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Hosea gave Silver Dollar a hearty pat on the neck as they arrived on the hilltop. He took a deep breath, the fresh air crisper up here than back at Horseshoe Overlook, beautiful as it was. The glass bottles strung in the branches clinked gently in the breeze, accompanied by a soft choir of rustling grass, chirping bugs, and far-away bird calls. From the top of the hill, Hosea could see the sun sparkling off Iron lake, the distant, snowy peaks of the West Grizzlies, and much closer, a herd of bison slowly grazing below. It was a bit of a ride to get here, but by God was it worth it.
The camp had left a bitter taste in his mouth ever since Arthur had brought Micah back. While Hosea appreciated Arthur's unwavering loyalty to Dutch, part of him wished he'd just left Micah in Strawberry. Micah was like a cloud of terribly cheap tobacco, lingering around camp and suffocating anyone who's lungs weren't used to his poisonous attitude.
But now wasn't the time to think about Micah (nor was anytime, it was a waste to give that man any second thought). Hosea dismounted Silver Doller with a groan, his back and bones sore from being on the saddle. He gave the horse another assuring pat before he trotted off and began grazing a few yards away. Hosea let out a satisfied huff before settling against the trunk of the tree, leaning against the cool bark and producing a book from his satchel.
It was only a few years old, but the spine was cracked and the cover worn. He'd picked up the collection of poems excitedly when he saw it in a bookstore: Whitman's Song of Myself. Dutch had scoffed at him, joining his side after musing over the store's collection of Ezra Miller novels. Hosea shot him a playful glare back— there had been plenty of times where he had wanted to scoff at Dutch's ridiculous philosophy novels, but he'd the decency to hold his opinions to himself.
Arthur and John had been too impatient for poetry, John especially. Tilly enjoyed it enough, but she was always more invested in whatever plot Arthur and John were concocting. Dutch… poems weren't intellectual enough for him. The meaning of Whitman's words weren't lost on him, but there was nothing his ambition and ego could grab on to. Miller's words were a drug, fueling his outrage at American modernization and civilization.
There was once a point, in his much younger years, that Hosea would've clung onto Miller's preaching as Dutch did, let a Nietzchen nihilism consume him, and turn into a bitter, solitary misanthrope. Thankfully, that was a time far gone. Hosea was getting far too old to let that kind of brewing anger consume him. He'd discovered Whitman's work while robbing a stagecoach with Dutch, funnily enough. Hosea had been rummaging through one of the bags he'd grabbed from a snootily dressed Englishman when he found a small book titled Leaves of Grass. His first thought was to toss it— as if that rich blabbermouth had any decent taste in literature— but some deep instinct urged him to keep hold of the book, so he did.
Whitman was different to anything he had read. Whitman untied the blindfold of resentment for American society that clouded Hosea's mind. Here was a message about America, about humanity, that wasn't driven by hatred, but rather by love. Eternal, infinite love for nature, for mankind, for every tree and rock and elk and child. It had struck Hosea so deeply that it felt as if some fundamental change had occurred in his mind, that his brain had rewired itself entirely. He stopped rushing every journey, stopped busying his mind with future plans and what if's and spent more time in the present, amongst the brushing of grass across his hands as he lay against a tree trunk.
This was his ritual, allowing himself a moment of true peace once a week to properly sit down with Whitman and consume his prose. He gently opened Song of Myself and began to read, losing himself in the imagery of Whitman's democratically united America.
***********
He wasn't sure how long he'd been reading before the rumbling sound of hooves against the dirt drew his attention back to reality. The Count emerged to the hilltop, Dutch sitting proudly atop the horse. Hosea couldn't help the smile that grew across his face. Dutch looked so regal on top of his Arabian, and from a distance he would appear a formidable threat— his dark red-and-black uniform, hat drawn low across his brow, golden guns peaking from his belt— but up close, that boyish grin of his betrayed any intimidation factor he might've had.
Selfishly, Hosea wanted Dutch to himself always. He loved the gang like family, but he would be lying if he said there were times where he wished it was still the two of them, bold and unwavering, fiercely promising that they'd face the world together. He knew, though, that Dutch wasn't made for that kind of life. His light was too bright for just one man… or rather the light of just one man wasn't enough for the endless, all-consuming void of his ego. Hosea could live with it either way— there was enough satisfaction in the fact that, deep down, he got to see the real Dutch, the one that wasn't obsessed over reputation and adoration.
