustle.
He weaved through the crowd with minimal difficulty, ducking out of the way of larger men, not wanting to take the risk with them. When the opportunity arose, he stepped in the way of a scrawner—or at least as scrawny as a railroad worker could get—man, hand discreetly slipping into his jean pocket, grabbing something small and round, and slipping it out. He nodded, and let out a small apology for bumping into him, which the man absentmindedly accepted, before rushing off the hop onto the train.
Arthur knew it was bad work, but he had long thrown away his dignity. To be an orphaned street rat, sometimes you had to get your hands a little dirty.
He came up behind another man, hand itching to dip into his back pocket. He was older looking, with a few white streaks running through his hair. If Arthur had looked any closer, he would’ve noticed the distinctly different looking clothes the man wore, compared to the other railroad working men around them, but a sudden commotion coming from behind pulled his attention away before he could look him any closer.
“That little rat stole from me!” Arthur froze, head swiveling around, glancing through the crowd. He let out a little swear once he saw the same dark haired man pushing his way through the crowd at a hasty pace. Arthur’s fingers twitched for the cattleman revolver that hung heavy on his hip, encased in the leather holster he had stolen off some drunken man one night.
But before he knew it, his feet were pushing off the weathered planks, and he was running across the platform. He pushed and shoved, not bothering with the pleasantries as he heard the man scream profanities, his voice steadily getting closer.
He jumped off the platform, landing on the dirt with a running start, but the man was close on his tail.
He sprinted away from the station, the man hot on his trail. He stuck to the edge of the tracks, eyes flicking over to the forest every now and then, trying to find a dense enough thicket he could get himself lost in, but to no avail
The silver watch he stole from the man felt like a weight in his back pocket, almost as heavy as the guilt under his skin. He was almost tempted to throw it back at the man in hopes he’d just leave him alone, but if he did, what would he be meant to eat tonight?
They were on the edge of town now, and the man still hadn’t given up on the chase, and Arthur’s breaths were coming out in heaving wheezes. With the dry weather, the muddy roads had turned to dry, cracked ground that spewed dust high into the air whenever something dared to walk over it. Again, he felt the revolver calling to him, bumping against his thigh as he ran.
He slowed his pace, footsteps heavy on the dry earth. He heard the man’s shouts get closer, but he couldn’t hear what he was spewing over the ringing in his ears. His hand was already reaching for the his holster, heart beating so fast Arthur thought it’d burst.
Just before his fingers could reach the grip of his gun, his hand was flung away from his hip as he suddenly collided into someone. A small ‘oof’ punched its way out of his lungs as he lost his footing, stumbling over his own two feet.
Before he could crash to the ground, someone was grasping onto his upper arm, pulling him up right. For a sickening moment, Arthur thought he was done for. Someone had caught him, and he was going to be put to swing just like his father had.
“And just who the hell the hell are you? Some kinda uncle?” Arthur blinked rapidly in an attempt to get his bearings back, after being halfway flung around when he crashed with whoever was now standing next to him, their bodies pressed up together.
“Yes, actually.” That just made Arthur more discombobulated. He never had any uncles, at least not ones he ever knew. His father never took the time to introduce him to the family, and if his mother ever had, Arthur had been too young to remember.
He glanced up at the man, who was only slightly taller than Arthur himself. His stomach twisted as he realized it was the same person he was about to pickpocket before everything had exploded at the train station. He had probably noticed what he was up to, and if the other man didn’t wring his neck, he surely would.
Arthur swallowed thickly, arms stiff and paralyzed by his side. His gaze traveled back to the man a few feet in front of them, who was red in the face, and clearly out of breath from all that running. He let out an angry huff, taking a half step forward. “Well that little shit stole from me.”
Arthur felt his jaw tense tighten on instinct, a scowl crossing over his face, quickly being wiped off when the grip on his shoulder tightened, and he was slightly jostled around. “Kids, they can really be nuisances sometimes, can’t they?”
The man just continued to glower at them, and Arthur could practically see the smoke come out of his ears.
“Here, no need for a fuss.” The man beside him reassured. Arthur glanced back at him, eyebrows rising as he saw him hold up a silver pocket watch. Arthur’s hand reached to pat his jean pocket, a disgruntled noise almost making it out of his mouth at how flat it felt, the lack of bulge in it making it obvious it was empty.
