Chapter Text
It had been Dutch's idea.
They were supposed to be keeping their heads down. Maintaining a low profile. Hosea reminding them as much when they had left him behind at camp. Arthur could remember Dutch grinning, reassuring him that they would. Insisting that they were just going to test the waters. See if there were any fish worth catching.
It's what they had done; for a while.
Hillburn was a mediocre place; more than a town but not yet quite a city. The beginnings of something great, or could possibly be one day, he mused. They'd rode in from the south side, across the bridge that spanned a river and straight into the heart of the bustling town. Dutch passing the time with idle chatter as they scoped the area.
It hadn't taken them long to find a tavern to settle down in. The jovial atmosphere inside was thunderous; ragged and rambunctious men already half-drunk and caught up in the throes of gambling. He and Dutch picked over the meager menu, wasting money on drink. Or rather, Arthur did – he wasn't quite seventeen yet; deemed too young to partake in such matters by many, but he had long ago become acquainted with the bitter tang of liquor. A vice, or so Hosea liked to say. Though he turned a blind eye to his habits, and Dutch...well, Dutch found it amusing-had more than once enticed him to drink til he was flat out drunk, much to Hosea's displeasure.
Dutch was no saint himself; sat across the way from him, working on his own bottle. Engrossed in a conversation-monologue rather, as Arthur had little to say in return. Using grunts and hums when words failed to come forth. Talking with Dutch was an art all of its own, the man easily swayed by his own ideals that were far too confusing for Arthur to try and follow.
He’d always been like that. Charisma, he’d heard some people call it, but Arthur didn’t quite know what it meant. He knew Dutch as a dreamer— an optimist. A fighter, a liar, a thief, sure, but so was Arthur. He wasn’t any of those other things though— he couldn’t spin a yarn and have people hanging off his every word, or charm a room with just a confident smile.
He supposed that’s why they ran together; in many ways, they were the same. Both determined, both eager, willing to fight for the life they knew they deserved. Dutch set himself upon this path though; Arthur never had a choice. The world was not kind to orphans running amok in the street; for Arthur, it was them or him. Fight or die. Dutch chose that kind of life though. He chose to leave his home in search of something greater, he chose to fight and however they got there in that way they were the same. They both bit and spat and fought for survival damn near every day, though, and they did so together. Days spent caked in mud and shit and worse, and nights spent somber, sewing each other back together in silence.
But not every night. Some nights were like this; relishing in the jubilant atmosphere, a full belly, the slight tingle of a buzz brought on by the devil's drink. Pretending for a moment they had something more than what they truly held. It was a nice feeling, he decided. Enjoying it while he could, because he knew it wouldn't last. They'd have to work to do, after all.
He wasn't sure when Dutch had gone up and left. Not that it bothered him; the man seemed to do that a lot. Disappear. The conversation between them had dwindled, and Arthur had turned to his journal. His writing had gotten better; the series of frustrating lessons he'd slogged through were paying off. Scattered notes filled the pages detailing where they'd been, what they'd seen. The rest of the blank spaces filled with sketches with things words could not describe.
Time passed. How much time he couldn't be sure. He was only slightly startled when a pair of hands fell on his shoulders, drawing him out of his revere. Arthur glancing up at the older man who stood above him, warm breath carrying notes of liquor as he whispered in his ear.
“Found something interesting. Come take a look.”
He didn't question it. Didn't drag his feet or protest. He knew the man was onto something. Arthur grabbing his hat as he moved, weaving in and around other patrons as he followed Dutch's retreating form out the back door. Out into the fading light; day turning into dusk. The heavy stench of cattle assaulting his nose, as all livestock towns did. The hearty resonance of the tavern faded behind them as the crossed the road, coming to a stop under a tree. Arthur watched as Dutch leaned against it, the man motioning vaguely with one hand.
To a barn across the way. Painted bright red as many barns were, the doors ajar as men ambled in and out. He watched for a time, a frown stretching across his face as he turned back towards Dutch, baffled and confused.
“The hell you drag me out here for? I've seen a barn, 'fore, Dutch.”