"What're you doin' up here, old girl?" Dutch asked brightly, jumping off The Count and standing over Hosea.
"Hello to you, too."
Dutch scanned the view, his hands on his hips and eyes roaming across the landscape. Backlit by the sun, his hair glowed like a halo. He looked like one of those old Roman statues, a testament to beauty of the human form. Hosea wished he had even half of Arthur's artistic talent so that he could capture Dutch's features that made him look like a perfect, living art piece.
"Quite a scene," he commented, his soft tone indicating it was a more of a thought said aloud rather than an invitation for conversation. Hosea nodded in agreement. It was quite a scene, now more than ever
"What are you doing away from camp?" Hosea prodded. Dutch's open, relaxed attitude was reassuring that there was nothing of true concern, but it was rare for Dutch to leave camp just because.
"Charles told me he saw you head up this way, thought I'd stop by and see what all the fun was about," Dutch stood against the tree, peering down at the open pages of Hosea's book. Hosea paid him no mind, though he was very much aware of Dutch over his shoulder. He wasn't exactly the kind of man you could ignore.
"Just reading. You're welcome to join, but I fear you won't find it as captivating as your American Inferno," he said casually, turning the page.
"Nonsense," Dutch scoffed, sliding down and wriggling his way between Hosea and the tree trunk. Hosea huffed but put up no fight— the warm fabric and fullness of Dutch's chest were much more comfortable than the rough, unforgiving bark digging into his spine.
"Anything so worthy of your attention that you must leave camp to give it proper consideration is interesting enough for me," he continued. "And if it's not, well then, the sound your voice can keep me plenty occupied."
Hosea rolled his eyes, chuckling despite himself. It seemed impossible that Dutch hadn't grown up in the 20 years they'd known each other, and yet it was as if he was sitting with the bright eyed, fresh faced outlaw from 1869 all over again.
"Go on," Dutch urged, wrapping an arm around Hosea's chest, "enlighten me with the words of…" he leaned over Hosea's shoulder, squinting in an effort to read the page without his glasses. "Ah, Walt Whitman. I should've guessed."
"I better not hear any complaints," Hosea warned, shuffling into a more comfortable position, resting his head against Dutch's arm.
"You'll forget I'm even here," Dutch swore.
"I don't think I ever could," Hosea whispered softly before clearing his throat.
"I believe in you my soul, the other I am must not abase itself to you,
And you must not be abased to the other.
Loafe with me on the grass, loose the stop from your throat,
Not words, not music or rhyme I want, not custom or lecture, not even the best,
Only the lull I like, the hum of your valvèd voice."
Dutch scoffed.
Of course he did.
"What is this, Hosea?" He asked playfully. "It sounds like one of those horrible romances Mary-Beth is always reading. I thought Whitman was real, American poetry."
"Did you expect it to be all gunslingers and bank robbers?" Hosea retaliated sarcastically, peering up at Dutch. "Whitman is being honest about this country. America is full of love and sickening romances."
"You would know it, 'Sea," Hosea felt the deep vibrations of Dutch's chest as he chuckled, hugging Hosea tighter and pressing a kiss to his temple. These were his favorite moments— away from the gang, away from the Pinkertons, away from the government and all its rules— where he could pretend him and Dutch were the only two people on Earth, free from any social contract and able to simply exist as themselves.
***********
Hosea read on as the sun trudged across the blue sky. Slowly, he became suspicious of Dutch's silence after a while. For better or worse, Dutch did love the sound of his own voice, and as such was serial commentator. It irked Hosea at first, but over time he'd grown fond of his quippy remarks.
Risking a glance up, he found that Dutch's silence wasn't unusual— he'd fallen asleep. Hosea became suddenly aware of the deep, even rise-and-fall of his chest. He smiled softly. Careful to not wake Dutch, he repositioned himself into a more comfortable spot against Dutch's wide chest, drawing his hat across his eyes. Hosea took a deep breath, savoring the rich mix between the smell of Dutch's cheap cologne and lingering cigar smoke, and the clear scent of nature.
He'd let himself forget about Whitman for a moment (though he supposed this very thing was the most Whitman-esque thing he could imagine). He leaned into Dutch's warm body and let the gentle call of sleep lure him into comfortable unconsciousness.