The man tossed the watch back to its rightful owner, who caught it and quickly slipped it back into his pocket. “Fuss? Hell, he was the one that near about shot me.” He glared at Arthur, before looking back at the other man. “I saw him grab that gun.” He nodded to the holster on Arthur’s hip.
Arthur let out a low scoff, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. If he had been able to reach his gun in time, the man would be drowning in a pool of his own blood, rather than hurling insults at him.
“Oh, this old thing?” Arthur bit his tongue, watching as the older man reached over and slipped the gun out of its sheath. He looked at it, flipping it over in his hands a few times, a light smile on his face, like he was looking at something long familiar to him. “It couldn’t shoot a hole through tin.”
“That still don’t excuse the fact he wanted to shoot me with it.”
Arthur wanted to bite back, ‘You were chasing me!’ But the older man spoke before he could.
“It’s his mother’s old gun. It isn’t even loaded, look.” Arthur watched, in frozen horror, as the man brought the gun up to his head, pressing the muzzle of it snuggly against his temple. His finger hovered over the trigger, and Arthur’s gut twisted, the sickening image of watching this man blow his own brains out in a mist of red causing his stomach to turn. He had shot men before, and knew all too well how their brains looked splayed across the ground, and to say the least, it wasn’t ever a pretty sight.
Click.
Arthur’s eyes flew open,—when had he even closed them?— gaze traveling over to where the muzzle sat against the man’s head.
Click.
“Nothing but a bluff.” The man said grinning, lowering the gun, stowing it in the empty holster on his right hip, making a sweat break out on Arthur’s upper lip at the thought of his one line of defense, other than his natural brute strength, being gone.
He had sworn there had been bullets in it. He checked frequently, in case anything were to happen. He remembered putting his last two rounds into it just before he crept into town.
The man let out a huff, continuing to eye Arthur up and down, like he was some kind of rat caught scurrying across his kitchen counter. “Well, you need to keep that kid off the streets.”
The man beside Arthur nodded understandingly, placing the hand not on Arthur’s shoulder over his own heart. “I’ll be sure to keep an eye on him next time. It’s just.. his mother’s fallen ill recently, isn’t taking it too well.”
The man’s face softened, just slightly, and he gave a small, curt nod. “Sorry to hear that.” He said.
“Give him some leeway this once?”
The man let out a small breath, shoulders lowering slightly, like an animal lowering its hackles. He shoot daggers at Arthur one last time, before muttering. “You’re lucky I wasn’t someone else, kid. You’d be dead on the ground by now.” He turned around, and stalked offf.
Arthur let out a breath, biting his tongue. As if.
Abruptly, before Arthur could give the angry man much more thought, he was being spun around, a firm hand on his back ushering him away.
For now, Arthur didn’t protest. A quick glance behind him showed the man still in ear shot, and kicking up a fuss would only cause the carefully woven facade to crumble.
He was quickly shepherded to a nearby wagon, and thrusted into the middle of the box seat, the hand still firm on his back. The man came to sit next to him, gathering the reins in one hand.
Before either of them could say anything, the ding of a bell cut through the air, drawing Arthur’s attention to the general store just to his right of them, as another man sauntered out its door, a crate full of miscellaneous goods in his arms. He had inky black hair, securely slathered back with pomade. He was stockier than the older man, but not by much. He had a certain element around him, one that Arthur couldn’t decide if he liked or not.
“And how’d it go in there?” The man beside Arthur called out, leaning forward to look beyond the teenager.
“You think I can’t handle a simple shopping trip, Hosea?” The man called back as he approached the side of the wagon, grunting as he hauled it into the bed of the vehicle. “I believe you’ve lost some faith in me!”
The man beside Arthur—Hosea, he guessed— let out a laugh, leaning back in his seat. “You can’t blame me, what happened last time.”
“Oh, you’re a comedian.” The other man responded as he placed his foot on the step of the wagon, grabbing onto the armrest to the box seat so he could efficiently haul himself into the spot next to Arthur, boxing him between the two men.
“And who's your new friend here?” The man asked, arching one thick eyebrow as he glanced Arthur up and down.
“No one to be worried about.” Hosea answered impassively as he leaned over Arthur to hand the reins to his companion. “I found him over at the train station.”
Found him. Like Arthur was some stray dog he had rescued. He glared at Hosea, but the man either didn't notice, or didn’t pay it much mind, as he reached into his pocket to pull out a box of cigarettes.
