Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

“Charles!” Dutch called out, interrupting his course across the camp. The gang leader stood in the door of his tent, the strains of a tinny opera floating over his shoulder, smoke trailing from the cigar perched in his fingers. His face was a study in the shadows cast both by his worn bowler hat and the setting sun. The gold chains that hung from his pockets caught the early evening light and glittered. Behind him, Molly worried over an intricate embroidery. She glanced up, her green eyes catching Charles’ before returning quickly to her work.

“Dutch.” Charles paused in his chore. Arthur had been gone from camp for several days, and as it turned out, most of the chores were generally left undone. Hay bales were moved only very reluctantly, and Pearson’s water was frequently drained. Tasks that Charles had assumed were rotated or shared were ones that Arthur bore almost exclusively.

He set the hay bale down and waited for Dutch. The man enjoyed his dramatic pauses and thoughtful stares into the distance. Charles appreciated a man who took his time to form his thoughts and words.

“You’ve been with us--eight months now? Saw us through Blackwater. Nasty affair.”

“About that long,” Charles agreed. Long enough to outlast the lingering thaws of Horseshoe Overlook. Long enough to be a participant to the drenching spring rains. In the distance, swollen clouds promised more precipitation. If they were lucky, it would wait until nightfall, after the evening campfire and stew. The rain wore like a shroud around the gang, already bearing the grief of their lost members and now made worse by mud and dark days.

Dutch looked expectantly at Charles, as if waiting for a longer response. When none was forthcoming, he continued. “Arthur’s been gone a few days.”

“He has,” Charles said. He and Dutch stared at each other impassively. Charles wondered where the gang leader was taking the conversation. As the newest member, Charles had the least clout, and felt it wasn’t his particular business to wonder where the senior members of the gang were occupying their time.

“Arthur’s said you’re a good tracker. He’s the best I have but,” Dutch chuffed in amusement, “I can’t use Arthur to track Arthur. Perhaps you can chase our boy down?” He exhaled, the cigar smoke billowing out before dispersing into the evening air. Dutch tapped the cigar against the tent pole.

Charles looked down at the hay bale, and then up at the setting sun before glancing back at Dutch. “Do we have a lead?”

Dutch smiled and gave an expansive shrug. “Best bet would be to start with Valentine. I sent him on an errand there last week. Here,” he reached into his pocket and drew forth a ten dollar note. “This should help jog people’s memories.”

Charles had not frequented Valentine since the fight with Tommy Boss, more inclined to spend his time in the surrounding fields and forests of Horseshoe Overlook and not the mud-drenched town of cowboys and working women. He took the money. “I’ll do my best.”

“See that you do. We’re counting on you.” Charles heard the unspoken words-that this was a test, and he might be better to return with Arthur, or not at all.

He loaded up Taima with several days' provisions and traded friendly words with Javier as he rode through the small woods that protected their camp. The meadows were soft with recent rain, but the road to Valentine was thick with mud from traffic. The train clacked down its tracks, spitting black smoke into the air. As it grew closer to the town, the engineer pulled the brakes, creating a cacophony of metal against metal as the train began its slow grind into the station. As he rode into the outskirts of Valentine, Charles was struck by the stench of cows and unwashed men. The streets were deep with mud and horse shit. Each step Taima took came with a shlucking sound. It had begun to sprinkle, and flickering gaslight from large windows pooled on the muddy streets. The night was settling in, and with it brought men as they piled into the saloons after a long day of work.

Hitching Taima, Charles found the saloon he’d last frequented with the members of the gang and made his way to the bar. The piano player was happily pounding out Stephen Foster, and a few men were confusing money with love, full-bosomed women perched on their knees. The bartender glanced at him and blanched as he recognized Charles. “I don’t want any trouble tonight.”

“No trouble. Just looking for a friend.” Charles put a dollar coin down on the bar. The man snatched it up almost as quickly as it went down. He slipped it into his pocket, and continued pouring liquor for cowpokes.

“Sure.”

“You might remember him. Tall, sandy blonde. Took Tommy in a fight.”

The bartender frowned. “Of course I remember him. Came in with his colored friend not long after and sent the whole saloon on a bender. Took me a week to nurse that hangover. ‘Lenny!’ I can hear it in my nightmares. If he’s your friend, you best be choosing better friends.”

“I appreciate your opinion on the matter.” Charles paused before continuing, “Any idea where he might have gone? He owes me money.”

The bartender’s face cleared, and he nodded. “He hasn’t been back here, but I saw him out on the street a couple of days ago; I think he was visiting the gunsmith. He’d be locking up just now. If you’re lucky, you can catch him.”

“Appreciate it, friend.” Charles slapped another coin down on the bar. It was easy giving away money when it wasn’t his.

He supposed Dutch felt the same way. As far as Charles was aware, the man had never come by an honest coin.

The gunsmith was just dimming the lanterns when Charles entered. He was tall, with graying hair and broad shoulders that spoke to a life of labor. He wore a wool linen shirt appropriate for the weather and his trade. A black wool vest gave him an air of respectability and professionalism that was generally lacking in this frontier town. The man looked at him from where he was turning the wicks. Charles saw his eyes flicker over his countenance. “Welcome to my store. Can I help you, sir? I am R.L. Dalton, owner and gunsmith.” A smile warmed his face.

A businessman. Charles nodded at him. “Looking for a friend, heard he may have passed through here. Tall, dirty blond.” Blue eyes, self-deprecating. “Took on Tommy in a fight coupla weeks ago now.”

“Oh yes, the gunslinger.” The smile broadened. “We talked guns for a bit. Knows his way around a rifle better than most of the citizenry. Half my clientele are ranchers running off varmints, and the other half are young men thinking they’re going to conquer the West. What they don’t know is, it’s already been won.” He looked out the window and the trappings of progress. He sighed. “One of a dying breed. I remember back in ‘70 when--” He cut himself off, smiling sheepishly as he turned back to Charles. “I guess it doesn’t matter what I remember. What can I help you with?”

“Trying to find where he may have gone.” Charles glanced around the shop, as if he could see some echo of Arthur. The floorboards were smooth and well worn. Several guns with intricate carvings in the gun stocks rested in glass cases. A magazine, dog-eared and with a bent cover was propped on top of the case. The walls were full of ammunition. Behind Dalton hung a Springfield 1870, and Charles wondered if Dalton’s story was tied to the old rifle.

“That type of man, it’s enough to ask where the wind has gone. There’s no room for him in this new age.” He paused. “Me either, I think.” He waved to the men and mud outside. “This weather makes me maudlin, and I apologize.” He drummed his fingers against his glass showcase. “He was buying rounds for a .22. Said he was going hunting, small game.” Dalton started tapping out a rhythm to a song only he heard. Charles watched with growing curiosity, wondering briefly who Dalton had been before he became the gunsmith of Valentine. “And he asked where he might sell some things he’d found in an abandoned ranch out on the range. I pointed him towards Emerald Ranch. There’s a few characters out there who might be able to help him on that front.”

Charles brightened. “Where’s Emerald Ranch?”

