#gingiwherethemoonis

Hypothermia is your main concern, followed very closely by predation from opportunistic animals. Every now and then a wolf will howl at the slim moon, and you jump like a spooked rabbit. The snow crunches under each step, the monotony of it alongside your heaving breaths might drive you mad before the infinite darkness even gets the chance. Regret is eating you alive. If only you’d kept your damn mouth shut. Of course, you had every right to be mad, but as always, you blew up when you should’ve simmered. If only your mother could see you now.

You ascended this god forsaken mountain with six men, all of varying backgrounds but united by science, alongside you, likely their last pick for an investigatory expedition. Since day one they’d hated you for no reason other than the obvious; you were unfortunate enough to be born woman. Excluding you from conversations, delegating the most tedious tasks, and expecting you to do the notetaking were all par for the course in your experiences as a member of the fairer sex in scientific settings. But it truly came to a head this morning, as you sat in your little canvas tent, already dressed for the day ahead, double-checking all your recordings from last night and deciding which direction was the optimal choice to encounter the herd of elk you’d been tracking, when Mr. Kerr yelled out to you from the campfire.

“Where’s our cook?”

You could just imagine him trying to supress his laughter with the others. Despite being the leader of this study, he was unendingly immature. You took a deep breath to steady yourself, already feeling your face grow hot in anger.

“You’ve got two working hands, Mr. Kerr,” you called back, feigning indifference, “I believe they’re capable of preparing your own breakfast.”

A few low oohs resounded the camp site, and you quietly smiled at your little victory, though it wasn’t long before the flap to your tent was torn open and the early morning sun haloed the fuming man before you. It’s brightness bounced of the snow and almost blinded you, adjusting from the low light of the tent.

“Out, now!” He practically barked.

With a huff you closed your notebook and shoved it into your briefcase, taking your sweet time obeying his request. Crawling out and standing up, you placed your hands on your hips and faced him head on, entirely unafraid of his bloated ego.

“Who do you think you are to talk to me like that?” He spat.

“Your teammate, sir.” You answered, maintaining eye contact. You had had this discussion before.

He nodded, eyes burning into yours. From your peripheral you could see the others watching with rapt amusement. To them, this must be the most exciting thing to happen all week.

“And as my teammate, don’t you think you should listen to me?” He challenged.

“I’ll listen when you have something worthwhile to say.”

You could physically see him bristle. His eyes widened, his brow furrowed, and his hands clenched into fists at his side. Clearly your continued defiance had pushed him to his limit (much as his had done the same to you).

“You are out of your depth, girl.” He hissed, looking you up and down like a slab of meat in a butcher’s stall. “Too much of a hussy for the kitchen, too much of a brat for the streets.”

Without even thinking you struck his cheek with your open palm hard as you could. The clap it made settled over the clearing, the others gasping. He stumbled back and held the side of his face, an angry red mark distinctly the shape of your hand quickly raising on the pale skin.

“How dare you?” You seethed, pointing an accusatory finger at him, positively brimming with rage. “I have done more work than the rest of you combined! And you don’t know a damn thing ‘bout me, so don’t go making baseless accusations!”

A few of the other men had stood from the campfire, gingerly making their way over as to not incur the wrath of the lioness currently chewing out their leader for the disrespect they’d all shown you. Mr. Kerr spat on the snow at your feet and sucked in a deep breath.

“Get out.” He said lowly.

You blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“Get out! Now!” He grabbed your bag from the tent entrance and tossed it at you. You caught it just in time as to not break the jars inside.

“And go where?” You scoffed in disbelief, poring over the thick woods around you. Maybe you had overreacted, but sending you out into the wilderness was a death sentence. Something you knew he was well aware of.

“I don’t know, and I don’t care,” He rubbed his swollen cheek. “But you ain’t got no future in this team, you crazed bitch.” One of the other men had come to support him (as if he was going to bleed out from a measly slap, the pathetic manchild).

You looked at the rest of them, either equally as enraged or entirely indifferent to your situation. It suddenly hit you, clearer than ever, how painfully unwanted your presence was. That familiar intruding sense of loneliness and guilt, even in a situation you weren’t exactly itching to be included in, settled deep in your chest.

“Fine.” You said with an air of finality, as if you truly didn’t care that you were wandering into a great cold nothingness. “I’ll be looking forward to your paper in the journals in the comin’ months, since it seems y’all think the results are at the bottom of a whiskey bottle. Good luck without me.” You turned hastily, picking up your skirts and marching into the woods. You could faintly hear them whispering behind you, and as much as your heart ached and your brain begged to go back, apologise, your pride would never allow it.

But almost twelve hours later, your pride has all but shrivelled up and died in the falling snow. Your legs burn with effort to push through the fresh pow, your skirts waterlogged with its melt. You’d lost feeling in your fingers and toes shortly after the sun dipped below the horizon. It is so dark; you can’t see your own shivering hands in front of your face. Every few feet you bump into a tree or a rock, but deep down you’re just thankful it isn’t something breathing. The wind picks up and bites at your numb face, sending snowflakes like knives across the skin. Your stomach growls and it almost hurts how hungry you are. You begin to cry, but the hot tears almost immediately cool and are whipped from your face. Bringing torpid hands to cup your eyes and squint into the dark for the umpteenth time tonight, you think you finally see something.

