Chapter Text
John promised to himself to never step foot on a mountain ever again, teeth chattering as he tugged his coat tighter, ignoring the dull ache in his thigh from the bullet wound still more than freshly stitched up.
He spurred Honey, a sturdy silver bay mare who had frankly seen better days, not faring too much better than himself.
The snowfall had separated him and Micah ages ago, and though he wasn't exactly elated trudging through the snowy icecaps alone in search of shelter, he also wasn't entirely torn up over the quiet either.
The man was a headache even in the most bearable state, and being trapped alongside him in this kind of storm… well. Suffice it to say, John was incredibly impressed with himself, if nothing else, for his ability to keep from strangling the other man.
Honey huffed, a stiffness to her steady gallop as the wind picked up even harder. John could sympathize as he patted her neck.
"It's okay, girl. Almost done here."
He at least hoped that to be true. Another hour of search, he figured, and he'd turn back around, meet back up with the rest and maybe by then they will have already found someplace warm to hunker down.
That was the hope, which he liked to think was a reasonable enough goal, though fate always seemed to have an amusing way of laying itself out for him.
He may have gotten a bit… turned around, if he were being completely honest with himself. It was hard enough just to see two feet ahead of him with the field of white making his eyes strain and water, even without the trouble of the wind lashing at his face.
His fingers were already going stiff where he held onto the reins, he sighed as he rubbed at his eyes, the rough fabric of his gloves catching against dry skin.
Despite it all, he couldn't lie and say he didn't appreciate the bit of silence, even if it was becoming just a bit sad even for his own standards how used to being alone he had gotten in recent.
It had all just been a lot, to say the least.
He had hoped the frigid weather and exhaustion could've put more distance between himself and the still-there nausea from the ferry. He had much bigger worries to be concerned with at the moment.
But even still.
He could see it again, the image a physical ache in his temple. He and Javier had been rounding up what they could when the Pinkertons descended on them from seemingly nowhere, already more on edge than a man getting shot at could be when the others weren't in the planned meeting spot they should've been.
He didn't see it then, but he knew Davey had been gotten bad, had heard it at least from the way Charles had been yelling for him to find Dutch.
Wherever he'd stumbled to as the boat rocked and shook from gunfire wasn't the right place, at least he'd assumed so, when he fell into a passenger cabin, knocking over some nicely dressed man putting himself between John and an equally fancy looking little family.
The sight was a bit nauseating for him, he recalled, but not more than the familiar figure of Dutch as a gun fired.
The screams were jarring, and he'd have almost believed he saw wrong if Javier hadn't been by his side, clutching his shoulder as he pulled the both of them back a step almost on instinct.
A young girl, at least he guessed, judging by her clothing, had slid down in a heap onto the ground, leaving behind a path of gore and brain and muscle against the wall. Dutch stood over her, breathing harshly, Micah somewhere behind him.
The man's mouth was moving, but John couldn't figure out what he had said.
They had always been violent men, hell he'd killed more in worse ways. But something about the sight had rattled him so, something so incongruent about the uncontrolled anger he saw flashing in Dutch's face and what he remembered the man to be.
Maybe he had just been gone a bit too long.
In any case, being out just to collect his thoughts was clearly working out poorly for him, though he could probably blame the sleepless night spent in a snowstorm to thank for that.
He shifted in the saddle, moving to turn the mare back around the aimless path he'd been trekking to start catching up to the others, when the first howl pierced through the air.
He felt the mare backing up nervously, sensing the nearing danger as well as she whined and tugged against the reins.
The second howl came, even closer, a chorus of them answering from the left. Not a lone wolf then, much to his luck. A pack. Hungry, desperate, in the lean winter.
John's hand went to his Schofield, the cold metal of the gun biting through his glove.
"Easy girl," He murmured, more to himself than the horse. Honey's eyes were flat against her skull, eyes wide with white showing at the edges. She danced sideways, hooves slipping against the icy crust of the slope.
He scanned their surroundings of the mountain, a wider open expanse funneling straight through a narrow pass, sheer rock walls forcing the wind into a screaming gale. There was little room to move besides up, avoiding moving down towards where he could see shadows darting now, blocked in by the mountain side effectively meaning they were cornered in.
He moved them closer to the rockface. With no way down without directly running into the wolves, he hoped that the pack would slip by through the treeline instead- though the shadows cutting wild against the white flurry was a sore dampener to the wishful thought.
A shadow detached itself from the gloom ahead, low to the ground and moving with an almost liquid, predatory grace. Then another. Another. Gray shapes materializing from the white, eyes glowing like yellow stars. Five. Six. Forming a loose, tightening semicircle.
John's mind went cold and clear, the way it did when death got close enough to see. He raised the revolver, the action stiff with cold.