The gunsmith slid around the desk, keys in his hands as he walked to the entrance. Charles followed. “Out in the heartlands. You can take the train if you have a hankering.” He looked at Charles. “But I don’t think you do. It’s a good two day ride, but it’s a pretty one. Take the road east, and you’ll run right into it. I’d start out in the morning, the weather tonight is horrendous. There’s a hotel down the way--” He broke off, his face souring. “Actually, I believe it’s full. Keane’s place should have some availability. In the barn, if nothing else.” He gave Charles an apologetic look.

Charles heard the unsaid words; had heard them a thousand times before. Mulatos prohibited. Indians prohibited. Dutch was the first man to welcome him into his fold for what he could contribute, and not for who he was.

The sprinkle had become a dedicated rain by the time they stepped onto the covered boardwalk. Charles sighed inwardly, unhitched Taima, and headed towards the barn.

It was a dry rest, which was better even than Horseshoe. After so many days in the rain, there was no way to avoid it. Wet feet, wet clothes, sodden feelings. He’d fallen asleep in the comforts of barns for years now, and while they always had the tendency to make him congested, the musty smell of straw and horses was as much the smell of home for him as anywhere he’d ever been.

The ride to Emerald Ranch was soggy but uneventful. The further he rode into the grasslands, the dryer he became. By the morning of the second day, he saw the sun rise, and the ground was soft but not muddy. Spring wildflowers of purples and yellow erupted around him. The breeze was soft, carrying the promise of warmer days as it rose from the south. Charles knew that in a few months the prairie would bake itself dry and the flowers would give way to tenacious rows of golden grasses. But for now, the earth breathed soft and warm.

In the distance, he could see a series of structures which he intuited was probably Emerald Ranch. The road paralleled the train tracks, and he’d quickly become accustomed to the schedule of the trains. Off in the distance, a man wandered the fields of flowers. Charles watched him as he passed by. Frequently, the man bent to examine the flowers and, occasionally, would pick some of them, stuffing them into a satchel at his side.

Charles would’ve continued riding if his eye hadn’t caught on the yellow Palomino with white feet that was so distinctive of Arthur Morgan’s new horse. Charles brought Taima to a walk as he watched the man. He breathed sharply through his nose as he recognized the set of the man’s shoulders and the silhouette of his hat. The third senior member of the gang continued to traverse the field of wildflowers, unperturbed. Charles watched as Arthur studied different flora. Some of them he picked and put in his satchel. Sometimes he took out his journal and jotted something within. Occasionally he’d press a flower within the pages.

Charles watched in wonder. He’d only interacted with Arthur briefly--mostly in helping him hunt for food for the camp when they needed it most as they fought for survival in the Grizzlies. His impression was that Arthur was gruff and honest, and that he cared for the members of the gang deeply, but that he was probably a relatively simple man.

In the distance, he heard gunshots. He looked up and saw the train chugging towards them in the distance. A gang of riders was thundering towards it, pistols blazing. Even from a distance, he could make out the green sashes and knew they were O’Driscolls, the sworn enemy of the Van der Linde’s. He looked over at Arthur in time to see the man study the riders before returning to his own business of flower collecting and sketching.

Dutch demanded the death of any O'Driscoll, at any cost. Charles had never quite ascertained the cause of the deep rivalry, but then he figured, the why wasn’t really his business. He thought that the deep hatred would certainly extend to Dutch’s muscle and enforcer, but Arthur didn’t even pay them a second glance.

Charles realized that everything he thought he knew about Arthur Morgan was blatantly wrong.

Curiosity bloomed in his chest.

Instead of confronting Arthur, he rode ahead into Emerald Ranch. A day later, when Arthur rode in, saddlebags full, he gave Charles a mild look of surprise. “Charles,” He greeted, friendly enough. “What you doing way out here?”

“It’s been a few days and….Dutch was worried. Took me a couple of days to track you. Thought I might find you with the fence.”

It was an easy out, and Arthur took it. He gave Charles a sheepish grin. “Found some uh--family heirlooms. Not much of a market back in Valentine, but I found a lead on how to uh, turn those old family trinkets into something worthwhile.”

Charles didn’t admit to having watched Arthur, and Arthur wasn’t forthcoming in his meadow foraging. They stared at one another. Charles cleared his throat. “Wanna ride back with me?”

Arthur gave him a long, considering look. “Yeah, sure. Best I be getting back, anyway. Lemme get my horse and we can get going.”

Charles thought Arthur would be completely silent while they rode, and he mostly was. But occasionally he’d offer insight into a particular rock formation as they went by, or tidbits about some of the flora they rode by, and what it could be used for and when and why.

“How do you know all this stuff?” Charles finally asked, incredulous.

Arthur glanced at him and ducked his head, hiding his eyes beneath his hat. It was, Charles quickly learned, a defense he used when he thought he was exposing a weakness. “Mostly Hosea. Some stuff--I just learned along the way.”

Charles glanced over at Arthur. His knuckles were split and scabbed and a yellowed left eye indicated a recent encounter, probably won. There was a blood stain on his jacket, and whether it was his or somebody else's, Charles didn’t know. When they passed other riders and he was mindful of it, his voice dropped an octave and he’d rumble out an intimidating, “Hey, mister,” that sent most people digging their heels into their steeds. But most of the time, Charles caught him staring up into the sky, or the trees, or the distant mountain peaks, an unreadable expression on his face. Sometimes he hummed under his breath, and occasionally the hum would break out into a whistle or several sung words, often off key, before settling back into a hum and then gradually drifting away.

When they arrived back in camp, Arthur settled back into his role; gruff and sharp with everyone except the ladies and Jack, whom he doted on. Charles had never paid much attention to their interaction before, but now he saw that Arthur brought out some of the flowers he collected and opened his journal to pages and pointed drawings out to Jack. In the evenings, he’d let the boy ride around on his shoulders and, if he thought nobody was looking, would skip around and neigh as Jack giggled and slapped him as he would a pony.

And mostly, Charles noticed, everybody treated Arthur in a similarly polite if distant fashion. Uncle was most likely to engage with him first in any conversation, and Arthur was alway short and mean in his interactions.

But for as much as he sniped at John, Charles also noticed that when John was on guard duty, Arthur would grab an extra bowl of stew and slip in extra venison from a recent hunting trip before he brought it out to John. He noticed that Arthur was always the first up, completing most of the camp’s chores before anyone else had awoken. He rarely drank to excess with the gang in the evening, and could more often be found with his journal in his lap, a thoughtful expression on his face as he sketched or wrote. Sometimes he’d catch Charles’ eye and smile, or sometimes he’d dip his hat, hiding his eyes.

The second time Dutch sent Charles after Arthur, it took him almost a week of tracking the man before he found him beside a mountain stream, studying silver fish as they glinted beneath the surface. His .22 was held loosely in his right arm, and after a long time of watching the fish, he caught movement in the bushes, and in a fluid movement, brought his rifle up and downed a rabbit before it could dart away. He made quick work of the creature, skinning and dressing it before attaching it to the flank of his horse. He remounted her and continued his path along the river.

Charles, feeling almost dirty, kept a distance as he followed the man, enthralled. He felt like he was catching the glimpse of a ghost; of a man that didn’t exist except out in the wilderness, far away from the burdens of the Van der Linde gang.

