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The train station of a town could tell you everything you could possibly need to know about its inhabitants and more. The colours the walls were painted always matched the tone of the town, whether exuberant yellow or watery blue, the paint always told you the story of a small town’s history and atmosphere. The walls had further stories with their state of upkeep, most rich men could not stand a single chipped tile or broken slate of wood, their fragile masculinity far too dependent on the world they surrounded themselves with and not the world they have beneath their finely combed hair. The townfolk’s dress attire was a storybook, a catalogue of potential targets advertising themselves with their wealth or lack thereof. A rich man could not stand to look poor even if it meant infinite more safety. The station clerk, with his uniform and his attitude, always spoke volumes about what this town was likely to put up with, by the treatment they accepted from their service class. The less wealthy, the less welcoming their little pet would be. And most importantly the town security; the train station always had a few officers patrolling around but the worse towns generally had drunkards for protectors as the good men fled long ago.
These stations were always bustling with life; bodies would crash into each other with little care as folks shoved their way to the metallic beast, women would cry as their husbands left them with promises of wealth but a reality of abandonment, and the less moral could lurk. You see, that heartache, anxiety, or carelessness which filled people’s brains lent itself quite handsomely to two associates, Mr Van Der Linde and Mr Matthews. Problem was this didn’t lend only to the pair of bandits but any degenerate with two brain cells’ worth of thought also knew it was easy pickings.
The two thieves had hunkered down in a small town somewhere southwest of Chicago, the station had muted beige walls that were one storm away from tipping over, the clerk was drunk and handing out tickets for booze, and the security was non-existent - easy pickings with low reward. An unpromising advertisement to Hosea Matthews.
“Come now, Hosea!” the man in the red vest with a gold pocket watch insisted. “Try for one night, we can be gone North to Chicago in the morning if that’s what you so desire. But this town, well…”
Dutch glanced towards a group of beautiful young women draped in the newest fashions, coloured with deep rich reds and blues which amplified their natural assets. Beautiful as Aphrodite but about as dull as rocks.
“… well let’s not let it go to waste. Opportunity is ripe”
The slightly older man with light blond hair sighed. “One night Dutch, but if I say we go early after you spend your night at a brothel don’t come whining to me.”
Dutch grinned wolfishly and stepped ever-so-slightly closer to Hosea, pretending to dodge a man crashing his way to the train. “Who says I’m going to a brothel? I heard there was a perfectly good spot in a bed next to a very handsome blond.” His hand naturally rested on the small of Hosea’s back to casually fiddle with the back strap of his waistcoat.
He saw Hosea’s hazel eyes roll in exasperation, giving him a dance of blues, greens, and browns. He loved those eyes… they reminded him of the Earth, the tenderness and nurturing nature of it… all which contrasted with the fond exasperated look Hosea was giving the charmer. The feeling of Hosea’s hand coming to rest on his right hip by his Schofield was surprising, the man wasn’t one for public displays of their interest, but certainly not unwanted.
Dutch could feel Hosea’s incredulity rolling off him in rocking waves, directed at himself, the man who was honoured enough for Hosea to call his partner in crime. Dutch knew Hosea was trying to hide the way his body melted at the surprised expression Dutch wore, a soft expression of adoration and much needed attention, and soft touch he gave to Hosea’s back. His shoulders had loosened like the weight of a thousand eyes had looked away if only to grant them this moment of public privacy. The intoxicating relief a burning man, apt beneath their Western sun, would feel when doused with water slithered from Dutch’s hand on his back and up his spine. “You are… quite a specimen, Mr Van Der Linde.”
Hosea used both his hands to discreetly squeeze Dutch’s firm forearms. “Unfortunately, I find myself enraptured by the queerness of it all, of you.”
Dutch grinned and felt the gravitational pull of Hosea’s presence pull him towards the older man’s crackling lips when he froze. Hosea was an extraordinary man; yes, he had the acting and scamming skill of a god among mortals, yes, and while to Dutch he was beautiful, he was very normal. Not normal in activity, Lord knows that neither of them had perused the Bible since Sunday school, but normal in physicality. Dutch had mapped every inch of Hosea’s body from his eyes to his freckle on his back to the scar across his thigh and was yet to find anything odd or even unattractive. He had two iridescent amber eyes, two incredibly muscled legs, and the most kissable neck Dutch had seen, but Hosea did not have three hands. Which was odd as that was how many Dutch felt on him when Hosea grabbed his arms. Dutch looks down to see that, yes, Hosea still has only two hands. He looked to his right hip, where the third mystery hand had been, to not only see it was empty of a hand but also an expensive pocket watch and Schofield revolver.