The hard crack of the gun was swallowed up by the wind. The lead wolf yelped and stumbled, but didn't go down. The others crept closer, emboldened now, lips peeled back.
Honey reared, a scream of equine terror tearing from her throat. The movement was sudden and violent, John's bad leg screaming in protest as he was wrenched sideways. He lost a stirrup, his grip on the reins slipping through numb fingers, and for one terrifying second he was suspended in the air. The world a dizzying mess of white and gray.
Then he was falling.
The impact drove the air from his lungs, landing in a deep drift as the snow swallowed him whole with a soft whump. For a moment, there was only the shocking cold and silence, the sound muffled by the snow packed into his ears, his mouth, his nose.
The panic was raw and electric as he thrashed against the powder, clawing his way upwards, bursting back into the biting air with a ragged gasp. To say he was disoriented would be an understatement, the world tilting upside down.
Where was his gun?
Where was his horse?
He saw her then. Honey, freed of his weight, had bolted. She was a dark shape disappearing into the white curtain, a few of the wolves giving chase for several paces before turning their attention back to the easier, grounded prey.
John scrambled up to his feet, his injured leg buckling instantly, sending him down again onto one knee and hands plunging back into the snow.
The gun. The gun. Where was the goddamn-
His fingers brushed cold metal.
He snatched it up, his hands shaking so badly he could barely aim through the snowfall. The wolves were closing in, fanning out as he was cornered against the sheer rock face.
He fired again. And again.
A wolf spun away, kicking up snow. Another snapped at the air inches from his boot. The smell of them- wet fur and hot, rancid breath- filled his nostrils as his back hit the cold stone. His head spun from where he imagined he may have hit it on his trip to the ground, a strange, whooshing sound in his ears that seemed to overwhelm the frantic beat of his heart as looked up at the final, slowly approaching wolf.
It was massive.
No. More than that.
John had to blink hard to make sure he was still confronted by a wolf, the shape of the thing something bigger than anything he'd ever seen before. Its eyes were a strange gleam of off yellow-white in the dimming moonlight, something just a bit off about the way it reared back onto its haunches.
He barely had the chance to think the strangeness over before the creature was lunging at him, twisting away just barely with help from the recoil of his gun, the wolf's teeth missing his jugular by mere inches as it sank deep into his shoulder instead.
Sharp, white-hot pain burst behind his eyes as he stumbled back from the force. The combined weight of himself and the wolf, reeling from the gunshot that must've at least clipped it in John's blind fire, toppling them backwards and backwards.
His stomach flipped something awful as his vision tumbled into a violent freefall, wind and snow whipping at his face as he grappled with the thing like a wolf but not clawing at him.
He hit the ground with a force that made his vision black out for a second, tumbling, rag-dolling off of rocks and snagging branches. Something sharp cut into his side, a howl echoing further and further away from where he fought to catch his breath, before being cut off by a sickening, distant thud.
Then there was nothing but silence.
Death is much colder than John thought it would be.
A part of him had always braced for heat. Scalding, brimstone and fire, like the preacher men and the nuns in the orphanage had always threatened.
But the cold is a shock, so is the dull pain in his leg that sharpens into something a little too clear.
He sucks in a painful breath he shouldn't be able to take, hearing a quiet wheezing sound as feeling unfortunately returns to his body.
He realizes it's him making the sound as his eyes open to a blinding expanse of white, gasping for air when a sharp stabbing makes itself known in his side. His leg was a white-hot brand of agony. His head throbbed, something warm and wet coating the side of his temple. Every breath felt like splinters in his side.
He was laying on his back, staring up at a patch of dark gray sky through a tangle of pine boughs.
Hell, he thought again, his mind struggling to catch up as he stared out into the flurry of ice and snow. Well, maybe this is it. An eternity of freezin' on a goddamn mountain.
He tried to shift up, a wave of nausea and dizziness slamming into him, forcing him to fall back with a groan. He was wedged between a fallen log of some sort and a rock, partially sheltered from the steeper edge. By some miracle, his coat was still mostly on him- though it was torn in more than several places.
He laid still for a moment, partly to figure out how to breathe again, partly to listen.
There were no howls, no sound of pursuit.
He figured that either the remaining wolves had taken his horse and been satisfied, or the fall had taken him far enough that they wouldn't be bothered to return. He hoped.
John stared up at the path he must've taken down from the ledge, a yawning drop-off that made his head hurt just thinking about. It was no small miracle he had survived such a fall, even if he was unsure how long that would last, judging by the mess he was in now.
He was stranded for what it appeared, injured, and possibly miles from camp with a storm that showed no sign of letting up. He had no horse, no food, and his canteen was likely shattered somewhere on the slope above him.
A weak, humorless laugh escaped him, tugging roughly at his ribs.
Of course.
