Chapter Text
Arthur Morgan’s chest ached something awful.
The ghost of bear claws itched from his collarbone all the way down to his hips, and blood dripped impatiently out of the wounds, marring the bright green grass of the forest with thick crimson.
Arthur had been looking for a tracker somewhere west of Strawberry, nestled deep in the forest, to sell a few pelts he’d gotten from some deer and elk he’d killed. Selling pelts never made him much money, but they hadn’t arrived in Horseshoe Overlook that long ago, and selling pelts was an easy – and legal – way to make a bit of quick cash. Arthur had never been much of a hunter, but he was a good shot, and he had three decent pelts to show for it.
It had been getting late, and the darkening sky made it hard to see. Arthur had, admittedly, gotten a bit lost, so he decided to set up camp for the night before the sun completed fizzled out, and re-orient himself in the morning. He’d just been planning to rough it on the ground, he only needed five or six hours with his eyes closed, after all, but just as he was getting ready to hitch up his horse for the night, he’d come across an abandoned looking cabin. Clouds were drawing into the sky, encasing the fading sun and the stars, and threatening rain. If he could find cover for the night rather than get soaked through outside, it would be all the better. He only had his bedroll, hadn’t picked up a tent yet in Valentine like Hosea had been hinting.
Briefly, Arthur had considered the possibility the cabin was not completed abandoned; but he figured, it was a tiny cabin, so, at worse, he’d come across a lone sleeping man or possibly a couple. Hopefully, they’d be unarmed, and if so, he could play it off as a big misunderstanding and just go sleep out in the woods after all. And if they were armed, well, there weren’t many people who were a quicker draw then him.
The thought that a bear had taken residence in the run-down shack, however, was not a possibility that had crossed his mind. Yet, here he was, lying flat on the ground, far from camp or civilization, with a bullet-ridden five-hundred-pound grizzly pushing into his fresh wounds, and crushing his bones.
Arthur took no time to collect himself once he realized the dead bear was on him, panic digging into his stomach. With great difficulty, Arthur pushed the grizzly off him. It thumped to the ground. A pang of regret tickled his heart as he looked over it. Killing it had been necessary – him or it – he reasoned, but that didn’t mean killing for any reason other than food and fur felt good. He’d thought about what Charles had said to him, when they’d gone out looking for bison – “My people moved with the bison, they were the whole reason for our continued survival, but we only took what we needed.”
Arthur sighed, whistling for his horse, Porter. The damn thing had taken off soon as the grizzly attacked, not that Arthur could blame him. He came trundling right along as soon as Arthur called, whinnying to communicate his annoyance with his owner.
He hitched the horse to a tree just outside the cabin, positioning him strategically under its branches to help ward off some of the rain. He fed him a couple carrots before grabbing his supplies and wandering inside the cabin to take a look at his injuries.
An ugly sight awaited him in the cabin, the dead body of a man pushed off to one side. Based on how the place had been ransacked, it looked like he had met the fate Arthur had been in danger of not moments ago.
The thing that was nice about living so far into the woods like this was you usually didn’t have to worry about other people hurting you, only animals.
And the thing that was bad about living so far into the woods like this was there were still animals, and they could hurt you something deep, cause you a death slower than a bullet, and no one would be around to help you.
Arthur lit a lantern, pushing it to the side as he took his shirt off. His chest was soaked in blood; the bears claws had ripped deep through his body. Arthur bundled up his shirt, since it was ruined anyways, and used it to slow some of the bleeding, pressing it deeply against his wounds like he’d seen Hosea and the Reverend do before, while he dug some bandages out of his bag. He felt bruises beginning to form across his shoulders and around his face, where the bear had pressed down most of its weight, but he didn’t seem too injured otherwise. Damn, he was lucky. He hadn't know many men who went up against a bear and lived to tell the tale.
The bleeding had started to slow, though barely, but Arthur poured some rum he’d tucked into his bag all over them, taking a swig of the bottle for good measure. The wounds sizzled like the crack of a warm fire, and Arthur grimaced at the jolt of pain it sent through him, but he knew it was necessary to ensure he didn’t get an infection.
He wrapped his chest in his bandages the best he could, knowing he’d done a shoddy job; red was seeping through the material, but he really didn’t feel like dealing with it anymore. He was getting woozy from the blood loss. He pulled his jacket tighter over his body, the cabin doing little to protect him from the cold winds that ravaged outdoors. After a few moments, despite his better judgment encouraging him to go and get decent medical help, he fell asleep.
-
The next morning, he was in even more pain than he had been in last night, the adrenaline from fighting a bear clearly having worn off as he slept.
Peeling himself up off the ground hurt, and he sat on the ground for a few moments just to catch his breath before he gritted his teeth, grabbed his things and hurried outside to his horse.