A little orange glow flickers in the distance. You blink, hard. It stays there, pulsing like a heart between the thick trunks of the woods. You gasp (but quickly cough when the cold air seizes your lungs) and begin running as best you can. Your trip on your skirts, fallen logs, the snow itself, but don’t stop moving, scrambling to your feet as quickly as you’d fallen. You don’t dare rip your eyes from the light, deeply afraid to be faced with the pitch-black night again if you lose sight of it. You stumble into a clearing, practically rolling down the hill.

It's a campfire, standing brave outside a quaint dilapidated cabin, bracketed on each side by equally miserable buildings. The absence of the town on your maps doesn’t even register before you scramble to your feet and approach. A lone man stands in front of the fire, poncho flapping in the wind, revealing an intimidating rifle clutched in his hands.

You pass the fence tracing the mouth of the town, adrenaline beginning to drain from your system. “Hello?” You call out, straining to be heard above the roaring gale. “I need help!”

The man’s head snaps to you and brings the gun to his shoulder with practiced efficiency, bringing your pathetic visage to stand in his sights as he steps closer. Your stomach drops and your feet halt.

“Identify yourself!” He yells back.

You tell him your name when he’s finally close enough to not have to bellow over the storm. “I… I’m lost.” You shake, and not just from the cold. He looks mean, scowl set deep on his face with a suspicion you’ve never seen before.

“Javier, who the hell are ya’ talkin’ to?” Another man storms from the cabin, holding his hat to his head.

“A woman.” Javier calls back, not taking his eyes off you.

“A woman?” The man repeats, incredulous, stomping his way over through the snow. Despite the wind, the air feels still and thin in the stare you hold with Javier. This second man, thin whisps of blond hair whipping his red cheeks, claps a hand on Javier’s shoulder. “I’ll be damned, it is a woman!” The excitement in his voice sends a chill down your spine, irrespective of the cold. “Watchu’ doin’ out here, girl?”

You struggle to find your voice, smacking your numb lips together like a fish out of water. The blond man’s moustache deepens into a frown, and he brings one gloved hand to his holster.

“Don’t make me repeat myself.” His voice drops a dangerous octave.

“I’m a naturalist.” You spit out, voice shaky, “I’m studying the elk and wolves in these mountains. I got… separated from my team. I’m just looking for some warmth.”

The blond chuckles under his breath, Javier side-eyes him. “’M sure I could show you some warmth, honey.” He must see you gulp, as he laughs even harder.

Javier nudges him with his elbow. “Should we get Dutch?” The two bring their gaze back to you and survey you carefully. You’re sure you must be a sight, shivering in a coat and waterlogged skirts, eyes brimming with tears, holding a leather doctor’s bag to your chest like a child with a teddy.

“Naw, don’t bother the man.” The blonde says, rubbing his chin with an idle hand. “Just send her away.” He gestures to the woods you came from.

Fear immediately clutches your heart, more than the two mysterious men before you, and your legs collapse from under you. “No! No, please, please don’t make me leave. I’m lost, I have nowhere to go.” You drop your bag and clutch your hands together as devout as a nun in prayer.

An air of uncertainty overtakes Javier, but the blond simply looks amused. “Well, you better go and get lost again.”

“I’ll die out there, please.” You hate that you begin to cry. You’d never known humanity to be particularly compassionate, but this was an all-new kind of cruelty. You’d seen a doe’s skin torn from her still-warm body, but those wolves were hungry. You’d seen a chicken choke on its own blood, but the fox had kits to feed. These men, they’re going to cast aside a lone woman in favour of what? Pride? Independence? You can’t imagine why they wouldn’t help you.

“Javier! Micah! What is it?” A third voice boomed through the storm, quickly tearing the duo’s attention from you to the group approaching.

“It’s a woman, sir. Says she’s lost.” Micah duly informs as the three new men come to a halt in front of you. From your sad little spot on your knees in the snow, this loose semi-circle of men stands tall like angels of death in this seemingly never-ending blizzard. You know realistically your fear should double, but something about some of these men seem kinder, softer. The man on the far right, scarf wrapped tight around his neck, snowflakes disappearing in his silver hair, reminds you of your father. He speaks first, lifting the lantern to better see your face.

“What are you doing out here, girl?”

From a kind of primitive trust, you find your voice to answer. You state your name and distantly register the déjà vu, repeating exactly what you had told the others.

He nods, considering you. “How’d you find us?”

Find them? Do they mean their town? Was it purposefully left off the maps? Your confusion must show on your face, as Micah elaborates for him.

“How’d you find this camp, huh? You been following us?” He sneers.

Followed, you think, they’re just as lost in this storm as you, but it seems like they’ve done it on purpose. You shake your head. “No, no! I saw the light of the fire. Please, I don’t know where I am. This town wasn’t on my maps.”

