Chapter Text
Oregon, July 23rd 1880.
A year had passed since Charlotte Smith lost her mother. Ojinjintka was her name, young Charlotte's father didn't let her forget it. She missed the days where they would wander barren lands as a family, sharing a single blanket in the tailgate while their two brute shires grazed in the background. Sometimes Stafford would treat Charlotte to half a glass of whiskey, seeing how she was almost of age, and she'd suddenly act more poised while she giggled along to her parents stories of strange strangers found on their travels, and nights spent in cold barns. It was all she needed, whether or not she had realised.
But with Ojin gone, Stafford lost himself. It wasn't long before him and Charlotte put an end to those sweet nights. They ended up in some busy slum. Buildings molded and fell apart, but Charlotte felt she could forgive it, if the people weren't as disgusting as the surroundings. They were cruel, drunk, and slobs. And Stafford fit right in. Maybe that's why he made freinds so fast.
Their new abode was a one room shack hardly big enough to keep a horse in. Not that they had any now, for Stafford had traded the shires away for pennies. Either side of that coop were identical coops, in lines going on for miles like soldiers om the front. Stafford sold the wagon to fund his new pastimes in the cathouse, leaving Charlotte to find rent herself. The girl had only met her maternal grandfather once, when she was maybe eight, and he used his time to teach her how to track and hunt rabbit and deer with a bow. Her mother went on to make sure she always kept the practice, just in case it was needed, and times like these were as needy as she's gotten.
Zhou Mingze was usually the man at Stafford's side. He was a China man, the first Charlotte ever met. He had a braid like her mother, which may have been while Stafford hung around him. He didn't speak much English at all but strangely him and her father seemed to be close freinds. Charlotte thought him a strange man. He never tried to talk to her, nor acknowledge her presence if by chance he and Stafford stopped at the house for dinner. But sometimes he would slip Charlotte a quarter without any reason other then whay she assumed to be pity.
It had never crossed her mind to leave, as much as she hated the place. The late nights, or early mornings of dragging her whiskey sick father inside and flopping his heavy body on the bed made her worry he'd never cope without her.
She was thirteen, sat on the step of the beaten up shed, when she finally changed her mind. Earlier that afternoon Mingze had stopped by to invite Stafford out again, which confused Charlotte as her father had already left for the saloon. Thankfully Mingze took it upon himself to go find Stafford Smith.
Charlotte was not one bit surprised that her father had been drinking again. She silently watched as he came stumbling towards the house, Mingze carrying his all his weight, while Stafford clung to a bottle. Mr Mingze set him down on the floor. Joseph, too drunk to hold his own, ended up laying on his back with his eyes squeezed shut. As he sometimes did, Mingze handed the her a quarter apologetically before disappearing.
She looked down at her father pathetically lying at her feet with familiar frustration. She nuged him with her foot, but he didn't move, so she bent over and shook his shoulder. "You awake? Sir?" Again she was met with no response, so she grabbed each shoulder ready to drag him inside.
But as her hands slipped under his armpits, Stafford woke. He let out a startled moan, while lifting his body from the ground, just enough to sit up. Without so much as looking her way he smashed the bottle to peices on the ground, and swung the sharp glass in Charletts face. She fell back, hitting her head on the curb, before Joseph swung again. Charlotte panted, and didn't move. Her head was throbbing, and when her hand touched her cheek it only felt wet and warm. Either her tears, or the concussion made her sight blur. She saw her fathers figure stand up and could hear vauge frantic apologies.
She felt she had to reassure him she was still alive, but the task felt to much and she let herself succumb to the sudden exhaustion.
By that time the following month she was riding North on a mule, wearing her fathers jeans.
-
Colter, May 2nd 1899.
The cold burned. Charles was at the back of the group, in the last wagon, but was still being whipped by snow, causing his lips to chap and fingers numb. He was sat in the back of the wagon with Abigail tending to a dying Davey at his feet. Little Jack was curled up behind Charles using his large frame as a sheild from the cold and brutality of Davey's still figure.
Charles felt as if his head was pounding splititng in two and his stomach was rolling into knots because of the nausea. The boy let out a small noise, maybe a cry, distracting Charles from his mute misery. He gently turned his body and placed a hand on Jack's head, patting it soothingly.
"We're not far from stopping." He comforted without any real idea of how far shelter was.
