Chapter Text
Staring down at the crumpled map, Arthur Morgan couldn’t decide if he was foolish or just plain stupid.
15 dollars. 15 dollars that could’ve gone towards the gang’s funds— instead spent on a map that might show the approximate location of a rumored Arabian.
He grumbles low, vague threats aimed at the map’s previous owner as he rolls it up and tucks it into his satchel. If it turned out to be bullshit, he could always come back and rob the bastard.
But then again, Dutch had been fairly clear in his instructions— to keep a low profile and not cause trouble in this little backwater town.
Sure. Whatever. Arthur knew how to keep a low profile. Unlike some other people who will not be named.
“C’mon, girl.” He grunts as he climbs up onto Boss, a Belgian Draft he pulled from a prison cart. (The policemen were already dead when he found the it. He figured they wouldn’t mind.)
She was a good horse, but not the fastest. Or the smartest, for that matter. Not that he could hold that against her— he wasn’t exactly a genius himself.
Arthur kicks her into a quick trot, holding the reigns in one hand as he scratches his cheek with the other. Going up to the Grizzlies and back would take a week at least.
It’d be stupid to assume he could just... leave for a week and expect to not be needed. He’s just about the only one that brings in constant “income” and food. (Although, maybe his absence would encourage some other members to finally start pulling their weight.)
His fear is less grounded in the idea that the entire camp will go up in flames without him, and more that he doesn’t like staying away for long periods of time.
Call it separation anxiety, or some other two-bit word. He just doesn’t like the uncertainty of not knowing what’s going on.
Hosea had sworn up and down that he’d never go that far north again. Arthur had agreed. Now he’s heading back to camp in order to pack all the food he can fit into Boss’ saddlebags and freeze his balls off in order to find a horse that may or may not exist.
Maybe Mary was right. Maybe he was just a Damn Fool.
He curls his lip and sniffs at the bitter thought. Now isn’t the time to drudge up old and painful memories. Now’s the time to plan. (Because he’s always been the type to stick to a plan. What a joke.)
He’ll have to grab his heavy coat and gloves and stash them in the saddlebag. The Lemoyne air is too hot and oppressive to even consider wearing anything heavier than a work shirt.
It’s not the heat that bothers him the most, it’s the goddamn humidity. He feels like he has to chew the air before taking a breath. At least the weather out west was dry— none of this wet heat that stifles and smothers.
The cold of the Grizzlies will provide a welcomed break— Arthur feels like he’ll go insane if he has to hear the words “Gray” or “Braithwaite” one more time.
He’ll pack up his gear, ride up north, and take the week-long break he’s been promising himself for the past month.
It’ll be easy. Ride up, catch the horse, then ride back down. A foolproof plan.
Hm. But now that he thinks about it, there’s the issue of actually catching the horse. He’s not bad with horses, exactly— his aim with a lasso is true and he’s patient enough to wear down any wild stallion. But from what the map’s seller told him, this Arabian is clever and mean. It’ll take more than rope to break it.
“Might be a job for two,” He mutters to no one in particular. The thought alone causes a surge of annoyance to run through him, and he grips tightly onto the reigns. If this horse actually exists, it’s selling price alone would be worth the trouble of putting up with someone for a week.
But the real question was who?
Dutch and Hosea could be counted out on principle— both were far to busy and far too uninterested in work like this. Sean doesn’t know how to keep his mouth shut and would scare off the horse, Charles is currently off on some sort of hunting trip, Lenny’s better with books than horses, Williamson (and Marston) would complain the whole time, and Javier handles the cold even worse than Hosea.
He’s not even going to entertain the thought of bringing Micah.
Uncle would whine about his lumbago before Arthur even got the chance to explain, Reverend Swanson is probably to drunk to even ride a horse, and Pearson is busy with making the gang’s soup.
Okay, so that leaves... the women and the O’Driscoll. Not exactly a promising bunch.
“Who’s there?” A heavy Irish accent breaks him from his thoughts— just in time to realize that he’s already back at camp.
“It’s Arthur, you dumbass.” He calls in response, squinting down at Sean. The other man answers with his usual cheery welcome as Boss trots past.
(It’s nothing he hasn’t heard a million times before.)
The camp almost looks empty, with everyone in their tents to stay out of the hot Lemoyne sun.
Well, everyone except for the O’Driscoll, who’s out spreading hay for the horses.
Hmm.
They boy’s good with horses— Arthur will give him that. Even if he is meek and largely useless, the horses seem to trust him. (And only the horses, for that matter. Bill continues to threaten him with the gelding tongs.)
Maybe he’s the kind of person Arthur needs. The kind that won’t talk back, knows how to handle a horse, and won’t make his life a living hell.
(Kieran’s a better choice than Uncle, at least.)
Arthur climbs down and hitches Boss, patting her neck affectionately. She’s a good horse, he makes sure to tell her. He gives her an apple as a treat because she deserves it.
“O’Driscoll,” He calls as he walks towards the clearing, watching as the man jolts violently in surprise. (He’s so unbelievably skittish— although, it’s probably a case of once bitten, twice shy.)
“Need your help with something. A horse up north— you still have that coat you had?”
“I—Uh,” Kieran’s eyes dart wildly in his skull, like a frightened horse. He seems like he doesn’t know what part of the question to answer. “What?”
Arthur huffs. He’s not surprised that man takes everything as some sort of veiled threat, considering how at least two people seem to have made it their chore to torment him on a daily basis. (Cough, Bill and Sadie, cough.)