The blue sky above was settling into dusk. Charles caught sight of a young man at the same time as Arthur did. A pale, red-headed boy was standing at the river’s edge

“Lilly Mae! Holding hands with that dumb lunkhead!” He caught sight of Arthur and scowled. ‘Hey mister. I just want to be left alone, all right?”

Arthur climbed off his horse. “You expect to win this girl with all your bellyaching? Be a man, son.”

“Hey! I’m plenty man, thank you very much.” The boy looked down at the rocks he was throwing. He pulled one of the smooth stones out, rotating it with one beneath it. They made a clacking noise. “I’ll be rich! A nice big house!” He threw a rock into the river stream. “You’ll be begging me to court you!” The rock landed with a plop, and the boy collapsed into a cross-legged position with a sorrowful, “Lilly Mae.”

Charles watched Arthur consider the boy. He stepped closer, and when he spoke, Charles had to strain to hear him over the roaring waters. “There’s not a lot of good men in the world, boy. If you can be one, she’ll see that.”

The boy considered Arthur’s words a long time. He looked up at the outlaw looming over him, and then back out at the water. Eventually he nodded. He climbed back to his feet, dusting his pants off. “All right, mister. Thanks.” The boy headed upriver, towards a distant smoke stack. Arthur watched him go before glancing up at the sky, and then at the long shadows cast by the mountains. Even in summer, the air up here was cool. He set to building a fire on the river’s edge. As he worked, he occasionally stopped to consider a river-smoothed stone.

Charles eventually approached, just as Arthur was preparing the rabbit for the spit he’d made. Charles rode in slowly so as not to surprise the man, and once Arthur recognized him, the wariness of his face was replaced with one of warmth. “Charles.”

“Arthur.”

“Dutch send you out again?”

“Been a few days,” Charles said weakly. He felt like he was interrupting something sacred. By returning Arthur to camp, he was forcing him to bear a mantle he wasn’t meant to wear; a mask that was ill suited for him. Was the real Arthur Morgan the man he found roaming the prairies and mountains, who considered plants and birds and rocks and things, or was he the murderer with a WANTED poster pasted in every store in Blackwater?

“After a bounty.” He began, as way of explanation. “Some sort of black widow type, killing every man she’s with for his money. Supposed to be out Cumberland Falls way, another half day’s ride. You’re welcome to come.” He paused to consider his offer. “Reward of twenty-five dollars,” He added, as if his companionship wasn’t worth the ride.

“Of course,” Charles agreed.

Arthur pulled the rabbit off the fire, plopping it in a bent tin plate. He handed it over to Charles. His mouth watered, and he realized it’d been several days since he’d had anything beyond Pearson’s stew, which, with Arthur gone, was more hot tea than anything really resembling a stew. He bit into the rabbit. “This is really good, Arthur.”

“It’s because you’re used to that slop that Pearson is always serving. Man has never learned that there’s a way to cook meat besides boiling it to death.” Arthur pulled at his share of rabbit. Charles realized Arthur had given him the bigger portion. Arthur continued, “It’s an amazement what a simple rub can do.”

“What did you use?” Charles looked down at the meat in his hands. The skin was crisp, the meat inside juicy. There was even a side of wild carrots, seasoned with salt and thyme. Soft, but not limp, with just the right amount of crunch.

Arthur flashed him a rare smile. “Just a simple trick Hosea taught me. Said it’s an old family recipe. I could only share it on pain of death. He won’t teach it to John, says the boy has a mouth like a milkmaid an’ can’t keep a secret for nothin’.” He snapped off one of the legs, grease running down his hands. “Not that it would do anything good. That boy can burn water.”

Charles found Arthur’s smile infectious. “Is there a whole secret cache of cooks hiding out back at camp?”

“I think just me and Hosea. If anyone found out, Pearson would be out of a job, and then it’d only be sea stories all day long. Man don’t seem to remember he’s out in the West and we ain’t ever seen the ocean.” Arthur leaned over to rifle through his saddle bag before producing a glass bottle of amber liquid. He tossed it to Charles, who caught it deftly. He uncorked the bottle and took a swig. It burned as it went down, and he swallowed the cough.

“Where’d you find this? It’s hellfire.”

Arthur’s smile widened. “Not bad though, is it?”

The evening birds had taken up a melody of calls. The air was cool coming off the mountain stream. In the distance, he could hear the roar of the falls. Charles settled back against the seat he’d made from his saddlebags. The burn mellowed as it settled into him. “Not bad at all.”

They finished their dinner in companionable silence. Arthur took the plate from Charles wordlessly, washing it off at the stream before repacking it. When he’d cleaned up from dinner, he stoked the fire before settling back in. They watched the jumping flames and passed the amber liquid between them. Occasionally, a bull frog bellowed an interruption into their solitude.

When half the bottle was finished and Charles’ courage was up, he passed the bottle back with the careful deliberation of the inebriated. “What are you always doing, out away from camp?”

He’d expected Arthur to bristle at the question, knowing that with the wrong tone or moment, it could be interpreted as accusation. But the lines around Arthur’s eyes were soft as he took the bottle. “Jus’ goin’ where the wind takes me. Dutch always has me on some sort of errand, but there ain’t nothin’ wrong with a little meanderin’.” Arthur’s drawl worsened with drink, and Charles wondered again where Arthur was from. Most of the younger members were forthcoming about their general origins but none of them seemed to know much about Hosea, Dutch, or Arthur. John could be talkative, but there was a wedge between him and Arthur that everybody knew about and nobody discussed.

“No, I suppose there isn’t.” Charles stared into the fire, watching the wood deepen into crisp white embers. They settled into easy conversation, sharing the bottle of whiskey and talking about everything and nothing. The memory of the conversation, like the smoke of the campfire, had drifted away with the morning sun. Charles woke with a slightly fuzzy head. Arthur was already up, his horse tacked. Arthur flashed him a grin.

“Figger we gonna get them why they’re having their morning ablutions. Let’s get on then.”

Charles got up without complaint, quickly tacking and mounting Taima.

They started the ride in companionable silence. Arthur, Charles realized, was rarely one to get a conversation started. If he did, it was only after great consideration. In camp, he was quick to fire off condemnation, but in Charles’ presence, he was slower to speak. He’d been conversational enough last night, but Charles could barely grab what they’d spoken about. They could have solved the world’s problems, or at least a way to get their money from Blackwater, and Charles wouldn’t know.

“You been on a bounty hunt before?” Arthur twisted to look over at Charles.

“Not directly,” Charles admitted.

“This one is wanted alive. Supposed to be a real piece of work. Mostly I notice they’re quick to beg forgiveness or innocence, but I ain’t never brought back an innocent one yet.”

The roar of the falls grew and as they rounded the river and Charles caught sight of the falling waters, he marveled. He had seen a few waterfalls in his travels, but he never grew tired of them.

“We should leave the horses here and walk the rest of the way in. I think we’re getting close.” Arthur slid from his horse and slipped her a sugar cube. Charles did the same, drawing his bow from Taima’s saddle. They headed down on foot.

They overheard the woman--Ellie Swan--trying to talk her newest beau down from the recent newspaper he’d read. They were camping under a large overhang carved out by water. A campfire, heavy with dark smoke and laconic in its crawl towards the sky separated the pair. Charles could see a canoe prepared by the waters edge. Crouched behind a rock, Arthur nudged Charles. “Lookit that, behind her back. A knife. Sheriff wants her alive. Wanna create a diversion and I’ll hogtie her?”