He breathed shakily leaving a trail of mist following. A lump grew in his throat and he did what he could to distract himself, but he gagged, heaved, then kneeled forward so his head was hanging off the wagon before throwing up. The contents, which was more stomach fluids then food, fell on the snowy floor and was whisked away as the wagon continued on it's path. Charles took a deep breath, itching his lungs, before he threw up again. This time it hurt his core. He waited a moment to see if he was done before sitting back.
"Are you okay, Mr Smith?" Abigail kindly asked, her eyes not leaving Davey. "This ain't the time for disease to spread."
Charles nodded quietly, "The colds just getting to me, thank you, Miss." He groaned, rubbing the bridge if his nose.
-
Davey died. Which Charles expected. He didn't cry for the man, he hardly knew him. Hours passed before Charles without him paying much mind to his surroundings.
The gang was angry, scared, and mourning, so it was left to Charles, as the man with no friendships to mourn, to keep things running. He carried Dutch, Arthur, and Hoseas things to their rooms, lit fires for the women and Jack to huddle around, and brought the horses into the barn, all while Miss Grimshaw barked task after task for him.
He went on to spend is first night in Colter lying on the floor of a small, dingy, broken cabin with four other stinking men. He had his bedroll under his head, which left his body cold but his thick coat made for it. He was the last to come in for he night and unfortunately Lenny and Micah had already claimed the small bunk beds. They all seemed to be asleep, exempt of Bill on guard duty just outside the door and Javier smoking out the window. Charles was a smoker himself, but for whatever reason the smell seemed putrid and kelf him awake despite how his muscles ached or how heavy his eyes felt.
With a quiet grunt Charles hauled himself onto his feet. In the corner of his eye he spotted Javier jump. He gave a small, polite smile. "Ha, you sared me. I thought you were asleep," Charles just hummed in acknowledgement and approched the door. "Where you heading?" Javier flicks his cigarette out the window. "We should stick together, cold like this kills."
Javier was simply looking out for Charles, he knew that logically, but his concern annoyed every other part of the bigger man. He didn't want to tell the other man the reason he was so desprate to leave was the cigarette he just put out, so he couldn't turn back and stay in the slightly warmer hut. "I just need to go get some fresh air, my head..." He fussed, before darting into the barn.
-
Blackwater, August 12th 1899, 3 weeks before the Blackwater Massacre.
Charles has only been running with these 'Van der Lindes' for about a month now. It started off when Charles picked up work on the docks of the small town. He'd never liked staying put, especially in white towns like these, but he needed a heavier pocket before he made his twice a year trip for a twice a year trade in Lords Springs.
The only boats at the docks were ferries. Charles was briefly aboard every time hauling crates of moonshine and a plethora of ingredients for a rich man's weekend of gambling and libation.
The summer sun was gnawing, but he wasn't one to complain. He'd just finished work for the day and was making his way back to the well shaded quiet hillside he'd made his sad little camp in the evenings when an upscale man with black slicked back hair appears at his side.
"Hello, son. Warm day, isn't it?" He grinned. Charles didn't respond immediately and made sure to keep walking. The stranger looked like the kind to enjoy a night on the ferry, which caused Charles to question what business he could possibly want with him. A big black indian on the docks.
Charles looks him in the eye, nods, and caries on to the hill. But the man doesn't yield.
The aristocrat puts himself in Charles' way. He was at least a foot shorter then him so Charles could easily push past if he wanted, which he did, but thought it was best not to as the stranger had an air of importance to him and Charles would rather suck up and get his paycheck then have to skip town, broke as he started, and start the work search all over again.
The man straightens his posture, and puts on a freindly smile. "Mr Kilgore. Your employer treat you well, freind? A Mr McCourt, I belive his name to be?" He asks, taking offering his hand to shake.
"Yes. Fine." Charles grunts, very briefly touching Kilgore's hand rather then shaking it. He told the truth. His week on the pier was fine. He kept his head down and did the work and no one spoke to or bothered him unless needed. Though, it would've been nice to be invited to the saloon with the rest of the guys.
Kilgore nodded slowly in thought. "Would you say your loyal to him?" He said, reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling out a cigar.
Charles shrugged, paused, and settled on a no. "I hardly know him."
Kilgore lit a match against the concrete as his feet before setting the flame to his cigar. "Then I have a proposition for you." He said, puffing on the smoke.