Chapter Text
Cinching up the leather wound around the saddle atop his beautiful Ardennais, Arthur’s eyes traveled along her roan coat. Speckles of chestnut ran down her spine and flank, but her mane remained an untouched blonde that glowed in the sunlight when it caught it right. Her name was Yarrow, on account of the clustering flowers she had a tendency to drift towards. He had never owned such a horse before, and though he found the draft horse quite lovely, she’d never compare to Boadicea. He misses the mare more often than not, was sure he had that horse since Dutch and Hosea found him when he was just a scrawny delinquent pickpocketing whatever poor fool he could on the streets. She’d been left right outside of Blackwater, right after the disaster that was that ferry job. He didn’t have enough time to get back to her, rushing out of the town like his life depended on it. Because, well, it did. Arthur likes to think she got away, but he knows she probably got as shot up as the rest of them almost did. As some of them actually did. It wasn’t to be helped, though, and he quickly wiped his mind clean of any lingering thots of his past horse.
Arthur sighed, agitated. He wasn’t used to staying so still, and at Horseshoe, there wasn’t much to keep him busy besides the chores that he’d already done. He’d been in town a whole lot as well—talked and helped a bunch of strangers along the way, and for the most part, that seemed to fill the void and the itch his legs and fingers got when he sat still for far too long. But then there was times like these where he was stuck at camp for days on end with nothing but the incessant and worthless yapping of Bill and Sean or Susan barking orders at the women or Dutch whispering incoherent nonsense or Reverend drunkenly singing, all the while he tried to focus on his journal, sketching things he saw while on watch or jotting down little things from when he met an odd feller or lady.
Speaking of such oddities, there was a man he’d met recently. A real peculiar character, Arthur had to save his hide from some hungry wolves he wanted to photograph. Arthur had met him twice before, and the man as one of the more interesting characters. Kept risking his life for some silly pictures. The first time, Arthur retrieved his bag from a slippery coyote and they’d said their goodbyes, and then the second time, the aforementioned wolves. Yett Arthur craved to him again. No particular reason—maybe he’d need saving again, but Arthur had nothing else to do, and if he got to hunt along the way that was an additional plus. There were some particularly beautiful birds around here, their feathers strangely vivid or perfectly shaped. There was also the promise of something more exciting, maybe if he got a Mountain Lion hide he could get a good price for it in Valentine.
Arthur saddled up, yelped out a warning to Dutch that he would be backed soon, and he was about to dig the heels of his boots into the wedge of his stead’s thigh when there was a figure by his side.
“You need somethin’, Charles?” Arthur asked pointedly, usually Charles didn’t need him for much—or anything else for that matter. The man barely talked to anyone, unless it was to bark orders at a drunk Uncle or the occasional short conversation with the women. They both hadn’t interacted with each other much since that hunting trip in Colter, but they’ve had their moments. Charles told him and Hosea about his people and his family, on the way over to Horseshoe Overlook. The arrows Charles made him for that moonshine were stowed away with his bow that settled deep on his saddle.
“Yeah, to get out for a while.” Charles sounded agitated and his eyebrows furrowed deep into his forehead and he huffed hot air, but when Arthur followed his eyes to Bill, groveling in the dirt, he understood. Arthur chuckled, the bastard got what was coming to him. “Where ya goin’?”
“Hunting—birds. Might go see this feller I met, needs help, I figure.” One of Charles’ eyebrows quirked up at that, but otherwise he said nothing. “You wanna come?”
Arthur didn’t mind, Charles wasn’t bad company. He was just the right type of silent for Arthur, didn’t talk his ear off and drag him through the mud the whole time, but instead spoke here and there when it was meaningful or when he thought something was interesting.
“You don’t mind?”
“Nah, ‘s fine. You ain’t hard to be around.”
“Same to you. Where we goin’?” Charles, which practiced ease, pulled his bow around his shoulders and saddled up Taima.
“Down by Emerald Ranch. Seen some pretty birds and deer down there, might be a good catch. That’s also where the feller I’m probably gonna have to help is, I think—you know where that is?”
“Yeah, I’ve passed through there a couple of times.”
Arthur said nothing in response as they both pulled their respective reins and trotted on the trail that led out of Horseshoe Overlook.
Plucked iridescent black feathers of ravens wound in twine stuck out of Charles’ saddle bags. “Not the best for fletching, but they make nice decoration,” Charles had said.
Though the little meat from the occasional vulture or goose was by no means enough to feed a camp, Arthur didn’t plan to give these to Pearson either way. There’s been enough meat around camp to feed a village in the past week (in a strange stroke of luck), if anything hunting these birds were for the sole purpose of their feathers and something along the lines of entertainment, as well as bow practice for Arthur. He was starting to get a hang of it—and it was oddly calming. The slow breath and patience it takes before you release the arrow, and hearing it whizz through the air in an instant gave a sort of satisfaction that was hard to explain. Arthur could see why Charles preferred it to the rambunctiousness of a bullet out of a barrel.
They rode around on the plains for a bit, coming up onto the shallow ponds near Emerald Ranch, where the photographer had told him he was going next. Arthur hoped it’d be something interesting, but even if it wasn’t, the day he and Charles had was efficient in meeting his need to get moving again.
