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The remains of the day were tinged with hues of purple and orange, mist settling over the lush forests and rock boulders of Roanoke Ridge. Water continuously roared and cascaded by the river, splashing and lapping against the rocks. Arthur had set up his camp within the trees by the cliff side with a good view, with Seneca hitched at a nearby tree. He was on his way back to Beaver Hollow after a short visit at Willard’s Rest when dusk fell, then deciding to temporarily shelter here until the morning.
By the time he’s finished pitching up his tent and preparing the campfire, the sun had sunken below the horizon.
He laid down inside his tent, losing himself inside his own mind. He let the sounds of nature be a distant melody in the background as he reflected about what had happened to him in the past few days. He thought about the Downes and the Londonderrys, families destroyed by his threats and his fists. He thought about Hamish Sinclair and Sister Calderon, kind strangers turned into his close confidants. He thought about Charlotte, whom he’d helped back at Willard’s Rest, a poor widow who mourned for her husband, lost and unable to find a purpose past the grief she was experiencing. Back there, he taught her how to skin a rabbit, guiding her through every cut just as how Hosea taught him when he was younger. It was the least he could do to help her stand back on her feet.
The least he could do to redeem himself.
His body had been betraying him at this point. He’d gasped for air whenever he ran and walked, sputtering and coughing blood until his vision became clouded with black. His sickness was a vicious beast, stealing every single breath he expelled until all that was left of him was a set of corrupted lungs.
This was a fitting punishment for me, he thought to himself as he drifted into sleep.
But an unsettling breeze blew past him, his instincts prompting him to forcibly keep his eyes open. He was aware of his own presence in Murfree Country — a hostile territory drenched in blood, with scattered human bones and hanging corpses lining each passing trail, and a haunted place where one can get lost through the chilling whispers within the forests of this land, the ghosts an ominous warning of what was lurking around the trees. To the Murfree Brood, he was prey. An ordinary camper who happened to be a trespasser threatening their land. Anytime, he could be ambushed and driven away from the place he felt he was in his safest.
Not that he had enough time for him to spare in this wretched world, anyway.
There was rustling by the trees, along with a dull thud of hooves. He scrambled up, grabbing the rifle beside him. He left his tent and slowly approached the source of the noise, readying himself in case the intruder would pull a dirty trick to catch him off-guard. He took a deep breath, and clutched his weapon tightly.
He felt relieved when a familiar face emerged in front of him — a young dark-skinned man with a noticeable stubble and scar on his face, his head partially shaved and braided.
“Charles,” Arthur muttered, lowering his weapon, “it’s you.”
Charles bore a stoic expression on his face as he glanced upon him. “You’re a hard man to find, Arthur. Is everything okay?”
Arthur slung his rifle behind his back. “M’fine,” he responded, gruff and terse.
“Pearson and Mrs. Grimshaw asked me to look for you,” Charles said as he dismounted from Taima, leading her to be hitched close to Seneca, “rest of the camp is missing you.”
Arthur blinked. “Oh, well,” he waved him off, “tell ‘em I’m fine and that I’ve been just doing my own thi-” A wet, ragged cough escaped from him, leading him to curl over in agony, streaks of blood staining the ground.
Charles immediately held him up, pulling his left arm over his own shoulders. He took a closer look upon his face, seeing his bloodshot, glassy eyes and sickly pallor. “Arthur.” He said, brows knitting at him, “You’re not fine.”
Arthur scoffed. “What d’ya mean by that?” he sounded raspy, “I’m perfectly fine, go worry about yourself and Dutch’s god-forsaken plans.”
Charles shook his head. “Please, Arthur,” he insisted, “let me help.”
He gently settled him down on the bedroll inside the tent, then knelt next to him, sighing as he pressed his fingers against his forehead.
“No fever, thankfully.” He fished a small bottle of tonic from his own satchel, offering it to Arthur. “Here, take this.”
Arthur huffed, pushing the bottle back. “This ain’t gonna help a dying man, Charles.”
Charles frowned. “Come on, Arthur, don’t say that. Take it for me, will you?”
Arthur hesitated at first, then snatched the bottle, popping it open to take a whiff of its bittersweet, earthy scent. He reluctantly gulped its contents, the syrupy liquid warming his throat. “Tastes like shit,” he murmured, before he set the bottle aside, “but thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Charles said, giving him a light pat on his shoulders, before moving away to give him some space. He sat down on the log by the campfire, but he remained close enough to the tent so he could talk. “Feel any better?”
