Wane

From somewhere outside the flickering glow of the fire, a mighty chorus of cicadas hummed and pulsed while he, Dutch, and Hosea silently dined. The only sound that broke through the din of the insects’ swelling drone was the occasional chirping cadence of a katydid, not so much an interruption as a melody floating on top of the chorale. Arthur knew the sonorous hymn would fade as the curtain of night swallowed the last of the daylight, but the persistence of the refrain was astonishing.

What was removed from their company occupied his reflections as much as the unrelenting moisture and the resonant buzzing that surrounded them at the campfire: off on the other side of camp, Miss Grimshaw was eating alone, often preferring to take meals in her own company when Bessie and Annabelle weren’t around. He'd never quite gotten his head around it.

Given her past involvement with Dutch, he would’ve thought watching Annabelle playfully sitting in Dutch’s lap, tucking his long, dark locks behind his ears, smoothing the hair of his thick brows with her thumb, and affectionately spinning the rings on his fingers would be torture for Grimshaw. Instead, the presence of the other two women always seemed comforting to her—by all appearances, she was equally fond of them both and untroubled by the complicated history. 

Confounding as it was, there was little Arthur could claim to understand about women.

“What about the mill?” Hosea suggested, his words rupturing the spell of the cicadas’ song as he brought a spoonful of stew to his mouth.

”What about it?” Always the fastest eater of the bunch, Arthur had already finished his food and was pulling a cigarette out of the slightly soggy box in his pocket—it was suffering as much as he was in the humidity.

With his spoon hovering halfway between his bowl and his lips, Dutch laughed deeply. “What do you mean ‘what about it’?!”

Arthur wasn't sure if it was affectionate or an unspoken joke at his expense.

“We all saw the wagonloads of flour they delivered to the station when we rode through," Dutch continued, through the bite in his mouth. "It has to be one of the biggest operations in town, and thus one of the biggest opportunities for us.” 

They’d just arrived and set up their temporary home that afternoon. It was a fairly decent spot, all things considered—a handful of burr oak and silver maple trees surrounded the camp, helping the space feel at least somewhat nestled in the wilderness in addition to being adequately private. Miss Grimshaw had been the one to find the level, protected ground in the shadow of a small limestone bluff a ways outside the nearest city, Massey, Kansas.

After traveling west from Chicago, they’d ended up in the ostensible breadbasket of the country, and while Arthur was relieved to be away from the hectic, fetid claustrophobia of the city, he found himself instead feeling exposed in the vast, flat landscape in which they’d pitched their tents, for now. They’d made it as far as Dodge City, but soon realized that a town saturated with outlaws and with a reputation for violence and mayhem was not the most strategic location to look for any significant scores. So, they headed southeast along the Arkansas River to seek out some place rather more civilized.

“I chatted up some locals outside the drug store, and they say there’s a single owner—Gillis, I think his name is,” Hosea explained, scraping his bowl for the last few morsels of his dinner. “Owns the land, built the mill, acts as administrator. Sounds like he’s quite the local figure, not just in the city, but the county, as well. The operation being consolidated like that makes it an easier mark. Fewer moving parts.”

“But what do any of us know about millin’ flour, or…how much money they’re even makin’ there?” Drawing in a mouthful of dry, bitter smoke from his cigarette, Arthur savored the sweet, earthy taste of the tobacco on his lips. 

“Well, that’s where you come in, son. We’ll have you go scout the place." Dutch leaned over and clapped him heartily on the back. "First thing tomorrow, I want you to ride over there and see what you can overhear, and, if possible, try to find where they keep the money—whether there’s a safe inside the mill, or if there are any points of vulnerability when the funds are transported.”

“Alright.” He appreciated Dutch's trust, but Arthur privately bemoaned the early morning that awaited him as he flicked his cigarette into the fire. “I’ll tryta leave before the sun’s up.”

Finished with his meal, Hosea turned at his waist to set the metal bowl on the log next to him, and the light of the fire caught the gray that had begun to streak his straw-colored hair. “And I’ll head back into town tomorrow, see if I can glean anything useful from folks at the station.”

“When’re Annabelle and Bessie comin’ back from Dodge City?” Arthur asked. He always missed the liveliness the two women brought to the camp. 

“Might be another couple days.” Dutch sighed with a marked unease. “They were working over some wealthy widower who’d taken up a room at the Dodge House Hotel. Seems he was dead set on gambling himself into self-destruction, and the poor lonely fool was particularly vulnerable to the suggestions of, well…beautiful women.”

“They’ll manage themselves just fine, Dutch,” Hosea reassured his dear friend. “They always do.”

“Arthur! Come help me get this mess from dinner cleaned up!” Miss Grimshaw yelled from the other side of camp. 

Despite himself, Arthur groaned at the request. Doing the dishes felt like woman’s work and a backslide into boyhood, just as Dutch and Hosea were finally treating him more like the man his 22 years—and proven capabilities—called for. 

“Can’t John do it?!” he hollered back.

“John is studying his letters tonight, and we should leave him to it lest the passion for education leave him once again.” Careful not to admonish Arthur, Dutch was still keen to remind him of his responsibilities.

In Arthur’s estimation, Dutch and Hosea had been more patient with John than that rowdy heel deserved. However, he tried his best to remember the time—not all that long ago—that he’d been a boy pulled off the streets and thrust into the embrace of a new kind of family. With at least enough sense to recognize he’d been no eager student at first, either, Arthur knew John would grow up sooner or later.

“Fine,” he yielded, begrudgingly gathering up the other men’s empty bowls, and trudged over to the water basin to help Grimshaw do the washing.