He knew that'd get a reaction out of the man. Dutch was many things, but he wasn't cryptic without purpose. There was always a reason for everything, each step detailed out in his mind, moves carefully chosen. As they surely were here, though Arthur was plainly too blind to see it. A fact he was all too well versed in.
“They look like farmhands to you, Arthur?” Dutch wondered caustically, a growl under his breath as he turned back around. “Awfully clean looking fellas, and a lot of them too. Edging around there, acting all suspicious. I wonder what they're hiding.”
“Well, hows about you go up and ask them?” he suggested, fighting back a grin that was tempted to sprout on his face. Wholly unmoved when the man snorted.
“Sarcasm does not suit you, Arthur.”
“Neither do your half-baked plans,” he pointed out, folding his arms across his chest. “Thought we was supposed to be laying low, keeping our heads outta trouble?”
“We ain't gonna get into any trouble,” Dutch reassured him with a pat on the back. “We're just gonna poke our noses in, see what them folk are up to, then mosey our way on back to camp.”
Said with so much confidence he could practically swim in it.
Much as he wanted to, he bit back the cynical retort that was begging to be unleashed. Turning instead to follow Dutch back into the tavern. Ready and waiting to hear what this 'plan' was going to be.
It weren't much of a plan.
That much he could attest to. It was quite primitive, even for Dutch. Especially for Dutch. A man so bent on flair and pageantry that seeing anything but was foreign to him. But the man insisted on it; a pretense of keeping suspicion off themselves.
Hosea would be proud.
Or pissed.
Both maybe; Arthur wasn't too sure. They were thieves, first and foremost, and Hosea was a born and bred conman who could spin lies to impress his own mother, but for some reason he liked to yank on the proverbially reigns to stop their attempts before they even began. The last place they'd been, a shady spit of a town out in the midst of nowhere, had ended on a sour note, and Hosea and Dutch had spent the entire journey here bickering about who's fault it had been. They'd been forced to pack up and flee, leaving half their earnings buried somewhere in the dust. A prize for a rainy day, or so Dutch liked to boast.
Whatever the case, they needed money. And they needed to keep their heads down so they didn't end up repeating their latest endeavor. So it seemed a perfect match. Funnily enough, that was what started the fire.
An errant flame, dropped in a nearby bushel. Close enough to the barn to cause concern, but not directly affect it. And while the strange men scrambled to wrest it under control, Dutch had slipped inside. Arthur loitering near the door, ready to holler if they so much as even looked their way.
Minutes ticked by painfully, the embers continuing to burn in the distance. With each passing second, Arthur’s anxiety only crescendoed, willing Dutch to emerge from the barn. Wishing fervently that he would hurry up with whatever the hell he was doing, so they could slip away before the fire was contained.
And he did. The man reemerging with a grin all but plastered on his face. Excitement strung high in his voice as he drew Arthur close to him. Foisting a saddlebag over his shoulder. The man had been all but insistent on collecting them from the horses earlier. Dutch already having an inkling of what was transpiring. Arthur looking down in astonishment at the cash that was laden inside. A similar bag crossed over Dutch's shoulders.
“This is it, Arthur,” he breathed excitedly, “we haven't even been here for a day yet, and we've already hit the jackpot.”
“Yeah, well I'll celebrate once we're outta here,” he hissed back, earlier fervor gone. Watching as Dutch rolled his eyes, the man stepping out into the open.
“You are just like Hosea,” the man scoffed, “all your needless worrying. Come on, then.”
“Ain't needless, Dutch,” Arthur pointed out, hurrying after him. “There's a whole lotta of them and only two of us.”
Whatever the man was going to say was lost in a new clamor. Startled voices calling out, demanding that they stop. He could feel a shiver work up his spine, his throat suddenly dry. Dutch, for all his credit, didn't even break his stride. His voice low, steady as he went on.
“Keep walking; act like nothing is wrong. Once we hit the streets, we'll be golden.”
How Dutch could keep calm was beyond him. His heart was pounding, heavy in his ears, his stomach twisting into knots. He could hear the steps, sounding ever closer behind him. A snarl as one of them yelled out.
“Stop, or I'll shoot!”