This was exactly the kind of spectacular, stupid mess he was famous for. Arthur would have a field day with this, if he ever even found out, if John made it back in one piece to tell the story.
He closes his eyes against the sting of the falling snow.
The thought of Arthur's inevitable and disapproving scowl is, perversely, a small comfort. It was at least a familiar anger, of a known quantity. Better than the vast, indifferent cold that was slowly beginning to feel more like a gravesite.
He had to move. Lying here was a death sentence.
Gritting his teeth, he began the agonizing process of extracting himself from the rocks.
Every movement was no less than agony, his body screaming in protest as he finally managed to roll himself onto his side, the snow crunching wetly below him. His left leg was the worst off- the gunshot wound from the botched ferry job burning hot where the stitches had torn clean through, not to mention the awkward way his knee bent at the joint, and he was pretty sure he'd twisted or broken something else higher in the fall. His shoulder, where the wolf's teeth had sunken in the deepest, was a stiff ache under torn layers of wool and leather, bleeding sluggishly he was sure, from the warmth and dampness clinging to that side.
He used the log to haul himself into a sitting position, the world swimming precariously as he did. He sat there for a long minute, head bowed, just to breathe through the nausea.
First he took stock. The revolver was gone, lost somewhere in the downward tumble, though his knife was still in its sheath on his belt. A small victory. He patted down his coat pockets, finding a few sodden matches and a half-frozen plug of tobacco- nothing much useful.
He had to find shelter. The wind cut through the pines with a low moan, the already frigid temperature dropping even lower with the dying light. If he stayed out here, he'd be a frozen statue by morning.
With a grunt of effort, he pushed himself up against the rock, getting his good leg under him. He tested the injured one carefully, the weight shifting like stepping on a nest of hot knives. He let out a short cry, swallowed immediately by the howl of wind, as he slumped back against the rock with his vision spotting.
Okay. Not like that.
"Goddammit," He hissed through clenched teeth, squeezing his eyes shut before carefully moving onto his knees instead.
Crawling, then.
It was humiliating, but freezing to death would arguably be worse.
He began to drag himself, using his arms and good leg to propel himself through the snow, his injured leg dragging behind him as it left a grotesque furrow in the snow. He did his best to aim for what looked like a darker blot against the gray- a cluster of rocks that might offer a windbreak, or the mouth of a small cave.
The distance, what was maybe fifty yards, felt more like fifty miles. The cold seeped through his clothes, his gloves were soaked, and fingers quickly going numb. The very real thought of losing his fingers to the frost made him shuffle more onto his elbows as he went, clenching his hands into tight fists to conserve the heat.
By the time he finally reached the overhang of rock, he was spent.
What he found wasn't a cave, more of a shallow depression where a slab of cliff face had sheared off, but it was out of the direct wind and provided more cover than where he had landed. It would have to do.
He collapsed into the space, his back pressed against the cold stone as he wedged himself inside.
Darkness was beginning to fall in earnest now, the world shrinking in size to the small ledge he took up. He fumbled with the matchbox, his fingers clumsy and unfeeling. The first two snapped, the third sputtered and died. On the fourth try, he managed to coax a tiny flame to life and held it to a handful of dry pine needles he scraped out from under the rocks. They caught after a few tries, smoking and spitting. He added twigs, a few larger branches he could reach without moving.
The fire was pitifully small, but the faint orange glow was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. It meant a few more minutes. A few more breaths.
He huddled as close as his leg allowed, holding his aching hands towards the meager heat. The shadows danced harshly against the rock wall, long and twisting inside the little alcove. And he was utterly, completely, alone.
If he knew any better, he should very well still consider himself dead, or as good as it.
And a probably dead John Marston shouldn't be vying for such a mortal vice like a cigarette in a situation like this, but he supposed he was a lot sicker than he ever gave himself credit for.
With only a few matches left intact in the box, he nearly snaps another under his trembling fingers before finally managing to light the end of his cigarette. He takes a long, shaky drag, swallowing down the urge to cough again.
Arthur's gonna be pissed. He thought again, the notion circling his exhausted mind.
He thought of Abigail. Of Jack. And a fresh wave of more complicated despair washed over him. He'd promised them, in his own inarticulate way, to be better, despite the way that was seeming to turn out. And here he was instead, probably about to die in a hole in the ground because he couldn't outsmart a pack of wolves or keep his seat on a spooked horse.
The fire began to die, the branches quickly consumed. He had no strength left to fetch more.
He watched the embers glow, then fade to gray ash, the cold rushing back in more eagerly than before.
His head drooped. Eyes fluttered shut. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad, just to sleep. At least the pain would stop, and the cold would stop. And he could put off worrying about Arthur or Abigail or Jack or the girl from the ferry and Dutch or Micah until he woke up.