Another man speaks, barking out an order from beneath his thick black moustache. “Arthur, search her.”

The final man, Arthur, donning a thick blue coat and low set gamblers hat, steps toward you. Instinctively you scramble back, gripped with animalistic fear of an unknown man reaching out to you.

“Easy,” he speaks, voice low and hands held in front like calming a wild horse, “I ain’t gon’ hurt ya.” His eyes peek from below the rim of his hat, and they’re blue like you’ve never seen blue. Brimming with something so close to pity, but only just identifiable as sympathy. You swallow thickly, but don’t retreat when he squats beside you, gently prying your bag from your cold arms. He clicks the metal buckles open and begins digging inside.

“This is a waste a’ time, Dutch.” Micah leans toward the tall man, whispering in his ear like the devil on his shoulder. “We got enough mouths to feed as is, don’t need no crying chit. That cranky widow was the first mistake, don’t make another. Hell, we should take whatever she has, lord knows we need it more.”

“’Reckon she’s telling the truth.” Arthur interrupts, holding a little jar of elk droppings for the group to observe. Javier and Micah both grimace. “She ain’t got nothing but hair and shit. If you want it so bad, Micah, you can have first pick.”

“Real funny, Arthur.” Micah bites back.

“Enough.” Dutch growls, looking down his nose at you. Your eyes meet and your lip trembles, now not entirely sure if you even want this group’s help. But the wind, the snow, the dark and the cold, they promise nothing but certain death, and these men, with their scowls, their suspicion, their handguns and their threats, hold at least some hope of seeing the morning sun.

“Please.” You almost whisper. It seems to tip Dutch over the edge as he nods in understanding.

“Bring ‘er inside, we’ll figure out what to do with her when this damn storm passes.”

Inside, as it turns out, is not particularly better than outside. The cabin they bring you to is ridden with holes, nearly all the windows smashed through, and full of people crying softly or groaning in pain. And you have never been so grateful in your life.

Arthur gently leads you to a bench in front of the struggling fire, occasionally spitting choked embers at the bare feet of the woman next to you. He leaves you quickly, with nothing more than a hurried ‘you jus’ wait here’ before he’s whisked away by someone else. Absolutely fine by you, the gentle lick of heat initially hurting your cheeks and hands in its intensity but quickly melting into a tepidity that oozes through your veins and into your heart.

From the corner of your eye, you notice the woman shivering. You try not to stare, but her toes are bright pink from the cold, legs covered in bruises and abrasions, and you’ve never seen a stare so vacant. She appears to be dressed in only a nightgown with a thin blanket thrown around her shaking shoulders. The telltale glint of tear tracks on her reddened cheeks is the miserable bow on top. You silently unbutton your coat, slip it from your shoulders and reach to place it on her.

It's like she snaps out of the daze the moment you touch her. “I don’t need your pity!” She snarls, batting your arms away. 

You steel your expression and push on; a little hollering never frightened you. “Ain’t offering no pity, but this coat sure would do you some good.”

She stares at you with wide, icy eyes.

“C’mon, we both know you need it a hell of a lot more than I do.” You hold the coat out to her again, and she resigns her gaze to the fire, a quiet yield. With no more words spoken, you drape it over her shoulders and, too, face the fire once more.

The last remnants of the adrenaline you’d been surviving on in the forest finally begin to dissipate in your veins; eyelids growing heavy, limbs weak, mind quietening. Sheltered by four walls and a crowd of warm bodies, the howling wind outside reminds you less of a beast and more of your mother singing you to sleep, rocking you in her arms. You let your eyes slip closed, faintly hearing a murmured thank you before succumbing to your unconscious.

The next day passes quietly, spent curled up by the fireplace, stoking it desperately when it begins smoking more than burning. The conversations that surround you only make you more confused about these people and their past. They speak in hushed tones about the law, Pinkertons, a boat and a mistake. As much as you try to deny it, the reality of your situation is slowly dawning on you; these people are not good news. Saviours, of course, pulling you from the cold harsh grip of death, but not into a sanctuary of warmth like that of a mother’s hug, instead maybe the hot dripping saliva of a cougar’s mouth.

No one seems inclined to speak to you, which you are more than grateful for; to stay as unengaged as possible with this group seems like a good idea. Once the storm lets up, you decide, you’ll make a peaceful goodbye, thank them for their hospitality, and be on your way. But as each day passes, that simple task seems more and more herculean.

The door to the cabin bursts open, followed by a rush of cold air that threatens to snuff the fire you’re as close to as you can be without your skirt catching aflame. Arthur (or Mr. Morgan, as you’d come to calling him) quickly shuts it behind himself, and you watch quietly as he wanders over to the fireplace and tosses another log into its mouth, knees cracking as he crouches. You catch his eye, and despite your initial worry at no longer being considered the fly on the wall you had been very convincingly impersonating, you offer him a meek smile, as if to say ‘please forget you saw me daring to breathe the same air as you all, I promise I won’t remember a single face if once I escape’, he returns his own polite smile that makes your stomach flip, not unpleasantly.