“What kind of diversion do you have in mind?”

The corners of Arthur’s eyes crinkled. “A rock slide could work. I’m gonna come up from the other side.” Arthur darted up the slope before Charles could agree to the plan. Minutes later, he could see Arthur on the far slope. Charles tried to kick several stones loose, and while a few clattered down into the water with loud plops, it was hardly the production he’d hoped for. Still, it caught the attention of Ellie and her lover, and while his eyes lingered on the rock slope, Ellie was moving in to kill him when a rope caught her arm in its downward descent. Charles watched as Arthur jerked the rope, pulling her back by her arm and snaking her off her feet. She howled in fury and was immediately struggling, but Arthur made quick work roping her in as he clambered down the rock slope.

“Hey lady, knock it off!” He hit her in the side of the head, dazing her as he roped her legs and arms together. Her beau stood off to the side, mouth agape.

“She was going to kill me.” He sunk to his knees.

“She was,” Arthur agreed. “You're lucky my friend was here.” He nodded towards Charles. The man looked over at him. His lips were bloodless, and even from a distance, Charles could tell he was shaking.

“I owe you my life.”

“Probably. Ain’t worth much I wager. Hers is worth twenty-five dollars.” He hoisted Ellie over his shoulder. She was starting to come around, and wormed around on Arthur’s shoulder. He shook her. “Cut it out, lady!”

“My father’s an oil baron. I’m worth quite a lot.” He clambered to his feet and reached into his breast pocket with a trembling hand, pulling forth a money clip. “I owe you everything. Take it.” He shoved the wad of cash into Arthur’s hand before undoing his watch chain and adding it to the small fortune.

Arthur looked down at the unexpected windfall, surprise marking his features. “That’s quite a lot of money, boy.”

“There’s more. You get her turned in and I’ll make sure it’s wired to the Sheriff’s office in your name. Which town?”

“Um, Valentine.”

“To which name?”

“To--” Arthur began.

“To Charles Smith.” Charles interrupted as he crossed the riverside to the two men. Ellie howled.

“The money is supposed to be mine!” She kicked out, her knee catching Arthur in the jaw. He grunted in pain before he walloped her again and whistled for his horse. The mare came stumbling down the rock slope dutifully, and Arthur quickly threw her over the back haunches, securing her with more knots than Charles thought was strictly necessary.

“I thank you men for my life.” The blood had come back to the man’s face. He squared his shoulders with an intention he had not carried before. “I am indebted to you forever. Please, call on me if you ever find yourselves in dire straits” He crossed over to a mare waiting beside the canoe. “I had planned to make my escape by river, but it was naive. My name is Timothy Crae. Thank you again, gentlemen.” The young man took off.

Arthur looked down at the money in his hand. “Gotta be at least five hundred here. More, with the watch.”

Charles looked at the money. “Think it’s enough for Dutch?”

Arthur sighed almost imperceptibly. “No.”

A few weeks later, Charles invited Arthur on a bison hunt. The weather had settled, and a trip into Valentine with a subsequent visit to the butcher had revealed the presence of bison in the Heartlands. It sparked a distant memory in Charles’ soul; old, tenuous ties to his mother and the stories she’d told him of her people and their relationship with the buffalo that roamed the prairie. Their numbers had been so great that the tribe had never wanted for anything. Every part of a buffalo could be used. Understanding this, White men had come in and killed as many buffalo as they could for no other reason except for sport. Charles had never seen the herds of buffalo that roamed the lands. In fact, he had never seen a living one at all. The knowledge of a living buffalo within miles of their current camp sparked something in him he was unfamiliar with. There was a sense of urgency that had not existed before.

“Whatcha preparing for?” Arthur meandered his way. Charles was sharpening a knife. There was a part of him that hoped he could remember more of his mother if he could remember part of the ritual that had been so important to her people.

“The greatest of gifts.” Charles looked up at his friend and saw Arthur’s eyes crinkle. He knew a joke wasn’t far behind.

“An unguarded stagecoach?” He ventured, his voice cracking as it broke into a slight laugh.

“No, you simple minded fool.” Charles’ smile rounded off the edge of his words, although he tried his best to look disappointed in Arthur. He stood. “Bison.”

“Bison?” Arthur echoed.

“Bison,” Charles confirmed. “From which you can get anything.” Although it was purely theoretical. Memories from a woman, long dead, passed through the decades. “There’s some on the plains, I believe.” After finding the hide at the butcher’s, he’d headed off to the plains to see for himself. He remembered, faintly, that it was a crime to kill a bison unless absolutely necessary. It was a truth that had been passed along to him as they’d been shuffled from reservation to reservation, her tribe mixing with others as White men found valuable minerals on ancient tribal lands, and pushed the people off them into increasingly more arid and austere environments.

Arthur, as if sensing the importance of Charles’ mission, nodded, the levity falling from his face. “Well...good luck,” he offered.

“Do you--want to come with me? I’ll show you how we hunt one.”

Something fragile appeared on Arthur’s face. It disappeared with a casual shrug and “Sure, why not?”

“Mount up, then.” Charles turned, heading to the horses. He could hear Arthur’s footsteps behind him, and something in his heart fluttered. As they started off, Charles began uncertainly, “You know, it was before my time, of course, but my mother used to tell me stories of how her tribe moved with the bison.” He could remember her brown eyes and the curve of her cheek. Sometimes in his dreams he could remember her laugh. But he’d forgotten her voice, or the mannerisms that he knew she must have had. He wished that by recalling her now to Arthur he could manifest her.

Arthur listened. His humor, which was often gruff or inappropriate, and which he used, Charles knew, to diffuse situations that he didn’t know how to handle, was absent. He listened to Charles’ stories, and asked quiet, thoughtful questions about his mother’s people. A peace settled into Charles’ soul, soothing the jagged edges of loss.

They crossed the rolling plains until they spotted the bison in the distance. They were more magnificent then he could have imagined, and he tried to imagine what it looked like when there had been millions of their kind. “We should only kill one of them,” He told Arthur, who hummed in agreement. “I’ll keep them ringed in, and you see if you can bring one down, okay? Clean as you can.” It was an honor to kill a buffalo, and even if Arthur didn’t know how sacred it was to the tribe of Charles’ mother, his voice still carried the gravity of understanding as he agreed.

And Charles didn’t know why he had ever thought the man was simple, or a fool. Arthur appreciated the plants and life of the world far more than any man Charles had ever met. As he watched Arthur chase down one of the bison and fell him with the neat placement of an arrow--a weapon the man had only learned a few months prior--Charles realized the breadth of Arthur’s respect, not only for the animal, but of Charles. A lot of men would have refused to learn the bow, but not only had Arthur agreed to learn, he’d obviously spent the months since honing the skill.

He gave Arthur the kill not only as a sign of honor to his friend, but so he could watch the man in his element, unfettered by the trappings of the camp. He honored the animal in a manner Charles thought was likely adjacent to what his mother’s people had done.