He hadn’t been to camp in about a week, which was far from unusual for Arthur, but it’d take him most of another day to get back. He debated whether it’d be better to just pay some extra money and go ride to the doctor in Valentine. Unfortunately, Strawberry was much closer, but he wasn’t welcome there anymore after the shootout he’d had with Micah, and he’d heard something about the doctor have gone missing (or was it fishing?) anyways. His other option was to just sneak back into camp to better treat his wounds with fresh supplies, and hope no one saw him. It’d take about as long as riding into Valentine anyways. Arthur had always been the type to hide injuries, not really out of shame or embarrassment (well, sometimes, he supposed), but more so because he didn’t want anybody fussing. Hosea, Grimshaw, Reverend when he was sober, and hell, even John if he was in a mood, were real good at fussing.
The decision was made for him. After a few hours of riding, barely conscious but still urging his horse on all the while, he directed Porter towards Valentine, deciding he better get his wounds professionally looked at, but Porter stomped along towards Horseshoe Overlook instead. Arthur didn’t have the energy to force the horse into changing paths. Porter had taken a liking to Kieran, that is once he’d been begrudgingly let into the gang, and probably knew better food and attention waited him there than with Arthur.
Camp was quiet when he returned, despite it being late afternoon. A few of the girls were knitting or reading, lost enough in thought that they didn’t seem to see him come in. Most of the men seemed to be out, likely plotting or drinking in Valentine or both, including Hosea, Dutch, Reverend and John, so Arthur was pleased to realize he might get away with this after all.
Arthur hitched up Porter, giving him a few pats, and nodded to Kieran who was brushing out his own horse nearby.
“Can you give Porter a few oatcakes from the stock when you’re done?” Arthur managed, trying to stand up straight. He could still feel the weight of the bear on him, digging into his skin and pressing into his bones. “I ain’t had much but carrots and apples on me last few days, think the guy needs something more substantial.”
“C-course, Mr. Morgan,” Kieran stammered, immediately stopping what he was doing. “I’ll get right on that. I just wanted to thank you again for – “
Arthur cut him off, putting a hand up. He was starting to not mind having the kid around so much, but he couldn’t deal with his incessant attempts to thank him right now. “No need, just get done what I told you.”
Strauss appeared to be out too, which allowed Arthur to rummage though their medical supplies without falling victim to more small talk. Thankfully, someone must have gone into town recently because they were fully stocked up. He wondered if he really should tell someone about what happened, concerned the wounds might actually require stitches or a second look, when his train of thought was interrupted.
“Hey, Arthur, haven’t seen you for a few days.” Charles Smith called, coming up behind him.
“Charles,” Arthur nodded, attempting to hide his grimace when the motion caused him a bit of pain.
Charles noticed immediately and frowned, eyeline tracing Arthur up and down. “You alright there? Are you injured?”
Arthur liked Charles. Although Arthur still didn't know him too well yet, Charles was one of the few people in this camp who didn’t yammer in his ear all the time or otherwise get on his nerves. Plus, he generally, unlike some others he could mention, seemed like he was the type who could keep a secret and not fuss over things that didn’t need fussing about.
“Ah,” Arthur opened his coat up a bit, before he could think better of it. He motioned towards his blood-soaked shirt and the bandages encasing his torso. “Ran into a little trouble west of here, abandoned cabin wasn’t so abandoned after all.”
“A person did that to you?” Charles questioned, hand reaching out to skim the bandage job Arthur had done, but never actually touching Arthur.
“No,” Arthur chuckled. “Bear, actually. Just came out of nowhere. Patched myself up pretty good, think the bleeding’s mostly stopped, but, I, uh, wanted to clean it again and get some new bandages.”
“You were attacked by a bear?” Charles said, a little louder, and Arthur looked around quickly to confirm no one had overheard him, and luckily, they had not. “And lived?”
“Got a few shots into him,” Arthur waved, “ain’t no big deal, all taken care of.”
Charles didn’t look very happy. “I think getting attacked by a bear is a pretty big deal.”
“I had worse, way worse, in fact.” Arthur countered.
“Doesn’t make it any better.” Charles mumbled. “I really think you should have Hosea or the Reverend take a look at it when they get back.” Arthur swayed as Charles spoke, and the other man put out a hand to steady Arthur and forcefully lower him to the ground. "And in the meantime, sit down."
"I'm sitting, aren't I?" Arthur asked, as if he hadn't just been helped down. “I ain't keen on telling Hosea or Reverend, though,” Arthur shook his head. “They’d just make a big fuss and make me rest and all that, and I got shit to do. Just wanna clean it up, get a good night’s sleep, couple beers. I’ll be fine tomorrow.”