“Y’alright, ma’am?” He asks, standing again.

“Yes, sir, thank you.” You nod, remembering your best manners that mother drilled into you, and return to staring at your feet, not wanting to give him any reason to question you beyond pleasantries. The lack of food and rest doesn’t seem to be bothering him as much as it has you (and everyone else crammed in this rickety shack for that matter), still moving with confidence and ease. Rubbing his gloved hands together he soaks in the little warmth the fire provides, that same confidence catching the attention of a woman you now know as Abigail.

“Arthur…” She approaches cautiously, “How you doin’?”

“Just fine, Abigail.” His deep voice responds, and you’re close enough to feel it vibrate the wood beneath you. “And you?”

Abigail tosses the words around in her head before speaking, avoiding eye contact. “I need you to… I-I’m sorry to ask. But-“

“It’s little John,” Arthur interrupts, “He’s gotten himself caught into a scrape again.”

You’d heard of this John in conversations you were not included in but overheard (entirely on accident, of course), and there appeared to be mixed opinions on his character. Abigail described him as her husband and the father of the little boy you’d seen kicking at dust in the corners, Hosea (who very kindly introduced you to most of the women and a few others you’d been bunking with) treated him as a son, but Arthur appeared less affectionate.

Abigail does not take kindly to his infantilising, her voice beginning to raise. “He ain’t been seen in two…” she steels herself, “two days.”

“Your John’ll be fine.” He half-heartedly assures her. “I mean, he may be dumb as rocks and as dull as rusted iron, but that ain’t changing because he got caught in some snowstorm.”

You do a very good job stifling your giggle at his description when Hosea intervenes. “At least go take a look.” He says and instructs Javier (who has since apologised for holding you at gunpoint) to join him. Arthur is only convinced to bother with the expedition after some gentle encouragement from Javier.

“I know if the situation were reversed, he’d look for me.” He holds a handgun to Arthur, a physical olive branch. With a sigh, he relents, snatching the firearm from Javier’s hand and checking its load.

“Thank you.” Abigail says with relief, watching the two men step into the snowstorm still howling outside.

“And you.” Hosea turns, lazily gesturing to your little curled up form beside the fireplace as he pulls up a chair. “What’s your plan these coming days?”

You feel multiple sets of eyes land on you, considering, calculating. What was your plan? You are far from stupid, but even further from the nearest town. These people are evading the law, and they seem to have broken a few pretty serious ones too, judging by how low they’re lying. Slip away unnoticed, disappear into the night? Back to square one, death by hypothermia with no one caring to search for your stiff-frozen body. Steal a horse? Also implausible, those rifles they carry aren’t just for show. Besides, despite all your fierce independence with your scientific team, you’re not stupid the fact you can barely survive with a pre-built tent and flint, let alone a bag of notebooks and sample jars.

“Don’t overthink it, miss.” Hosea chuckles, snapping you from your thoughts. “It’s not a trick question, just curiosity.”

“Sorry, Mr. Matthews, I’m just not sure. I don’t know where we are or who I could go to.”

“Well, to start, we’re in Colter.” He leans back and fishes a box of cigarettes from his coat pocket. “Old abandoned mining town, North Ambarino.”

“North?” You ask in disbelief.

Hosea nods, lighting a match and bringing it to his cigarette, cupping his palm to protect it from the wind seeping through the cracks in the walls. “Mm-hmm. You seem surprised.”

“I just… my team and I had been closer to Lake Isabella. I didn’t know I’d walked so far.”

“Well, once the storm clears, we can have someone bring you back there. ‘M sure your team’s worried sick ‘bout you.” He takes a long drag but wheezes a few coughs on the way out.

You cringe internally. “Ah, I’m not so sure. We, uh, didn’t always get on so great.”

He cocks an eyebrow. “That so?”

The silence stretching between you encourages you to elaborate. “Differences in scientific method, is all.”

“Surely not enough difference to leave a woman to die in the woods.” He doubts.

“Scientists are stubborn people, Mr. Matthews.” You throw in a smile for good measure, a desperate attempt to quell his inquiry. The last thing he needs to know of is your penchant for unnecessary arguments; the women here seem to know when to hold their tongues. You imagine your mother saying it now; ‘you could learn a thing or two from ‘em’.

Hosea nods in understanding. “Well, a husband then, waiting for your return?”

You find cringing to be a recurring practice. “I’m yet to wed, Mr. Matthews, and I’m afraid my parents won’t take me back.” You except the usual response from a man of Hosea’s age; poorly concealed judgement, maybe some light beratement, possibly a crude remark indicating you start investigating older men. But instead, he pleasantly surprises you yet again.

“My mistake, miss. In that case, you’re welcome to stay with us ‘til you figure out what it is ya’ wanna do.” He pats your shoulder gently before standing and taking his leave.