As Arthur worked, Charles watched the sky. Hawks took advantage of the summer air, dipping in and out of updrafts. He noticed a growing circle of carrions birds. “Stow that on your horse and mount up,” Charles instructed Arthur. “I want to check something out.”

Arthur did as commanded, and threw the bound skin onto the back of his horse. “Hey, girl,” he said quietly as he climbed up. “Where are we going?”

“I thought I saw some scavenger birds.” Charles said. Most likely the corpses of unprepared pioneers, although these days, those types were more likely to take the trains and stagecoaches. Still, carrion birds usually meant rewards of some sort. Maybe if they found the treasure Dutch was searching for, they could stop their pursuit and settle down. “Just wanted to see what attracted them.”

But it wasn’t riches that awaited them, but mutilated bison. Something dark twisted in him, a hatred he thought he’d left a long time ago. “No, look, bison. Shot and left for dead, looks like.” His heart ratched up to beat in his chest, a lump settling into his throat so that it was almost too hard to breathe.

The look Arthur shot him was careful, considering. “Why would someone do that?” He asked neutrally.

“I dunno. But I see tracks headed in this direction. I say we follow them.”

“All right. Lead the way,” Arthur agreed quietly. “Already starting to rot,” he added, blue eyes lingering over the corpses. As they rode, he ventured. “Could it have been an animal?”

Charles shot him a quick look, his eyes narrowed. “No. They’ve been shot. I just don’t know why anybody would leave them here to rot like that.” His breathing was tight in his chest now, and he almost had to gasp around the knot in his throat as he picked up the pace. Arthur was quick to follow, and careful to stay quiet.

Charles took them across the plains of his mother. He blinked away tears of anger as they rode. “Look, another dead bison off to our left there,” he said tightly. His breaths were coming fast now, and his heart clenched with the pain of their findings. “Come on,” he urged.

And Arthur followed.

As Charles movements became more unrestrained, Arthur stayed calm, quiet. “There’s a camp there,” he said, dismounting. “I’m going to take a look.”

Arthur scavenged through the camp so Charles wouldn’t have to. “Logs haven’t gone cold yet. Maybe half a day since they left.”

“Bison been dead for about the same amount of time.”

Arthur looked up at him, an empty can of beans in his hand. “So, what do you want to do?” His words were careful, measured.

“They could still be in the area,” Charles said. Panic thrummed in his heart. What if they missed them? “Let’s go up higher, see if we spot anything.” Arthur ran to his horse and remounted her. “This way, we should have a view from up here. You see anything?” They scanned the horizon. The sky above them was the deep, perfect blue of early summer. The grass around them shimmered in a soft whisper. “Arthur, look. Smoke to the north. Could be another camp.”

“Let’s go check it out,” Arthur offered.

“Bastards,” Charles ground out as they rode. “Just killing for fun.” He ignored the look Arthur gave him.

“Think we can talk?” Arthur asked quietly.

“I don’t kill for fun,” Charles said. “I kill when I need to.”

Arthur fell silent. Later, when the rage had faded and Charles was around the campfire, he reflected on his words and Arthur’s silence.

For now, he ignored it. “Look, more dead bison. It has to be them. Come on!” He dug his heels into Taima’s flank, and she sped forward. Something feral stalked within him. If he could kill the men who had killed these bison, he could save his mother’s people. He could save his mother.

“Wait up!” Arthur called from behind, but Charles ignored him, urging Taima forward, away from the dead bison and his dead people, and to the men that had murdered them both. He chased a distant line of smoke. When he approached the camp, made upon a small outcropping of rock beneath an overhand, he whipped himself off Taima and stalked towards the men lounging in the sunshine. There were two of them, their tents a sorry set of ragged lean-tos.

“Did you fools shoot those bison?” Charles asked as he climbed the rocks towards them. The two bearded men looked up at him.

“What’s your problem?” One of the men asked. He sat cross-legged in front of the fire, his skin leathered brown from the sun, the corners of his eyes and nose wrinkled with age. He paused from where he was rolling up a cigarette, his eyes narrowed as he stared up at Charles.

“I said, did you fools shoot those bison?” Charles felt the anger and loss of the last twenty years simmering in him. As if every wrong that had ever been done had been done by these men.

“Calm down,” the older poacher said as he climbed to his feet, “You black or red bastard, whatever the fuck you are.” As he climbed to his feet, there was a moment when his back stayed curved, as if it pained him. The younger man stood slower, recognizing the feral rage in Charles, and knowing it was as dangerous as a wildfire ripping across prairie grass, or a flash flood careening through a dry wash.

“Did you shoot them?!” Charles screamed, loss and hate fueling the rage in his heart.

“Yes we did,” the younger hunter said. “We shot those bison, and we’ll shoot you too, if you don’t git.”

“What business is it of yours what we--” the older hunter began as he reached for his six iron.

Charles reached for his sidearm and shot the man before he’d cleared leather. He fell back in a spray of gore, his brain splattering onto the rock behind him. Charles turned to the other hunter and stalked towards him. “It’s that business of mine!”

“Good God, you’re crazy!” The younger hunter said, stumbling back, the white of his eyes stark against his dirt-covered face. “Look, I got a family. A family. Don’t shoot me.”

Charles had had a family, too. He fingered the trigger and considered killing the man, the halves of him torn between thought and action. But Arthur came abreast of him and put a calm, firm hand on his arm.

“Stand back, Charles. I’ll get you some answers.” He crossed in front of Charles’ line of sight and closed in on the hunter. He grabbed the man by his collar and cocked back his right arm in an anticipatory punch. Charles watched as his whole demeanor changed. The man who wandered fields of flowers gave way to a snarling, feral animal on the edge of humanity.

“What the hell are you doing?!” The poacher cowered, trying to pry Arthur’s hand off from around his neck. Arthur struck him.

“Why are you killing those bison and leaving them to rot?” His fist made a dull thud as it connected with the man’s face.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” From this distance, Charles could see the man had to be in his 20’s--Charles’ age, or younger. Age and stress had worn lines in his forehead. His cap was dirty and threadbare.

Arthur hit him again. “Goddammit, tell us, or you’re dead.” The third time his blow connected, Charles could hear bone break as Arthur connected with the man’s nose.

“Oh---okay!” The man relented, his voice stuffy from his broken nose. Blood ran down his face, and one eye was already swelling shut. “We were paid to kill as many bison as we could! To make it look like it was Indians.”

“Just kill him, Arthur,” Charles urged, the rage now settled deeply within him. His mother’s people had worshiped the buffalo, and, knowing this, White men had killed as many as they could. Now those same men tried to pin the murder of the few remaining beasts on the shoulders of the few remaining Indians.

“No, please don’t! I’m begging you!” The man held onto Arthur’s grip around his collar. Tears had mixed with the blood and dirt, creating a thick slurry that carved tracks down his face.

Charles watched as Arthur’s arm stayed cocked back, ready to hit the man. Charles had seen him nearly beat a man to death before, and he wanted to see the job finished this time. But instead of killing him, Arthur’s arm fell to his side.

“All right,” Arthur snarled, “Get outta here!”

“Just,” the man clambered to his feet, “Don’t shoot me, mister! I got a family!”