“Helped a bit,” Arthur nodded as he sat upright, propping his elbow on his knee.
Rubbing his eyes, he looked towards Charles, shame washing over him. Right now, he wasn’t the headstrong enforcer who wore a hardened expression whenever he walked inside the saloon, the crowd parting in fear of him, and the skilled duelist who would swiftly draw his revolver during a tense duel, a gun being disarmed and clattering on the floor afterwards.
At this moment, Arthur felt exposed. Vulnerable. Shadowed by Death himself.
“Look, I’m sorry for being a bit of an ass to you,” he began, “Listen, I-I’ve been spending my days trying to make amends. Trying to do good even if it’s all gonna amount to nothing. All my life, I’d robbed, shot, ran from the Pinkertons…hid from the law, hell, did you know that I damned myself by beating a dying man inside his own ranch for a few bucks?”
Charles remained silent, listening to him as he spoke. Fire crackled, its flames illuminating both of them in the camp. Through the mist, the sky infinitely stretched above, the moon shining with its resplendent glow.
“I met the man’s family a few days back, down in Annesburg,” Arthur continued, his gaze becoming distant, “Gave them money and told them to start a new life. Did the same thing to another family whose debt Strauss had owed and they……it made me think of Eliza and Isaac.”
A pause, before he spoke once again, his tone brittle and laden with regret. “I ain’t a good man, Charles. Ain’t kidding when I said I’m dyin’. Doc at Saint Denis said I don’t have any time any longer.”
Charles’ lips quivered as he tried to find the right words to say to him, the gravity of what he said weighing him down.
“Oh Arthur…..” was all he let out, averting his gaze from him.
“Charles, I could be gone any time. Could be right now, or maybe in the next few days,” Arthur stared on his hands, then on the ground, “Wonder how Eliza and Isaac would feel when I see ‘em eventually, knowing all I’ve done was to leave a pile of dead bodies for Dutch and his goddamn Tahiti.” A pause. “Yet I’m still here, helping others like a man that I am, even though my end is drawing near. I’m feelin’ like a goddamn fraud, y’know?”
There was a brief silence between the two of them, the only sounds being the melodious chirping of the cicadas along with the distant howling of the wolves. Embers glowed from the campfire, sparks drifting to be one with the stars in the sky.
“I’m sure,” Charles finally answered with a thoughtful expression on his face, “that Eliza and Isaac will be proud of you.”
To him, Arthur was a man he admired for his unwavering loyalty and kindness, despite his tough, unyielding exterior. Even if he’s only known him for a few months in the gang, he knew the state of his own heart. It was a pure one, at least in his own standards.
“You know what sets you apart from Micah and the Callander brothers? Unlike them, you still have a conscience. You’re atoning for what you’ve done, even if…” he trailed off, “…you have limited time in this world. Because other people never had the opportunity to do so.”
Like Sean, Kieran, Lenny, Hosea….and all those people who died at Blackwater.
He looked towards Arthur wistfully. “I guess it’s a gift to know. Even though it was a painful thing to hear. You still have a chance to change for the better, Arthur. There’s a good man underneath you, even if you think otherwise.”
Arthur had heard the same words before. From a ragged war veteran at Valentine who saw his past through his sad eyes. From a priest in Saint Denis who thanked him for saving two Spanish slaves by the Fence. From a woman whom he offered a ride with back to the swampy settlement of Lakay. From other people — some were strangers that he had stumbled upon, some were friends he’d left behind in the West.
“I…s’ppose you’re right,” Arthur said, his somber expression mellowing. “You and your words, damn, what would I ever do without you.”
Charles looked up to the sky where the moon shone and the stars twinkled. “Remember that time when you almost sent that German family away just because you didn’t speak their language?”
“Yeah, and then you called me out for it,” Arthur said, chuckling lightly at the memory, “Got a gold bar from that man before they went their own way. Cashed it all out at a fence just outside Rhodes, and used that money to give the camp what they wanted.”
“And yet, it wasn’t enough according to Dutch,” Charles added.
The two continued to converse, exchanging stories as the night went on. Roanoke Ridge might’ve been a scary place for them to stay in, but safety was within their grasp, the warmth of the campfire embracing them.