“Dutch...” he breathed, voice barely a whisper. “What do we do?”
“Run.”
They ran.
Darting from the open yard and into the alleyways. A series of twists and turns that led them back to the main streets. Dutch leading the way. Determined to reach the main thoroughfare; surely once they were there, they could disappear into the bustling crowds. Or so they had thought.
Dutch's careful reassurance of that fact withering away like leaves in autumn. The streets before them deserted, barren. Empty. The hour later than either of them had realized, failing to realize that most folk were already shuttered up for the night. They had a lead; a few precious seconds that were surely wasted as they stumbled there, glancing around in a hurry. Arthur's voice all caught up in his throat as he squeaked out.
“What's the plan?”
Because Dutch always had a plan. Sheer determination in his eyes reassured him that much was true here. The man motioning with a thrust of his chin, taking off once more.
“This way!”
Dodging down yet another alley. Arthur followed— well, perhaps more accurately, he tried to follow. He’d shot up like a weed in the last few years; grown from a small, pathetic thing into a lanky, albeit imposing, young man.
With his newfound height came clumsiness. His feet, often feeling far too big for his body, had a tendency to trip him up. He'd been the butt of far too many jokes shared between Dutch and Hosea, cheeks burning in embarrassment at every slight, but he never felt quite the frustration as potently as he did now. Stumbling, nearly falling. Eyes down as he attempted to get his feet back under him.
By the time he glanced back up, Dutch was just a fleeting image, darting around the corner. He hollered after the man, voice caught up in his throat, pleading with the other to wait. To slow down. To come back. Words lost as he rounded the corner, eyes searching frantically. Dutch unseen, disappeared. Arthur all too aware of the pounding of his heart, terror seizing inside of him.
The scuffling of footsteps sounded behind him, snapping him out of his trance. Arthur took off, choosing a direction at random. He'd do his best to shake him; find a place to hide away, meet back up with Dutch once the heat died down. It wouldn't be the first time they'd been separated; Hosea and Dutch both had taught him well enough of what to do during those times. So he ran. Kept running, racing through the streets.
Turned a corner, felt his heart stop. The ground under him gone, his foot all caught up in something solid. He braced himself, somewhat. The impact sending jolts through his arms, the saddle bag heavy and swinging, pulling him further off-balance. An elbow dug heavy in the dirt, Arthur scrambling to try and get to his feet. He got one foot under him before he was hit from behind. The newest impact sending him face first into the ground.
Arms wrapped about his midsection. Holding him tight, pinning him there-still he thrust about. Wiggling and squirming about like a fish trying to break free from a line. The man who'd gotten him was hollering something, words lost beneath the cacophony of his heart thrumming in his ears.
Somehow he was on his back now. One arm pinned, the other free, swinging wildly. Another jolt racing down his arm as his fist connected with something. Warm, seeping liquid, spattering on his face. The man above of him cursing, fingers digging hard enough into his flesh to bruise. All these things he could hardly feel, numb to what was happening around him. Focused on one thing, and one thing only; escape.
“Damn bastard,” the man swore, “think you can steal from me?”
“Get off of me,” Arthur spat back, hoping his anger had leeched through the panic. Doing his best to try and seem imposing, rather than the lanky youth that he was.
“Gonna enjoy teaching you a lesson.”
“Get off-” his words cut off from the sudden blow. Pain radiating down his jaw. Head lolling to one side. Shocked-or rather, dazed. His thoughts, or the lack of them, swimming loose in his head all the sudden. Made all the worse by the second blow.
Then the third.
Something cold, and hard. Harder than bone – colder than flesh.
Gun.
The realization dim. Like a bit of wood drifting atop the river. Slippery and slimy, hard to grasp onto but there all the same. The cold bite of metal digging into his skin as the man beat him senseless.
The man had a gun.
He had a gun.
Mind grasping the thought suddenly. That bit of driftwood suddenly tangled in brambles, holding fast. He reached out with his free hand. Fingers fumbling in the dirt near him. Brushing over coarse fabric, calloused skin fumbling over bits of rock and stone, fingers digging deep into the sodden earth. He had a gun-Arthur had his own gun.
If he could only just get it...