“Then,” Arthur growled, “run away.” He released his grip from the man’s collar, and the man fell to the earth before scrambling to his feet, stumbling several times as he made it to his horse.

Charles’ finger tightened around the trigger of his six-shooter and for one terrible moment, he thought he might shoot Arthur. “Why did you do that?” He screamed, all of the hurt and loss tumbling out of him.

Arthur looked at him, his blue eyes fracturing. “He didn’t need to die. Maybe he’ll go tell his friends now what happens to poachers.”

Charles turned away. “I’ve had enough of this. I’m heading back.”

“Okay,” Arthur agreed, his voice carefully neutral. “I’m going to see if there’s anything worth taking from their camp.” Charles felt his eyes on his back. “I’ll catch up with you later,” Arthur said. Charles ignored the hope in his voice.

It was several days before Arthur returned to camp. On the first night, Charles was thankful for his absence. Good riddance, he thought. To hell with that man.

On the second night, uncertainty began to curl around the edges of his heart.

On the third day, the uncertainty had settled into guilt. He reflected on his conversations with Arthur. He had told the man that he only killed out of necessity and not out of want. Arthur rarely had the luxury. But he’d stopped Charles from killing the young hunter and getting that blood on his hands. And when Charles had demanded he kill the man, Arthur hadn’t. At the time, Charles thought Arthur was choosing another White man over Charles, but now he wondered if Arthur had stayed his hand because he knew it was what Charles wanted. Not what Charles thought he had wanted, but what he had actually wanted. Taking a man from his family would not have brought his parents back or fixed the pain he had. It would have perpetuated them, and he would be no better than the men who had taken his mother away from him. And who would know that better, than the man who killed almost indiscriminately at the command of Dutch.

On the fourth day, Charles considered riding out after Arthur, but he was afraid that in doing so he would miss the man. He spent the afternoon chopping wood.

“I’ve seen this before.” Hosea’s calm voice interrupted Charles’ relentless attacks on the wood. He brought the maul down, splitting the pine into halves before he looked up at the old man. He was settled on a felled tree and looking at Charles with careful eyes. The man rarely spoke to Charles, but Charles suspected it was because Hosea rarely spoke unless it was after careful consideration and observation.

“What have you seen before?”

Hosea waved to the split logs. “Love,” he said.

Charles looked at the pile of split pine before looking back at Hosea, confusion tightening his brow. “Love?” He supposed it was love that had driven his need for murder. But the love of his mother would have been tainted by the death of those men, not honored.

“Indeed,” Hosea said, pulling a book out from his breast pocket. They passed the afternoon that way, Hosea reading, and Charles chopping wood. By the time the sun was setting in the west, Charles felt as though he had gained a friend, although they had not passed a word between them.

On the morning of the sixth day, Arthur returned. It was with all the fanfare that he normally came back with--as if he had never actually been gone at all--and he quickly set back to his normal chores after dropping off a substantial sum in the camp coffer. At his return, Charles’ felt something ease inside him. He wanted to apologize, both for snapping at the man, and for the thought, however brief, he’d had of killing Arthur when Arthur wouldn’t kill for him. It was a darkness that frightened him, and he wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to put it into the spoken word, as if it would manifest, and he would become that evil person.

That evening, they sat around the fire. Javier plucked away at a melancholy tune, and Karen sang along with words that were raunchy and did not match the minor, sorrowful cords. The dichotomy inspired laughter among the gang as they gathered around the fire after a day of working and chores. John passed Charles a bottle of amber liquid. The wounds on his face had closed, but shone the pink of recent scars. Scarcely had anybody brought up John’s rescue since it happened, as though Arthur’s act of bravery was expected and not exceptional.

They continued to pass the bottle back and forth. Around them, fireflies erupted in the small meadow. They blinked on and off, and Charles tried to follow the course of one or two as they flickered. Between their movement, the dark, and the alcohol, he wasn't able to keep track of any of them for very long. He passed the bottle onto Arthur. “Why didn’t you kill that man?” The question spilled forth before he could call it back.

Arthur looked into the fire a long time before he responded. “‘Cause you said you only kill for necessity. And you didn’t need that man’s death on you. You ain’t that kinda man.”

“But you are?” Charles asked, because he could hear the unspoken words in Arthur’s answer.

“Yeah,” Arthur took a swig of the bottle before passing it on. “I am.”

The third time Charles rode after Arthur was not long after his return to camp with Micah. A routine had settled in among the gang and while Horseshoe Overlook was never meant to be permanent, it had become their home in the months since Blackwater. But the day Arthur came back with Micah in tow, his face was dark. Charles looked up from where he was engaged in a game of dominoes with Tilly, taking measure of Arthur’s hands, black with carbon, and of a neat hole on the front of his thigh, bright red with blood. He waved Grimshaw away when she came fussing in. “Damned near shot up a whole town of innocents. This ain’t who we supposed to be. I gotta go.” And he pulled his mare around, riding back off the way he came. Behind him, Micah rode in with the pride and bearing of a returned hero. Dutch watched Arthur go impassively before turning to Micah with open arms.

“Good to have you back, Micah!” He pulled the man into an embrace as he slipped from the horse. “Thought we’d lost you.”

“Oh, I’m a little harder to kill than that.” Micah chuckled as he pulled away. “Good to be back. You are certainly a sight for sore eyes.” Micah’s face had been worked over, and one eye was swollen shut. His clothing was a vile mix of blood--not his, Charles surmised--and mud. The only thing greasier than his hair was his smile. Charles hadn’t cared much for Micah, but Arthur’s reaction had deepened this mistrust for the man.

“Come, come. Have a drink. Tell me everything that transpired.” Dutch opened the corner of his tent, waving the man in.

Charles watched the pair slip into the tent, a deep sense of unease settling in around him. He glanced at Tilly, who met his eyes, her mouth drawn in a thin line. She stood. “Best be getting to the laundry.” She excused herself, hastening off towards the other women, who looked at her expectantly, as they had been too far away to hear the exchange. Miss Grimshaw called them hens in their gossip, but in the months since joining the gang, he noticed how they took particular care of Arthur. He suspected they disliked Micah as much as he did. He suspected that they, too, had noticed Arthur’s slow slide as Dutch’s trusted enforcer and beloved son. Micah was a poor stand-in, and Charles had begun to wonder about Dutch’s judgment. He glanced over at Hosea. The older man was something of Dutch’s moral compass, but increasingly, Dutch used Micah's corrupted star to navigate and Hosea’s advice often fell on deaf ears. Hosea’s eyes caught Charles’ before shifting away, a slump in his shoulders.

This time, Dutch didn’t have to ask Charles to look for Arthur. By the time he’d made it to Taima, he found her already tacked and readied. Kieran stood a few paces away, trying to look inconspicuous and unassuming. Charles swung his leg over her saddle, looking down at the former O’Driscoll. “Why?” He asked, but he thought he already knew the answer.

Kieran looked up at him. The nervousness that always creased his features was lined with something else; something almost brave. Charles was struck again by how young the boy was. Like the American Army that Dutch hated, he had built his forces on the shoulders of young, disenfranchised men. “Arthur’s a good man. We need him.” He looked over to Dutch’s tent. “Bring him back.”