“Hm.” The other man hummed, not even giving Arthur another glance as he turned his attention to the road. He let out a little ‘yup’, and snapped the reins once, twice, pushing the horses into a walk. “The shopkeep didn't have much to say. I’m thinking this town doesn’t have many.. opportunities, for people like us.”
“I doubt it.” Hosea answered, taking out a cigarette, placing it between his lips, before slipping the box back into his pocket. “I say we pack up and leave. Sooner rather than later.”
Arthur glanced back, watching as they moved from the edge of town, departing from Bradford. He had half the mind to him to wonder where they were headed, and if he should try to make a run for it.
Suddenly, he felt eyes burrowing into him, and he turned back around, finding the black-haired man’s eyes on him. “Now, Son.” His words were dangerous and low, barely hidden with a smooth tone. “What’s your name?”
Without missing a beat, Arthur responded. “Joseph David”
Hosea blew smoke out of his mouth, watching it silently as it swirled into the air and scattered. “We were asking for your real name.”
Arthur hesitated, opening his mouth, before closing it again once he came up short. He stayed silent for a moment more, before he reluctantly grumbled. “Arthur.”
“That’s better. Thank you, Arthur.” Hosea said, taking another drag from his cigarette. An uneasy silence fell upon the cart, only being broken up by the occasional bird tweet as they entered the woods, and the sound of hooves against the earth.
“That was a dumb idea.” Hosea said eventually, tossing the bud of his finished cigarette out of the cart.
Arthur glared at the man, oddly desperate to defend his already broken down pride, which he had never given a shit about before. “You don’t know me. I can handle some pick pocketing.”
“I’m talking about being down there.” Hosea continued, not minding Arthur’s harsh tone. “Those men were heading to a coal mine down in West Virginia, they had hardly anything but the clothes on their back. If you were looking for a good score, that wasn’t the place to be.”
Arthur paused, face softening as he stared at the man beside him, whose eyes were glued on the road in front of him. It felt less like a lecture, more like advice, which neither Arthur was used to getting.
“I was just looking for the money to get food.” He said, voice smaller than he wanted it to be.
Hosea's eyes flitted to him, before looking past him and to his partner. Arthur didn’t turn around, he didn’t want to know what kind of look they were sharing.
“We have a camp not too far away. There’s a lake a short ride from it, filled to the brim with fish.” The other man said, the words coming out careful, almost like it was a question.
Arthur looked at the floorboards of the cart, staring at his raggedy, torn up shoes. “I wasn’t never taught how to fish.” He grunted, head hung low, an almost hangdog expression on his face.
A sudden hand pressed firmly to his back made the boy jump, and he whirled around, hand instinctively grasping at the empty holster by his side. The hand disappeared as quick as it had come at his reaction, and the black haired man looked at him with a near amused smile on his lips, eyebrows raised high.
“Well, Hosea’s here a master fisher.” The man continued, eyes going back to the road, not paying any attention to Arthur’s overzealous reaction. Hosea let out a sigh, not so much as annoyed sounding, more like mocking the other man.
“Stay at the camp, if you want. Cook up a meal, and you be on your way.” Arthur was uneasy at the man’s sudden willingness to help this street rat thag he just met, but he was more distracted by the underlying question to the words. ‘If you’d like to leave.’ Arthur was sure he didn’t want to. He wasn’t just some charity case, to be picked up by any passerby, taken care of until they realize how unruly he is, then dropped like he was an old pair of boots to be discarded. But also, a warm meal sounded good right about now.
“That is,” Hosea’s voice startled the teen out of his thoughts, and Arthur was suddenly aware of how much his mouth was watering at the mere thought of a decent dinner. Hosea was looking at him, brown eyes glittering as light filtered through the trees. “if you’d like to.”
Arthur hesitated, meeting, and this time holding, the man’s gaze for a moment. “Sure.” He said after a pause that felt all too long. He glanced away, but out of the corner of his eye, he saw the man smile.
“Great!” The other man exclaimed, but Arthur paid no attention to him, instead looking at his leg, where something was insistently pressing against his knee. His gun. He looked at Hosea, who just motioned for him to take it, which Arthur gladly did, sliding it back into his belt easily. He felt the tension ebb out his shoulders slightly.
As the wagon bounced along, the unease in Arthur’s stomach eased, just a smidge, and for the first time in what seemed like forever, he had the promise of a warm meal by the end of the day.