You think over his offer for a while, twisting and turning it and inspecting its opportunity. It’s especially kind, but an extended future with this group of mysterious pasts can’t bring anything but trouble. All you need is to get to a town, or at least directions to one. Once there, you’ll bid them all a pleasant goodbye, maybe throw a comment or two about your poor memory and distaste for law enforcement and render this whole situation a memory. You can take the first train home, run to your mother’s awaiting arms and cry into her shoulder, cry that she was right, that you aren’t built for the outside world, you are too obstinate for you own good. You’ll marry the first man she can find willing to wed a woman of your extended age, you’ll provide him with as many babies as he’ll pump into you, and you’ll see your father’s sad eyes watch you throw all your dreams away for a man who sees you as nothing more than a chicken to lay his eggs.

You’re completely unaware of the time that stretches while you daydream about your wedding (it’ll rain that day, better to hide your tears) till a familiar deep voice bellows from outside. Abigail, Mr. Williamson and Mr. Summers rush outside, and your blood-deep herd mentality brings you to your feet to follow.

You hold the door open for them as they help a wounded man stagger to an empty cot against the far wall. Abigail’s thanks are barely heard before she begins reprimanding him with all the love only a wife can. You close the door quietly behind Hosea, Arthur and another man you do not recognise. The three of them huddle in the corner like businessmen in a crowded saloon.

“Have you and Dutch talked about how we’re gonna get out of this?” Arthur questions, fixing the cuffs of his coat.

“I was just discussing with Herr Strauss, when the weather breaks, I suppose we’ll have to keep heading East.” Hosea answers, shaking the snow from his shoulders.

“East?” Arthur exclaims, seemingly offended by such a suggestion. “Into all that… that civilisation?” He practically spits the word, but it effectively piques your interest.

“I know, the West is where our problems are worse.” Hosea says decisively. “Come on, Herr Strauss, let’s get warm.”

As the two older men slip past you, either unaware or uncaring of your eavesdropping, a sharp yelp comes from the cot.

“Careful, woman!” The man, assumedly John, scolds from his position on the cot.

“Oh, shush it, you.” Ms. Grimshaw (an intense older woman who very kindly lent you a blanket, but also openly judged you for not knowing how to effectively sew up the hole in it) chides him like a nanny. “I’m doin’ the best I can with what we got, which ain’t much.”

You pretend to wander closer with no destination in mind and peer over her shoulder. She has a thick sewing needle held up to John’s cheek, which is slashed open in multiple deep stripes, thick blood either already coagulating or beginning to freeze in the cold. One stretches down his lip, threatening to split completely if he continues talking. Another crosses his nose, which is bent at an awkward angle in the centre. His left eye is heavily bloodshot and almost swollen shut. The thread and needle Ms. Grimshaw prepares are clearly meant for clothes, already fraying at the edges and sure to cause complications and unnecessary pain in stitching. The only disinfectant present is a bottle of what appears to be crude rum, already rubbed over John’s wounds.

Your plan of laying lower than a welcome mat entirely slips your mind as you interrupt. “Ms. Grimshaw, please, I have medical supplies in my bag.”

She turns to you over her shoulder and scrutinises you for a moment, and you’re sure you’ve just booked yourself a one-way ticket to an icy grave when she drops the needle on the bench and gestures to Arthur over your shoulder, who you had been entirely unaware of shadowing you. “Mr. Morgan, make yourself useful and get the girl her bag! Why didn’t you say something sooner, huh? Might’ve finally found a reason to keep you around, after all.” She ushers you to swap spots with her, and before you know it, you’re faced with your very first patient since an ill-fated rat in nursing school.

Arthur places your bag on the bench, unlatches it and gestures to it like a grand buffet. You gulp, acutely aware of the many new observers taking interest in the stranger about to stitch up one of their men. With all the false confidence you can muster, you retrieve your medicinal kit and untie it, unrolling it across the bench in all it’s clean, shiny glory (only due to the fact you have never been forced to use it before). Pulling a clean rag from the back, you fold it to a hard corner dipped in the fresh bottle of disinfecting phenol and hesitate before bringing it to the John’s face. His good eye studies you, brow furrowed from suspicion or pain, you’re not quite sure.

“I-I’ll try to be gentle.” You assure him.

“I don’t care ‘bout gentle, right now, just keep me from bleedin’ out.” He hisses.

“John Marston!” Abigail snaps from her place at the foot of the bed. “You show ‘er some respect, or I’ll make damn sure you bleed like a pig.”

You bite your lip to keep from laughing and instead focus on scraping the caking blood from his cheeks. It’s tough work, the edges of his cuts pulling with each rub. You douse the rag in more phenol, softening the crust around his wounds. Finally, you can discern his face from the throbbing wounds you need to somehow hide back under his skin. Arthur must sense your trepidation.

“Looking better already, Marston.” He pokes. “In fact, I’d say it’s an improvement to before.”

“Shut it, you.” John groans. “The hell you hangin’ ‘round for, anyway?”

“Aw, don’t be like that. I mean, it’s not like she can make you look any worse.”

You focus on disinfecting the needle and catgut, letting the boys continue to bicker. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think they were brothers. Bringing the needle to John’s face, he’s wise enough to quieten down and put on a brave face, but you’re not blind to his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously.

