A Survivor.

He had been paid, he wants to say, some strange swell of something almost making him break his reticence. Dutch paid him to get them to and through the overpass. Because even though Dutch was a snake oil salesman, he was a smart one and knew there weren't a way around the Grizzlies without a survivalist. And Charles was a survivalist in need of cash. It worked out.

Almost a little too well, he thinks.

The writing's been on the wall for too damn long. He had thought to cut his losses and run--promise of future money be damned--but his damn soft heart couldn't just leave them to their own devices, especially not the women trailing behind Dutch like a flock of bedraggled ducklings. Lenny, either--barely into adulthood. Dutch was different than the other gang leaders Charles worked for, and that made him dangerous. Hope out here is dangerous.

When he had set out to teach Arthur to hunt--to really hunt--he had been cautious. Asking after his weakness had him on edge. But then Arthur wouldn't shut up--funny for a brute and more insightful than an enforcer ought to be. Teaching him about tracking seemed a step too far into giving away his ways, but Charles has always been practical in nature, to his very core. One more person who could hunt right could only be a boon for the camp.

It's that same pragmatism that has him grunting at Arthur's words. What's worse in this world--a murderer who kills out of his own survival or a man who feeds false hope from a pulpit? One way is the simple law of nature: kill or be killed. The other is manipulation. Cruel. Twisted. Pretty, empty words wrapped up in the blood of others. He still remembers the twinkle of hope in Lenny's eyes for an equal world where he could stand shoulder-to-shoulder with any man regardless of skin color.

He remembers the way that light had snuffed out.

"After that, I can leave this goddamn place." A wet cough, followed by blood, vivid red covering his teeth and lips. He brought a hand to his mouth to wipe it clean, clearing his throat. Maybe Charles was right, he should simply leave, but with John and his family, plus the girls, he wouldn't be able to do so. He might be selfish, though in that case, he had to make sure they were safe.

"Unless you protect 'em. You, Sadie and John. I can trust you with that, Charles." Perhaps the only one he could trust. "But I can't ask that from you. They're my responsibility, and I made a promise to Hosea I'd keep an eye on 'em. Don't worry, we'll be leavin' this place in no time." Would they? The train robbery was coming, the money was enough for them to break free of that hell. Dutch could grab his part and leave to that damn Tahiti he always talked about. With Micah for all he cared.

The fever was worse each day, Arthur could feel like his body was going to collapse at any minute. Though, Charles' medications had been helping him to soothe the worst symptoms of tuberculosis. Handing the empty bowl back to the other man, he weakly half smiled at him.

"Thanks. I feel better already. With some hot weather and rest, I can recover." A pause as he pursed his lips, pensive.

"What are you gonna do, Charles? After the gang is disbanded and all?" Probably follow his own path, maybe stick around with Rains Fall? "I know what I'm gonna do." And if he died on his way to California, so be it. So long as he would die fighting.

YOU’RE A DEADMAN. I’M SENDING YOU STRAIGHT TO HELL

after 6 hours I am allowed to die now

Charles snorts. ❛ You think I ever relied on Dutch, Arthur? ❜ He's mashing some fibrous root in a wooden bowl with a hefty rock when he stops and looks up, stonefaced. Did Arthur think he hadn't counted the losses and cut because of Dutch and his whiteman snake oil salesmanship? Hell no. He clocked the man the first time he heard him speak having listened to white men like that all his life. All promises while their fake, plastered smiles hide atrocities.

The same men who took his mother away. The same men who pressed a brown bottle in his father's scarred hands. The same men who looked at Charles's broad form as if wishing it were only a few years earlier and they could openly bid on him as if he's nothing but an animal at the market.

No. Charles ain't been swayed by no pretty words from no conman. No speech about freedom or maintaining a certain way of life or fighting 'civilization' could softened his heart.

"Maybe... in the beginning at least. Like me." Or maybe not, Charles was capable of taking care of himself, even without the gang. The reason why he had joined them was never explained, though Arthur assumed it was because of Dutch's Code -- it was different, they didn't sound like criminals but outlaws.

But Arthur had been a fool for decades, believing Dutch was actually righteous. "The gang was like a community... we weren't exactly bandits, or so I thought. Dutch made us trust him, he even lectured me once when I robbed some poor folks. We seemed to be different from other gangs..." Stupid. Just now Arthur could understand how manipulative Dutch had been.

"If you joined us for another reason, I can't tell what. You're no murderer, you despised the Callander brothers and that fool Micah even more. But, for some goddamn reason, you talk to me. I'm a vicious killer like them, yet here you are..."

A pause as his bloodshot eyes stared at the bowl Charles had given to him. He knocked its content back, grimacing with the burning sensation down to his throat. "I'm plannin' on it... yeah." Then, he glanced at Charles, mumbling a thank you before coughing more.