Charles seemed to consider this. “Look, I don’t have the medical training some of the others around here do, but I have done a patch job on myself now and again, when I was running on my own,” he gestured towards himself. “Why don’t I take a look at it? Might be a good idea to get a second opinion.”
Charles had a point, Arthur decided, and he’d always been a man to take another’s word for it. If Arthur said tomorrow he felt fine and was going to head out again, Charles weren’t the kind of person to argue with him, try to strap him to a bed to make him rest or anything.
Arthur shuddered at the memory of an annoyed Hosea and bemused Bessie, bless her, trying to force him to rest after he’d dislocated his shoulder falling off a horse a good two decades earlier. He’d been only about fifteen, not as small as John had been at that age, but still small, and the horse they were trying to teach him to ride had, evidently, been too big for him.
“Alright,” Arthur decided, shaking away the memory. “That’s not a bad idea.” His gaze landed on some of the supplies he’d grabbed already. “Uh, John’s out, ain’t he? Why don’t we use his tent, just so, uh, no one sees?”
Charles didn’t respond, but seemed to agree as he helped Arthur up, then let him lead the way. Charles had one hand just barely grazing Arthur’s back, as if he was concerned the other man might fall over. Arthur didn’t think that was likely to happen, as if he hadn't been swaying moments earlier. Then, when he tried to take a seat on the ground in John’s tent, he collapsed clumsily to the floor instead.
“Careful,” Charles mumbled, gently pulling Arthur upright. Charles closed the tent flaps and lit the lantern on the side.
Charles stared at Arthur for a moment, and it took Arthur a second to realize the man wanted Arthur to pull the bandages off himself. He did so, first throwing off his jacket before peeling each of the wrapping off his skin, scrunching his face up as blood came dripping out of the wounds, staining his pants as well as the grass. The wounds were bright red, a sign there hadn’t been any infection yet, which was the only good news.
“They’re still bleeding pretty bad,” Charles said, examining them, “they’ll probably need some stitches.” Charles grabbed the needle and thread Arthur had pulled out of the wagon. “Are you okay with me doing that?”
Arthur nodded. “I trust you.”
Arthur watched as Charles first poured a bit of alcohol over the wounds. It didn’t hurt quite as much as when Arthur had done so himself in the cabin. Charles carefully drew thread between his skin, tightening up each of the wounds. There were four total, one for each of the bear’s claws that had torn into him. It looked as though Charles was putting twenty or twenty-five stitches through each of the holes ripped through his chest. Arthur’s mind wandered a bit as Charles worked. It was a bit painful, getting stitched, but nothing like being torn at by a bear had been, and Charles’ hands were slow and gentle, so Arthur was able to block out the pain with relative ease.
After twenty minutes or so, Charles clipped off the last of the thread. “Should be all good now,” he said. Arthur looked down. Charles’ stitching job was impeccable, easily comparable to what he’d seen someone with formal training do. Dried blood stained his chest and his stomach, and Arthur made a mental note to go down to the river in a day or two, and wipe himself down. He'd have to be careful to not get the stitches wet though. “That shirt,” Charles gestured toward the top Arthur had used to stop the bleeding earlier that was tossed to the side, “is probably useless now. Don’t want to use something with blood on it for rags.”
“Ah, I got other shirts,” Arthur said, slowly standing up. “Thanks, Charles, I appreciate it.”
“It’s no problem,” and Charles looked like he meant it. “They should probably come out in ten days or so. I’d recommend going to a doctor for that.”
“I probably will. Hell, I almost went to a doctor today, but I…” Arthur’s voice trailed off. How did he explain his horse might have better instincts then him?
“Just wanted to get back to camp?” Charles finished.
“Yeah, yeah,” Arthur agreed. “Maybe it’s the blood loss, dunno. Just wanna sleep this off.”
Charles nodded. “Well, if you need anything else, you know where to find me.”
“Thanks Charles,” Arthur smiled, collecting his ruined shirt and satchel before waving at Charles as he made his way back to his own bed, changing into a new shirt and throwing on a warmer jacket for sleeping. Horseshoe Overlook got cold at night, with the elevation, and the trees surrounding the area.
Arthur rested for a few hours before Pearson brought the stew out for dinner just as some of the others were coming back to camp. His stomach still hurt, tight stitching pulling at him, but he knew he’d feel better once he got a bit of meat into him, would help him gain some strength back.
John stopped at his tent to put away some supplies he’d picked up in town before getting some dinner. “Why the hell is there blood in my tent?” He asked everyone, starring at red stained grass by his bed.
No one seemed to know, but Charles briefly made eye contact with Arthur before getting himself a bowl for dinner and shook his head in what seemed like both amusement and worry.
Arthur pretended not to notice.