“Don’t worry Mr. Marston, my patients have a 100% survival rate.” If you’re considering only the first 24 hours. Rest in peace, nursing school rat, you deserved better.

He tenses at the first poke of the needle but handles the intrusion on the other side of the cut much better. You pull, cut and tie the first stitch, and, to your own quiet surprise, are quite happy with the results. You continue up his face, pulling two sides of flesh closed as simply as curtains. Four along the upper cut, six in the lower, and one (very fiddly) stitch to his nose, you exhale and stand up straight, your back creaking in protest.

“I’ll wrap it with dry gauze for now, Mr. Marston, but once the storm lets up, I might be able to find some ginseng and mint, make a poultice and some wet dressings. It’ll help stop an infection; make ya heal quicker.” You explain as you wrap bandages around his head, delicately crossing over his cheek.

John just hums in acknowledgment that he at least heard you, pleasantries clearly not a regular part of his dialect. Luckily, Abigail seems to fill that niche for him.

“Thank you, thank you so much.” She gushes, warm hand on your arm as you tie the bandage off.

“O-of course, it’s the least I could do.” She envelopes you in a hug when you turn, relief positively radiating off her. Resting your head on her shoulder, you hug her back.

The storm, as it turns out, does not let up quickly. You change John’s dressings twice, aid a man named Charles Smith with a severe burn on his hand, listen to a cacophony of gunfire when the able-bodied men go on an excursion and return with piles of food, fistfuls of dynamite and a scrawny man screaming about O’Driscolls he doesn’t know. That certainly solidified your plans to tuck tail at first opportunity.

You’re entirely unaware of exactly how many days had passed when you wake one morning to a blissful silence surrounding the cabin instead of the incessant billowing of wind and sleet. Sitting up from your temporary sleeping quarters (a nook between the fireplace and a broken dresser), you see everyone else still deep asleep. Disentangling yourself from the thin blanket shared with a Mrs. Adler, you tip toe around the slumbrous bodies to the door, avoiding stray limbs with the grace of a feline. The door whines as you open it, but nobody appears to stir. With a thankful sigh you step outside, grateful for your first time truly alone in weeks.

Breathing in the crisp air, deep into your lungs till it pinches at the capillaries and watching the steam billow in front of you upon release, you properly take in your surroundings for the first time since falling into this rag-tag arrangement. It’s an incredibly small town, rivalling that of your own growing up. The sun bounces off the bright snow, twinkling in the beginnings of melt, warming your face. The smell of pine and freshwater fill your senses, and you can hear the symphony of icicles melting in delicate hushes. The air is so wonderfully, reverently still for the first time since that fateful day with your team.

“Finally found your escape, huh?”

You practically jump out your skin, yelping indignantly, Arthur appearing beside you from seemingly thin air.

“W-what? No, no, of course not, Mr. Morgan! I was just, just-“ You scramble for an explanation.

He chuckles, raising his hands in that familiar spooked-horse-calming fashion. “S’alright, ‘m just teasin’.” You must pout like a defiant child because he has the decency to at least try to hide his grin. “How’re ya holdin’ up?”

“Much better now that storm has passed.” You say.

“Ain’t that the truth.” He nods in agreement, staring into the calm morning before returning his eye to you. “Where’d your coat go?”

You look down at yourself, clad in your skirts and vest, arms exposed to the frigid air bar the thin sleeves of your button-down. You are thoroughly underdressed for the circumstances. “I must’ve left it inside, ‘supose.”

He changes the subject, though remains staring at the skin of your wrists. “Heard you was gon’ make some tonic for Marston?”

“Yeah, a poultice to fight off infection.” You clarify, careful not to patronise him. “Need some ginseng n’ mint, but I doubt I’ll find any with all this snow.”

He nods again, considering your words, clearly fiddling with his next statement in his head. “Say, Charles n’ I went huntin’ just the other day and the melt starts only a fifteen-minute ride down. I’ll take ya, if y’want.” He mumbles the last few words.

Your eyes widen in surprise. “Really?”

“’Course,” He gestures to the hall, “go get your coat and I’ll ready the horse.”

“Horse? Singular?”

Arthur chuckles. “M’not ‘bout to let you ride off with one of our mounts, now. We trust you, but we ain’t stupid.”

You gulp, embarrassed, and nod. Makes sense, you suppose, and he’s completely justified. You probably would ride like the wind to the nearest town once out of eyesight. Re-entering the hall, no-longer tiptoeing as people have begun to rouse, you return to your little corner and find Sadie still sound asleep, wearing your coat, arms wrapped around herself in a tight, lonely hug. Her face is tucked into the neck of your coat, wool shifting with each shaky breath. She looks positively exhausted, bags under bags beneath her eyes, lips bitten raw and cheeks stained with tears. You sigh, tugging the coat and blanket to better cover her, and head out.

Arthur is waiting for you when you return, petting the neck of a tall raven shire, whispering gentle praises.

“Nice horse.” You compliment in your approach.

If Arthur notices your lack of coat, he doesn’t comment. “He’s alright.”