Arthur’s trail disappeared quickly, lost in the traffic of the major roads. Although he was only twenty or thirty minutes ahead of Charles, he’d departed from camp with haste, and Charles realized that when the man wanted to disappear, he could.

He spent days on Arthur’s trail. He’d almost given up hope, worried the trail had gone cold, when he finally found the man. The trail had lead him up into the Grizzlies, which puzzled Charles, and he eventually found a lesser traveled trail that took him over a pass. Up here, the air was thin and the higher peaks still kept a lingering snow. Charles found Arthur on a knob overlooking the plains of the west. Far below, the distant lights of Blackwater flickered.

Arthur was sitting on his horse, leaning forward in the saddle, his arms crossed over the leather horn as he studied the distant town. His left leg was wrapped in stained rags, dark from dried blood. He usually looked worn from days on the trail, but this time he looked disheveled. He looked over at Charles’ arrival, looking tired, but not particularly surprised. Seeing Charles’ eyes drop his leg, Arthur’s brow furrowed. “I’m fine.”

Charles suspected this wasn’t true, but he didn’t push it. He looked out at the distant glittering lights of Blackwater. “They’d kill you if they knew you were here.” The town looked like something unnatural--which Charles supposed it was--spreading out over the valley below. Buildings replaced scrub and trees, docks encroached into the flowing waters.

“We had a good plan,” Arthur sighed. “Only thing that went wrong is Micah. Only link every time something goes wrong is Micah. But I ain’t got enough to pin him down.” Arthur stared down at the city. “What I ain’t figured is why Dutch trusts him as much as he does. It’s like he don’t even listen to me or Hosea anymore, and we been with him from almost the very beginning.”

“It’s a wise man who can hear what he doesn’t want to hear.” Charles was speaking of Dutch, but he realized it could just as well be about himself.

Arthur might’ve sighed, but it was carried away with the evening wind. He ducked his head, hiding his blue eyes from Charles. “I owe Dutch a lot. I can’t give up on him.”

Charles slid from Taima and set to gathering kindling. He pulled out his flint and clacked the rocks against each other, eventually setting enough sparks to curl the dead pine to a promise of fire. He blew on it, and the smoke grew to flame. By the time the western sky was a deep purple of the forgotten sun, the flames were a bright orange and the coals were settling into blue and white.

Arthur had not dismounted.

“Can you stand?” Charles asked as he crossed over to Taima and pulled out several cans of beans and a rare treat--canned peaches. He was too tired to hunt after days on Arthur’s trail, and his stomach was twisted up anyway.

“Aw, to hell with you anyway, Charles.” He looked down at his wound, rubbing the leg around it. “It’s fine.”

“Then get off,” Charles said, prying the cans open and banking them on the side of the fire to start heating up. He came to stand beside Arthur and his horse.

“Told you, I’m fine. Been enough days, if I were meant to take lead poisoning, I woulda.” But Arthur stayed perched on his mare, his arms crossed over the horn of the saddle. He scowled at Charles as if it would intimidate him.

“You’re not hardly the terror you think you are.” He held out his hand. Arthur stared at it a long time before he finally reached out. Charles could feel the strength and the warmth of his hand as it slipped into his, worn with callouses. He tightened his grip, helping Arthur in a clumsy slide, his leg buckling just as Charles hooked his arm under his shoulder. Together, they stumbled over to the fire.

“It’s just stiff is what,” Arthur grumbled, his attempt at sitting looking like a barely controlled collapse as he fell beside the fire.

“Sure,” Charles agreed, uncorking a bottle of whiskey and passing it over to Arthur. The man took it gratefully, taking a long swig of the amber liquid before slowly passing it back. Over the next thirty minutes, Charles watched the tightness around Arthur’s eyes soften, the stiff lines in his shoulders relaxed.

“You saved me from myself,” Charles finally said, when the whiskey had burned a warmth into his stomach. “I would’ve killed that man.” In the distance, Blackwater challenged the sky in its glittering lights and Charles wondered if this was the future; terrestrial lights to match the sky. He could hardly imagine it. Wondered why anyone would want it.

Arthur twisted the bottle in his hands. “Take it from me. There ain’t no glory in killing for killing.”

“Why do you do it?” Charles asked, quietly. Evening crickets chirped around them. The wind moved through the soft pines. Occasionally a gust would throw sparks up, and Charles watched as they started a journey with fire and promise, only to fade into the smoke and sky as they got higher.

“Cause,” Arthur said, “That’s who I am. A killer.” He picked up a stick and pushed one of the logs. It crumbled, collapsing into the embers below and sending up another splash of sparks that erupted towards the sky.

“No, it’s not.” Charles stared at Arthur. They’d had enough whiskey that the man blurred around the edges, smoothed out by the bright orange of the fire. “You could have killed that man back on the plains if you were a killer. But you didn’t. You let him go to his family.”

“You didn’t see what I did in Strawberry.” Arthur’s voice was tight, cold. “I’m sorry for the plains. I know you wanted him dead. I shouldnt’a taken that from you. I’ve killed better men for less. '' Arthur took a swig from the bottle.

“No, it wasn’t. I thought it was, but it wasn’t.”

Arthur glanced at him. His eyes were bright from the drink, a frown pulling on the corner of his lips. Charles looked back up at the sky. He realized the thing taking up residence in his heart was want. He wanted this man, who gave, and gave, and gave, and asked nothing in return. He was giving his soul away for Dutch, and Dutch knew it and asked for Arthur to give more. Now that he was running the well dry, Micah, who had no soul at all, was becoming his trusted lieutenant.

Hosea hadn’t been talking about Charles’ love for his mother all those days ago when he was splitting wood. Charles had been too stupid to see it.

“Let me take a look at that leg,” Charles offered thickly. Arthur waved his hand dismissively. “What happened at Strawberry?” Charles asked as he assessed the wound through the canvas pants.

“Micah got himself arrested for being his fool self. Should’ve left him there. Shoulda let him hang, and told Dutch the deed was done by the time I got there.” He swatted at Charles. “Leave it alone, I said. It’s fine.”

Charles held his hands up defensively. He’d gotten enough of a glimpse to see that Arthur had made a poultice of some sort, but pus had begun to form in the pockets of skin. “It’s infected. You can let me lance it, or you can work to lose that leg.”

Arthur scowled, staring down at Blackwater. Charles watched his face, but it remained unreadable. Finally, he nodded. “I can’t bear to wiggle out of these things. You’re going to have to cut the pant leg off.”

The fabric had stuck to the edges of the wound, and after Charles cut the majority of the pant leg away, he used water from his canteen to soften the edges before he pulled the fabric free. Arthur hissed, but didn't complaint. “I’m going to have to take the poultice off.” He looked at Arthur, handing over the bottle of whiskey. Arthur nodded.

“Do it fast.” He took a swig, and Charles ripped it off. Arthur’s leg kicked involuntarily and he grunted. Fresh blood spilled out. The wound was better than Charles had feared, and while red and angry, there was no smell of gangrene. He pulled his knife from his sheath and held it over the fire close as he could manage.

“You’ll want to take another swig,” Charles instructed. “I gotta lance it.”

“Hell, Charles. I ain’t worth this trouble.” Charles paused in his work and looked up at Arthur sharply.

“That’s not true.”