“There’s talk of an Arabian up north. A mean bastard, from what I’ve heard. You’re good with horses, so I figured I’d bring you along. You still have that coat of yours?”
He glances over his shoulder, like the two of them are talking about something taboo.
“I don’t know...” He eventually mutters. “I— I’ve got work to do here, and—“
“They’ll survive without you,” Says Arthur, waving a hand dismissively. “Hell, with you being gone, maybe some of the others’ll start pulling their weight.” He casts a not-so-discreet glare in Uncle’s direction.
“Ha ha,” The laugh is so obviously fake that Kieran himself flinches. “Yeah... but, uh, you really think I could be helpful? I mean, I-I don’t want to be a bother...”
“You know horses, and that’s all I really need from ya,” Arthur shrugs. “Start grabbin’ your stuff, O’Driscoll. We’ll head out while we still have daylight.”
As he walks towards his own tent, he can hear Kieran mumble his annoyance at the name.
It’s almost become a sort of habit— calling Kieran names and going against his wishes. Despite how many times he’s asked not to be called “O’Driscoll,” the nasty nickname has stuck.
It’s kind of funny, actually— seeing how angry he gets. It’s probably why the other members continue to harass him. He really should learn to control his reactions.
(Maybe he’ll tell Kieran. Give the kid more of a fighting chance, instead of leaving him as a sitting duck for mockery.)
Arthur begins to dig through his wardrobe, pulling out his gloves and heavy jacket. He’s not going to risk hypothermia over a damn horse.
After a short pause, he decides to grab one of his smaller jackets. Just in case.
“What’re you doing, Morgan?” Bill is standing right behind him, hands on his hips and a suspicious look on his face. (Which is typical.)
“And here I thought you didn’t care,” Arthur grunts, standing up and stuffing his clothes under his arm. “Taking a trip up north. Heard about an Arabian that could be worth a lot of money.”
“Why were you talking with the O’Driscoll?” He continues, following Arthur towards Boss.
“I’m takin’ him up with me. He’s better with horses,” Arthur explains, stuffing the jackets into the saddlebag. “And you’d complain the whole time. Didn’t feel like torturing myself.”
“You’d have to watch your back the whole trip,
or—“
“Or what?” He scoffs, glancing back. “The kid’s afraid of his own shadow. I think the horse is more likely to kill me. ‘Sides, it’s not like I don’t know how to handle him. I was the one that caught him, remember?”
“Of course I remember,” Bill huffs, crossing his arms. “Who could forget all ‘a that screaming and crying?”
Arthur chuckles, ducking his head down.
“You’re telling me,” His smile drops slightly as he spots Kieran watching in the distance, one hand on his horse and the other wrapped around a large bundle of... something.
He turns to look at Bill. “I think you’re scaring him off. I can handle the situation from here.”
Bill holds his hands up in mock surrender, before turning and walking back to the camp.
“Don’t see why. I only threatened him with gelding tongs to the privates.”
“Twice.” Arthur corrects, before gesturing for Kieran to come closer.
The man jerks into action, grabbing his horse’s reigns and bringing her along.
“I- I did still have my coat,” He says, lifting the bundle of cloth. “And I grabbed some, uh, other things that might be useful.”
He unwraps his jacket, scrambling to catch the cans of food that fall out.
“Aw, shit—“
“Don’t you have a bag, or somethin’?” Arthur sighs, leaning down in order to pick up a can.
“Er— well, no,” Kieran answers, and it might just be a trick of the light, (or the fact that it’s nearly 100 degrees out,) but his face seems to be covered in a light flush. “I don’t have much that needs carrying. Most’ve my things fit is Branwen’s saddle.”
The other man glances over at said horse— a Tennessee Walker, from the looks of it.
Despite the less than unique breed of the horse, it’s just about the most loyal animal Arthur’s ever seen. (Second only to The Count, perhaps.) It had followed its owner all the way to Colter, and had even grabbed his dropped hat.
It’s almost like the O’Driscoll knows how to speak to horses. As insane as that sounds.
“It’s no big deal,” Arthur drawls eventually, handing the can back. “I’ve got more than enough space to carry anything worth carrying.”
Kieran makes a low humming noise— some sort of affirmation that he doesn’t feel needs to be truly voiced. It works well enough for Arthur, who’s far too used to half-answers and straight-out lies.
(The strange half-innocence that the O’Driscoll seems to exude is a refreshing change of pace. His face is easy to read, and it’s laughably easy to get the reaction you want out of him.)
He was a strange, unwelcomed, yet sorely needed fresh face. The gang had become somewhat stagnant— what with the losses they had, and the near-insurmountable issues they faced.
Kieran almost seemed to be a timid, snot-faced, cowardly ray of hope. A chance to finally beat Colm O’Driscoll.
Turned out to be a false hope, but Arthur’s so used to things not going to plan that he doesn’t have it in him to be disappointed.
“—far up north is this Arabian?”
Arthur glances over quickly, too caught up in thought to realize the other man was talking. “Way up in the Grizzlies,” He responds to the question he thinks was asked. It seems to be a good enough answer for Kieran, who scrunches his nose like he smells something foul.
“Never thought I’d go up there again,” He says, and there’s so much bitterness in his tone that Arthur actually laughs.
“What?” His face reddens, as if he’s embarrassed. “I didn’t exactly enjoy my time up there. What with you boys lassoing and starving me.”
“I know, I know,” Arthur says, patting his own thigh until Boss comes trotting over. “Just— never mind. You got everything?” He gestures vaguely at Branwen, and the O’Driscoll nods in response.
“Then let’s get going. Don’t like wasting daylight.”