“Shit!” Dutch exclaimed under his breath and looked in up to see if anyone was brandishing a familiar weapon. Hosea followed Dutch’s gaze to the missing revolver and, when realising the problem, also started a hunt. The miscreant who made the mistake of stealing from the Dutch Van Der Linde would not get away easily.
The two men started in the direction they would’ve gone after pickpocketing someone and went off the station platform to the right, it was dark, discrete and had direct access to the main road, if one fought their way through trash that littered the alleyway.
Dutch groaned as he felt the search become harder, and his partner’s appetite grow softer. The road was filled with shuffling bodies which a thief could hide in easily if he had half a brain, which he must have had to have stolen from Dutch. The street was a typical western town with long and wide roads, providing plenty of space for the thief to have run off if he had a horse. The general chaos of the day’s work continuing caused a light haze of dust to be kicked up from horse shoes and sweaty men, hindering further visibility.
“He must be long gone by now,” Hosea murmurs as he squinted down the street, a man with pale blue eyes that made Dutch’s knees weak did not fare well in such an environment, looking among the men to see who would be able to pickpocket them so easily. All of them were doing a day’s work or were too drunk to be able to do anything other than garble about their own and other men’s wives.
Dutch could feel his temper start to boil, never a good sign for a night with Hosea as neither could stand the other’s nature. He was about to call the search useless as he had reacted far too slow to the now obvious offence and the thief was probably long gone, when a glint of light caught his eye. Like an X on a treasure map that Hosea always said was a waste of their time. His perceptive gaze narrowed onto a child trying to figure out… a Schofield revolver.
Dutch felt his temper flare even more, not only had he been pickpocketed, but by a child - such an emasculating feat had yet to be done to the Dutch Van Der Linde, and as much as he hated this humiliation he respected the kid for the smooth job. Any other man less perceptive than Dutch would never have figured out he had been crooked till too late. Hosea, however, would not be enthralled by the nerve and kill of this stunt; he couldn’t stand kids. He would always tell Dutch that children were the real varmints and fungi of the world, killing their mothers and cursing their fathers.
Quietly, Dutch whistled for Hosea’s attention and nodded towards the crook, and by the deep settling in Hosea’s scowl Dutch could tell the man wasn’t only unhappy but furious. The two men started approaching the eleven-year-old boy, with purpose as their boots hit the road, kicking up even more dust, of this nothing town towards this nothing child.
“Bastard.” Hosea ground out as they got halfway across the filthy road.
This single curse was quiet in comparison to the daily activities of the settlers’ lives and yet the kid’s head snapped up. He must be used to listening for a potential threat. Dirty blonde strands falling over ocean blue eyes. The kid must’ve recognised them as the folk he just robbed cause as quick as he sun hit the revolver, the kid leapt up and sprinted down the street. Not to be beaten by a child of barely double digits Dutch and Hosea started running after him.
“Get back here you son of a bitch!” Hosea called out as the chase started. The kid was small, weak and making nonsensical choices due to the fear of having two fully grown men chase him but he had one advantage: he knew the backwash town. Like a rat fleeing from a fox, he was able to dodge working folk, weave through alleys and cut across roofs. He could climb through wagons and skitter through small gaps, he even shoved an apple barrel over to block a passageway. Unfortunately for him, outlaws rarely care if they play dirty. In a moment of pure luck for the pair the kid rounded himself to the only alley they knew: a loop just off the main road which they’d be able to trap him in. With only a glance Dutch continued straight for the kid while Hosea peeled left to block him off. Dutch slowed his pace as he saw the kid turn the corner and stagger back, away from an icy blond which had cut him off.
“Now boy,” Dutch started a grandiose speech with mocking sympathy, “why did you have to go and steal my favourite gun from me?” He strode towards him, with an open air which demanded submission. “You got me and my friend here,” He gestures to Hosea, “in quite the sweat.”
Hosea sneered at the kid, his cattleman revolver in his hand. “We ought to kill you now, help this town of its vermin problem.”