Arthur’s blue eyes were morose when they finally looked down at Charles. “I killed a lotta good people in that town, ‘cause I’m too chickenshit to do something ‘bout Micah. I coulda killed him and saved those people.”

Charles held out a piece of leather he’d salvaged from an old belt. Arthur took it, and then took another long, healthy swig from the whiskey bottle. He held the quarter-full bottle against the side of his good leg, the sloshing amber liquid catching the firelight and reflecting golden prisms onto the pine trees.

Charles pulled the blade from the fire and waited a moment for it to cool before he assessed Arthur’s leg. He hoped the infection wasn’t too deep. He looked up, and Arthur put the leather between his teeth and nodded.

Charles cut into the infection, and yellow pus erupted free as he lanced the skin around the bullet wound. It had been a through and through, but days on the range had taken its toll. Arthur grunted in pain, and Charles forced himself not to look up. He knew he’d have to clean out as much of the infection as he could see, and that required digging around in the meat. He could hear Arthur panting as Charles worked, using water to clean the blood and pus. When he was done, he wrapped the leg with the cleanest linens he had before he finally looked up at Arthur. The man was taking deep breaths as he stared up at the sky, sweat beading at his forehead.

“I’m done,” Charles said. Arthur nodded, continuing to stare up at the sky. Charles cleaned his blade and threw the dirty linens in the fire. When his work was done, he sat next to Arthur. They fell into silence, accompanied only by the crackling fire and the whispering pines. Arthur eventually pushed himself up. His brow was bright with a sheen of sweat, his skin sallow in the glow of the fire.

“Thanks,” he managed softly.

“Were you able to save anyone?” Charles asked. The outlaw paused, before slowly nodding.

“Was able to drag that fool out of there eventually. He was hell bent on killing every citizen in that town for no other reason than they imprisoned him, seems like.” Arthur’s mouth drew into a thin line.

“If you hadn’t been there, he would’ve.”

“If I hadn’ta been there, he woulda hung, and that’s the last anybody woulda seen of Micah Bell.”

Charles tapped his finger against the bottle that he’d salvaged from Arthur. “I wasn’t aware killers were so concerned about saving people.”

Arthur opened his mouth, then closed it. His blue eyes slid away from Charles’ to stare back into the fire. “I ain’t a good man,” he said, barely over a whisper, his face fractured with guilt.

Slowly, Charles reached out and grabbed the side of Arthur’s face, turning his head to face Charles. The man looked younger than Charles had ever seen him, uncertainty melting the years away from his features. The gruffness that Arthur wore around him like a mantle at camp had been shed, leaving the man that wandered the plains and mountains of the west, free of the chains that Dutch had forged, link by link, over twenty years. Out here, Arthur lived the life Dutch espoused. But Dutch, Charles realized as he stared at Arthur, did not want freedom. He wanted money, and it would never be enough. He wanted power, and he would never have enough. He wanted love, but would not give it in return.

But Charles could.

“Charles, what--” Arthur began, starting to pull away.

Carefully, gently, Charles leaned in and pressed his lips against Arthur’s. There was a moment of resistance, and Charles’ heart stuttered. If he was refused, he would saddle up Taima and ride into the west, and never see Arthur again outside of WANTED posters and newspaper articles.

But just as Charles had begun to plan his escape, Arthur’s mouth opened and he kissed back. It was softer and gentler than Charles could have imagined, and he breathed in deeply, taking in the musk of Arthur. He smelled of woodfire and whiskey, of aged leather and sweat. It was more intoxicating than the bottle they’d shared, and when Charles finally pulled away, he was breathless.

The color had come back to Arthur’s cheeks, his mouth slightly agape,and he was staring at Charles with incredulity. And Charles thought, this is it. He’d misjudged, and Arthur would curse him and shoot him right there. Arthur had killed for less.

But instead, a look of deep, immeasurable sadness settled into his eyes. “Charles, I ain’t worth--”

Charles dropped his hand from Arthur’s face to his collar. He tightened his grip there, pulling Arthur in with more force than he intended. He ignored the wince on the outlaw’s face as his leg was shifted. “If you have any respect for me and the decisions that I make, you will not finish that sentence.”

Arthur’s jaw clicked shut. Charles dropped his hand from Arthur’s collar, but left his hands on Arthur’s chest. Tentatively, Arthur reached up and put his hands over Charles’, covering them. They stayed like that, Charles twisted as an angle so as not to disturb Arthur’s bad leg, and Arthur, holding on with a gentleness previously afforded to the women and the horses and Jack--to the people and creatures, Charles realized, Arthur felt he could be most honest with in his kindness.

Slowly, Charles let his hands drop away. He wanted to feel Arthur’s lips on his again; wanted to explore every part of him. But he was afraid alcohol and pain had softened Arthur’s will, and that he would awake in the morning and be horrified by what they had done.

So instead he pressed Arthur back to the earth, mindful of his leg, and settled in beside him, his left arm strewn over Arthur’s chest. Arthur reached up, lacing his fingers into Charles’. They fell asleep that way, Charles’ head tucked into the crook of Arthur’s neck, the scent of him filling Charles’ nose.

He woke with a crick in his neck, an arm that was asleep, and the realization that Arthur was not next to him. The sun was already well above the horizon, the July sky the light pale blue of a young morning. A weight settled onto Charles’ chest, and he was certain that if he got up, he’d see the camp site abandoned save for him and Taima.

The smell of coffee wafted over him, and he tipped his head up. Arthur was at the campfire, which he had stoked back into small flames, and had settled a coffee pot over. His bad leg was stretched out before him, his bare flesh white. The bandage wrapped around his thigh was tinged red, but there were no signs of worsening infection. He looked up as he caught the movement out of the corner of his eyes. A soft smile pulled on his lips, and the vice that had locked up around Charles' heart fell away, and he realized he could breathe again.

“Coffee?”

“Of course.”

Arthur poured the hot coffee into a tin cup, passing it over. Charles took the proffered cup.

“Last night was nice.” Arthur said, his smile broadening. “Maybe we can do it again sometime.”

Charles felt a smile break across his own features, unbidden. “The lancing of an infected wound? I don’t want to make it a habit--”

“Not that.” Arthur said, placing the cup down and stretching forward. He had to shift awkwardly to pull his leg with him, and Charles closed the space. This time when they kissed, Arthur was less uncertain, and he kissed with a hunger that Charles readily answered. By the time they broke, Charles’ heart was tapping against his chest, and a warmth had pooled in his stomach.

He leaned in again, knocking Arthur's hat back and running his hand through his hair before pulling him close. The kiss was long, and soft, and gentle, and Charles felt something unfurl in his heart. It was the budding of something new and young. It felt like the warm spring breeze after a particularly hard winter.

Arthur finally pulled away, a sloppy grin on his face. Charles could see the bulge in his pants, could feel his own, and decided not to act. Charles had taken them both into untrod lands, and he would take them there carefully. He reached down for his coffee. It had cooled, but he drank it anyway. He felt like a boy again. He could not take his eyes off the broad shouldered form of Arthur, and as he studied the man, he realized he would do whatever was necessary to free this man from Dutch’s cage, and set him back into the untamed wild, where he belonged.

Where, he hoped, they belonged together.