“That him, right over there?” Arthur heard Charles ask, and looked over to where he nodded his head.
Sure enough, Albert Mason stood hunched over a camera, stamping his foot frustratingly like the earth was to blame for the not-right angles or the uneven lighting, or whatever he was angry at.
“Yup.”
Arthur began to ride towards the man, but he did not miss the look that Charles threw him, or the huffed air that sounded a bit like laughter.
Their horses hooves stomped in synchrony up until they stopped, only a few feet from the photographer. The man was so focused that he hadn’t even heard the noise until Arthur spooked up out of his stupor. “So, you’re still alive.”
The man shot up, his back rigid instantly until he realized who it was. Arthur heard Charles step down iff of Taima somewhere behind him.
“Ah! Mr. Morgan!” Albert chuckled, giving a little bow of his head as he greeted him.
“How are ya?”
“Indigestible, apparently. Aside from that, very well.” He turned to curve back over his camera, but stopped and turned towards Charles. “Where are my manners? I am Albert Mason, you, sir?”
Charles’ hand enveloped Albert’s in a stiff handshake. “Charles.”
“A man of few words, just like Mr. Morgan!” Albert then resumed his task of trying to get a good shot of something across the ponds.
“How’s the project going?” Arthur asked, watching in the direction of the cameras lens. There was a small herd of wild mares just across from them, but they were partly obscured by a handful of trees and a particularly large bush.
“Well, this is Gods country,” the photographer energetically made a grand gesture to the entirely of their surroundings, “and I am his faithful servant.” He brought his hands down to his sides, “although not his most talented one.
I have been trying to capture the grace of the wild horses here for weeks…. Only, buggers can’t stand me.”
Charles was already standing beside him, binoculars out and searching the heard, humming when his eyes landed on a certain horse. When they came from his eyes, Arthur gestured politely at them.
The binoculars were up to his eyes in an instant, and he made an audible sound of interest. “That,” he pointed, “is a silver dapple pinto.” Maybe that’s what made Charles hum.
“I know,” Albert replied, “beautiful. Won’t come anywhere near me, of course. Can smell my stupidity, it seems.”
“How bout we drive ‘em over?”
“That might help.. could you be bothered? I feel like such a blunderer…”
“Yeah, wait here.” Arthur spun around to Charles, “you up for it?”
Charle merely shrugged, already walking over to sit upon Taima. “Sure.”
“Alright then.”
As the two started to trot towards the herd, Albert chuckled back at them, “At least I doubt this time I’ll get eaten!”
They drove the herd towards Albert, yipping and shouting behind them. When the horses were close enough to the camera, Arthur yelped out for Charles to follow him to the opposite side, so they aren’t in the shot.
Albert waved his hands towards them both in furious excitement only moments later.
“You are a genius!” He shouted as the pair approached.
Arthur chuckled, “no, but we can ride a horse.”
“Well in my world, that makes you a genius. You and your companion are quite talented.”
“You’re too kind. So how are the photos comin’ along, then?”
“Amazing! Oh, here..” Albert rummaged through his bag, “oh. Damnit. I could’ve swore I put the print in here!”
“Awl, it’s fine.”
“No, no, I will make it up to you. Why don’t you and your friend come stand here.” Albert stood in front of the camera, gesturing to the spot he laid his feet on.
Charles grunted in disproval.
“No, that’s not necessary Mr. Mason. Me and Mister…. Kilgore here we-“
“Oh, I insist!”
“We aren’t-“
Albert shushes him, “it’ll only be one! A present from me to you, for all of your kindness.”
A sigh of resignation was pulled from him, and he sauntered over to the spot he was told to. Charles went a little less willingly, showing up next to him a few seconds later.
They stood awkwardly, unsure with what to do with themselves. After all, most outlaws only get their picture taken if they’re dead or wanted dead.
“A little closer together..” half of the photographers face was obscured by his camera, but Arthur could see his tongue peaking out in concentration.
He could feel the sun starting to set, the warmth on his back was welcomed.
The two shuffled closer together, standing there limp, limbs hanging from their bodies.
Albert sighed, “put your arms around each other, or something of the sort, you two look like dukes of limbs!”
Huffing in synchrony, they slung their arms over each other’s shoulders, elbows around necks. Charles long hair tickled Arthur’s inner elbow.
click
“This’ll turn out beautifully! Where can I send this to once it is developed?”
“…… to a Tacitus Kilgore, in Valentine.”
Weeks later, an envelope is tossed onto his cot by none other than Karen. “Was in town checkin’ mail, saw this with your initials.”
Arthur muttered a thanks, and moved to open it.
Him and Charles stood with their arms thrown around each other’s necks like they’ve been long time pals. The sun is setting behind them, giving them both an ethereal look, the sun rays coming up around them like halos. Charles’ hair is glowing like fire and his lips are quirked prepossessingly up and his own formed a little more wider than usual, though he doesn’t even remember smiling for the picture.
Arthur looks around for a moment, then thinks if Charles would want it instead. Decides selfishly against it, and gingerly tucks it into a page of his journal.
It was a good picture.