“He got a name?” You ask as he deftly climbs into the saddle.

“Not yet.” He reaches a hand to help you, and you gladly take it. You hope your surprise isn’t evident on your face when he hoists you up with far too much ease, his grip firm but not tight. You sit side-saddle on the horse’s rear, your skirts preventing you from a more stable positioning. “Y’alright back there?” He checks.

“I suppose.” You gingerly hold onto the sides of his coat.

“Actin’ like it’s your first time on a horse!” Arthur laughs, kicking into a trot that has you wrapping your arms around his waist for support.

“First time bareback side-saddle!”

“Ah, you’re alright.” He pets your hand reassuringly and you do a piss-poor job of pretending the friendly solace doesn’t affect you. Your feel your face warm beneath the skin.

The two of you leave town with a nod to Mr. Summers, standing guard by the fence. The ride is peaceful, and mercifully quiet, preventing yourself from any further self-inflicted humiliation. You watch Colter disappear over a hill, wilderness quickly surrounding you and shielding you from the sun’s warm morning rays. You watch as the snow slowly recedes down the trunks of trees until their roots swim through the white pow like snakes in grass as you descend further and further down the mountain. You watch as the first sprigs of greenery emerge from the ground around you, never in your life so thankful for your nose to itch from the dust and pollen kicked up by horse foot.

Arthur slows the horse with a deep easy, now that does nothing to calm your butterflies, bringing the ride to a stop in a sunny glade littered with wildflowers, birds flitting through the air, singing amongst themselves, and a stream trickling idly through the centre. “Reckon you can find what you need here?” He asks, slipping from the saddle and tying the horse off to a low branch.

“This is perfect, thank you.” He reaches for you again, both arms outstretched, and you slide easily into his grasp. Your stomach flips as his gloved hands find purchase on your waist, yours on his shoulders, when he gently lowers you to the ground as though you weigh nothing at all. “Thank you.” You repeat, voice small.

“Sure.” He says turning back to the horse and begins digging through the saddle bag, leaving you to wander into the field. You’ve almost forgotten what it feels like to walk without wading through snow, and you watch the morning dew slide from each blade of grass onto the worn leather of your boots. Some bees spiral from the flowers you brush, and you watch them loop back down to the next batch of petals. You stop at the stream, crouching at the rocky edge and plunge your hands into its icy cold runnings, splashing your face and washing your hands. Despite only being a week or two, give or take, it feels like months of dirt and tears and sweat come sloughing off your skin. It’s positively refreshing.

Reinvigorated, you stand and survey the surrounding greenery, quickly isolating the taller leafy shrubs of mint and delicate stems of ginseng from the surrounding meadowgrass. Meandering over, wasting as much time as possible, you open your bag and pick only what’s necessary, not wanting to completely strip the plant and keep her from blooming again. In no time, you’re humming to yourself, the act of foraging a second nature that soothes your stiff nerves from their lately near-constant trepidation. You’ve almost forgotten your situation, standing up and checking the tree line for any predators like you usually would, eyes skimming like a lone doe, when instead they land on your silent voyeur. Arthur sits, one leg outstretched and the other bent, reclined against the tree trunk his mount is tethered to. He’s got a little leather-bound notebook in his left hand, his right scribbling away with a length of charcoal.

Intrigued, but equally reserved, you wander closer, kicking your feet in the grass loudly to announce your approach. Arthur looks up, watching you near with a calculating eye, and snaps the book shut upon your arrival.

“Whatcha’ writin’?” You ask, feigning disinterest.

He stands with a groan, clearly more affected by the long cold than he lets on. “S’nothin’. You got all ya need?” He gestures to your bag.

You nod, genuinely smiling. The time ‘alone’ had done your frazzled mind good, needing only worry about which leaf was less bug-bitten than the rest instead of which shifty-eyed man might try his luck during your restroom breaks. “Yes, sir. Thank you.”

Arthur waves you off bashfully, very gentlemanly for a man seemingly under hunt by the nation and helps you onto the horse once more for your journey back to Colter, all too soon for your liking.

Only a few minutes into the ride, while gazing up at the bright blue gap in the tree canopy, Arthur speaks.

“I don’t mean to be crass, but… how’d you become a, uh… man of science?”

You look at the back of his head, considering. It’s a question you’ve gotten more times than you can count, though it’s never been so innocently presented. Usually, a few choice words, maybe a shove or sneer as an accompaniment, but never sincere and unvarnished.

“Are you asking how a woman became a naturalist, Mr. Morgan?” You poke, smile evident in your voice.

“I guess. I didn’t think it was really an option for y’all.” He mutters.