The kid stumbled back against the wall to try and escape, his blue doe-eyes were like an ocean of fear yet he made no begs or whimpers. His eyes darted about for an exit, not ready yet to admit defeat.
“You don’t just get to take nice things cause you want ‘em’” Hosea snapped hypocritically when the boy didn’t answer. Hosea simply levelled his gun to the kid’s too big hat, which flopped over his head like he was a caricature of a cowboy.
The kid’s breaths caught and hitched like a dying clock in an abandoned hallway, forcing himself to level the Schofield at Hosea.
“Sirs… I don’t wanna shoot you, but I will!” The desperation reeked off the kid in a way that differed from the desperation of the town… he still had heart, an untamed fire which softened Dutch. And Dutch had to admit, the kid had balls for defending himself and not forfeiting the rewards to escape.
“… what’s your name kid?”
The blue-green eyes darted to Dutch after he spoke, his features loosened at the unexpected interruption of his execution, “What?”
Hosea, ever the opportunist, used this moment to click back the hammer and place his finger on the trigger. He probably would’ve pulled it if Dutch had not indicated with a small shake of his hand to lower the weapon.
“Your name kid. You got one of ‘em, right?” Dutch prodded.
“… Paul Easton-”
“Your real name, brat.” Hosea interrupted cooly.
“… Arthur Morgan.” This Arthur lowered his weapon slightly.
Dutch grinned at the sign of easing and tried to endear himself more to the young, potential, protégé. “And, please do tell me Arthur, how old are you?”
Hosea glared daggers at Dutch, “What is this, Mr VDL?” He said, making sure not to reveal his first name in case the kid told his pa or the sheriff about this, “An interview? Hell no! Come on, he’s dropped your gun and looks easy enough to take back your pocket watch too if you don’t wanna shoot the kid. Don’t know why, he’s more guilty than any other man we’ve shot.”
Both younger men ignored Hosea’s insults and tried to continue this civil and almost genial conversation. “14, sir.”
The adult men blanched at the idea that this… small and weak, and pathetic, child couldn’t be anything above 11. “Dear lord boy,” Hosea murmured.
“Your mama and pappy ain’t feeding you enough-” Dutch broached.
“No sir… they’ve uh been dead a while.” The young blond admits.
Dutch feels genuine sympathy pull at his heart strings to save this kid, and Hosea’s heart would break if he gave a damn. Dutch looked up at Hosea with pleading eyes.
“What do you want, Dutch?” Hosea sighed and pinched the bridge of his finely shaped nose.
“Sometimes it’s real lonely-”
Dutch started only for Hosea to piece an idiot and an idiotic idea together.
“No Dutch.”
“Please!”
“He’s a boy, a teenage one at that, not a stray.”
“Teenage boys can be very useful! And he’s young enough to be taught important skills, like how to shoot a gun for one.” Dutch grins enthusiastically and reaches out to cock the hammer of his Schofield which Arthur was holding. The boy flinches away from the unexpected movement but neither older man noticed.
“And have him shoot us in the night! Come Dutch, normally your fantasies are entertaining if nothing else but this!” His hands flew up in exasperation.
Dutch and Hosea fought as the sun cast long shadows into the alleyway they were in. Arthur had retreated back into the corner and was drawing in the dirt with some sticks as the men debated… and argued… and insulted… and bickered.
“Fine! Let’s let him decide! If he’s old enough to be in a crime gang then he’s old enough to decide it.” Hosea declares and Dutch scowls but both turn to the boy.
“What do you say, son?” Dutch asks in a gentle baritone, “Wanna join us, out on the Frontier and fighting the evil that comes our way?” Dutch uses every muscle in his face to try and keep the soft smile on his face while Hosea smirked smugly.
No way would this kid wanna join! Why would any kid want to leave their home town to live with two men who could conceivably murder him at any second.
“You two ain’t… perverts or nothing?”
Dutch’s eyes widened and he staggered back slightly at the sudden intense question, “No son… we swear neither of us are like that. Even him,” he nods to Hosea, “he may not like you very much and us both… well we may not be good men but we would never do that.”
The kid ponders for a bit before gazing behind them to the main street.
“… Do I get a horse?”
Both men furrow their brow but Dutch nods. “Eventually yes… You could get a horse.”
Finally he looks at them.
“OK… then- uh yes please, I wanna join. Thank you.”