Work Text:
Sometime OCTOBER 1898
Crenshaw Hills, State of Ambarino. North of the Grizzlies Mountain range.
Just north of the Grizzlies Mountains lied a town resting in the lower foothills by the name of Crenshaw Hills, a miserable town only kept alive by the constant stream of outlaws, hunters and other assorted reprobates crossing the treacherous Harlow’s trail through the imposing mountains on their way down to the flatiron lake states of west elizabeth, new hanover and lemoyne.The trail a vital artery for anyone looking to escape whatever it be that chases them. A fifty mile trek across sparsely occupied icy plains on roads further north that were patrolled by bushrangers led you to any form of civilization. The law was present in Crenshaw Hills but their actions were more akin to that of outlaws, as the men behind the badges cared not for what your business was as long as your pockets ran deep.
.
Arthur was 35 today.
Someone in his business usually had stopped drawing breath long ago, the law or a stranger with eyes cold as ice usually sent them to the ferryman before they saw the dawn of their 30th birthday.
Call it luck he’s ended the day with a crooked lawman's pistol pressed to his skull.
A scam him and hosea had been running had gone sour, it seemed they more often than not went that way now.
They had a meet scheduled with the 6 lawmen in the saloon at 7pm, they would get their cut of the score for turning a blind eye and the gang would be on their merry way west, Hosea and Dutch the previous night cheerfully explaining to the gang their next fortune lay south and west, on the great plains in a developing city called Blackwater.
That was still the plan.
What was not part of the plan though, was a greedy sheriff and his boys wanting more than their due, hence why one of them was shot through the neck lying on the floor of the dusty saloon choking on a throat full of lead and blood.
Dutch and Hosea stood on one side of the flipped table, a stack of bills and liquor mixing with the growing pool of bright red blood soaking the floorboards.
The crooked Sheriff on the other side with four other men clad in black rider’s coats, their faces hidden behind low drawn hats.
Every man's weapon was drawn pointed centremass at each other, the air so tense you could cut it.
Arthur could see the twinkle in Dutch’s eye, they made eye contact for a brief instance.
I have a plan, son.
“Gentlemen, this is quite a situation we find ourselves in.”
“So it seems.”
“You let my man go and you have my word that you will get the money you feel entitled to.”
The sheriff let a small chuckle escape from him, his pistol not wavering.
“I’m afraid I can’t do that Mr Macintosh, that’s my nephew choking on a bullet”
The Sheriff's lip curled into a poor impersonation of a smile as he spoke, his eyes not wavering off of Dutch.
“Knowing that now I apologise”
“I never liked him much anyways”
The sheriff’s smile grew from an uncanny grin wider into a downright psychopathic grin, from ear to ear, Arthur could almost see his reflection in the man's immaculate teeth.
The atmosphere had changed, death creeping in to observe whose souls he shall reap next.
No man spoke, the earth seemed to have grown quiet in anticipation of the bloodshed.
The Sheriff was still smiling.
The sound of someone clearing their throat broke the tension, several heads turned.
A man stood with two pistols drawn behind the bar, yelling with a smile.
“Sheriff Holden you yellowbelly sack of shit!”
At last the bullets flew, the man who held Morgan hostage went down first, blood and brain matter all through Arthur's hair.
Arthur disarmed one of the crooked lawmen that stood nearest to the door, gunning him down as the other man fell out the window, a blast from Hosea’s Shotgun tearing through his neck.
Sheriff Holden swivelled on his heel and shot at the man from the hip turning his back to Dutch Van Der Linde proving a fatal mistake two bullets struck him in the lung and two his lower abdomen.
All that in 5 seconds.
The Brutal law outfit of Crenshaw Hills were now all either dead or in the process of dying, rumours about former scalp hunters and fixed robberies all their names shall be attached to in the annals of history.
In the cloud of acrid gunsmoke Arthur could make out the man behind the bar making a show out of climbing his way over the now splintered bar, running a hand through his hair he let out a sigh as he felt pieces of skull and brain squelch their way onto the floor.
He felt a hand on his shoulder he knew to be Dutch’s
“You alright son? Got a little tense there for a second.”
“I’m fine, ain’t my first time with a barrel against my head Dutch”
Dutch let out a small chuckle as his eyes took in the room post dance of death. Hosea was by the door peering out for any riders or any of the dwindling population of locals who grew curious of the noise.
“What’s your name, friend?” Dutch called out to the man who turned to the 3 men in front of him, seeming to size them up for a second.
Micah Bell, I’m assuming from what those boys was sayin’ earlier that yall are that gang been hole up watching the bank roads, I must say I do like you boys style, takes some balls to shake up things around here, Ambarino north of the Grizzlies aint got law beyond what you just killed and i aint consider em much a law”.
“Dutch van Der Linde” as Dutch offers his hand he continues speaking.
“These are my associates Hosea Mathews and Arthur Morgan.”
Hosea offers a nod of his head and Arthur grunts a hello as he retrieves his hat and pistol from the floor, the ivory handled silver cattleman catching the light as he holsters it.
“Thank you for stepping in there, I’d wager if you hadn’t there was a good chance one of us was getting another hole in us. Thank you Micah.”
A warm tone was present in Dutch's voice, one that made Hosea and Arthur share a look.
Why are you greasin him up dutch
“We should go Dutch, less time we hang around the better” Hosea interjected trying to wrap whatever this was up.
“How far are you boys posted up from here, wouldn’t mind tagging along”
“What makes you thi-”
“About 2 miles out”
Arthur felt a bubble of annoyance as he was cut off by Dutch, even more compounded as he shared yet another look with Hosea, both men curious as to where this should play out. It had been a few months since they had taken anyone on board and Dutch had never been this loose inviting anyone to camp.
“Well if you aint got no bother with me joining you boys out there im ready when yall are”
There was something in Micah's voice that made Arthur feel uneasy, almost a serpentine slick to it.
“Dutch, why are we bringing this guy back with us?” Hosea asked not even looking at Micah.
“Because he saved our lives Hosea, he saved my life and I think that warrants a drink and a bed for the night at minimum.”
Hosea didn’t respond, instead letting out a sigh as he stepped out the door, Arthur close behind. There were evil looking clouds in the sky that were being punctured by the dying rays of the day, a deep purple in the sky over the endless icy dead plains that stretched to the north.
The town was nestled in a hilly outcrop below the wild mountains of the Grizzlies west, a single road led in and out of the steep town leading further up the mountains through Harlow’s Trail, a deadly passage that spat out near spider gorge. If you were to follow the road north you would find yourself on the northern border after a 3 days ride through empty plains and thick forests.
With a shout the men spurred their horses out of Crenshaw Hills towards camp, the beginning of the end now at hand.