“It’s not. Not really, anyway.” You begin to explain, reasoning that you’ll likely never see this man again in a few days, so what harm is there in a little less secrecy? “My daddy was a real naturalist. Discoverin’ and namin’ all the big snakes down in the bayous and swamps, 'fore he settled down with my Mama as a rancher. Taught me how to tell the age ‘n’ sex of a deer from it’s tracks ‘fore I learnt how to spell my own name. Had more snakeskins hangin’ off my bedroom walls than paintings! Mama was never too happy ‘bout it, said all the huntin’ ‘n’ campin’ made me unladylike, harder to marry off ‘n’ all that. Imagine her surprise when I left home not only without a man, but to join a naturalist society, thanks to my daddy’s connections. Nearly killed her, I swear. ‘Bout yelled the roof down; you ain’t welcome back here, you’re gonna end up all alone, she said, ain’t no man want a woman smarter than ‘im. Suppose that much was true. My most recent team, they weren’t exactly a feminist bunch. Kicked me out after I refused to make ‘em breakfast.” You chuckle, but it’s devoid of humour.

Arthur nods and sighs. “Sounds about right… so you not only went against your family, but what ol’ Uncle Sam wanted of ya, too.”

“Yeah, I suppose so.”

“Looks like you fit in here more than you realise.” He smiled, looking at you over his shoulder. Your gaze catches his, crows’ feet meeting wide owl eyes. It feels like a genuine connection, for one fleeting moment. A hair thin tether between two bodies so opposed in everyday, now closer and tighter than ever, under the dappled late morning sun surrounded by nothing but birds and bramble.

“Maybe I do.” You placate him, not loving the idea of being compared to his company but flirting with the notion he might see you as more than just a damsel in distress. “Humour me, Mr. Morgan. What’s your favourite animal?”

“What?”

“Your favourite animal, what is it? You can tell a lot about a man by what animal he likes most.”

“Turkeys are pretty tasty.”

“Oh, you know what I mean!”

Arthur is quiet for a long while once he finished laughing at his own joke, and just when you think you’re not going to get a response, he speaks again.

“I like dogs, I guess. And horses.”

You nod. Both obvious answers, you think, men tend to like animals that serve them. Then he surprises you.

“Deer, too.”

Now that is an unusual pick. A man, picking a prey animal? And a fairly unassuming one, at that. “Interesting. Can I ask why?”

Arthur shrugs, as if he hadn’t spent multiple minutes considering his answer. “’Dunno… I mean, I know they’re just ‘bout everywhere, and most of ‘em are as sharp as a bag of wet leather, but they can be real dangerous when they wanna be. Get em cornered and them antlers suddenly look a lot more serious. And when ya’ find one just standin’ on it’s own, and it lifts it’s head to look at’chu, it looks almost… regal.”

You cock your head, staring at him as if your gaze could penetrate right through his skull and inspect the startlingly pretty thoughts inside directly. “That’s real nice, Arthur.”

He scoffs, shaking his head. “Go on, then, what’s yours.”

“There’s so many to choose from! Goodness, I love any big cat, ‘specially all of them with spots and stripes. S’ a dream to see one in real life, though, preferably without gettin' mauled. And I must admit, I do have a soft spot for wolves, but I s’pose, at the end of the day, it’s bears that have my heart.”

“Bears!?” Arthur exclaims.

You laugh at his surprise. “Yes, bears! Black, brown, all of ‘em. But grizzlies gotta be my favourite.”

“Why on Earth do ya like bears? Damn things scare the life outta me.”

You laugh and hold onto him tighter for support. “They’re beautiful. Ain’t no other meat-eater as big and as mean as ‘em. But they’re not all brawn, they can be real smart, too. Watched one open a can of peaches, once. And once you get past the teeth and claws, they’re actually quite pretty, if you look close enough.”

Arthur laughs, a real hearty laugh that shakes his shoulders.  “I don’t think I want to get close enough to see.”

“Oh, shush, you.” You playfully smack him in the side. “Besides, if you’re that close, you’ll smell him before you see him.”

“I think you’re describing Uncle, now.” He teases, and you laugh in turn.

The conversation simmers to a natural still as the horse re-enters the sunlight, surrounded once more by the rolling fields of snow. The silence is comfortable, and a warm coiling in your stomach notifies you that for the first time since you left home all those years ago, there might actually be a shoulder to lean on besides your own.

Thank you so much for reading! Also, please leave a comment, like, reblog, I don't mind, just something to let me know you've read it (and maybe even liked it hehehe)

An unexpected - and certainly exciting - development, Arthur is your main in in the group. During meals, he scans the crowd for you, ensuring you get a bowl of whatever concoction Mr. Pearson boiled beyond recognition that day, and sits with you while you both eat. Mostly, the time is spent in calm silence, both focusing on getting your fill, though occasionally he presses you with questions about animals and the natural world. He bids you goodnight before retreating to the other cabin and gives a courteous nod each morning, though his ever-present scowl rarely ceases.

It's especially exciting, then, on the morning the group decides to pack up and move on, that he invites you to ride on the wagon he’s to drive.

Ms. Grimshaw nags and dogs you like you’re any other girl in the posse. You haul blankets and bedrolls from cabin to carriage like a mule, packing as much as you can into the box carts. You’re tying various pots and pans to the side of a wagon, dreading the way it’ll clatter along the dirt paths now peeking out from the snow, when Abigail and the resident reverend are supporting a limping John into the back.

“Please, let me help.” You hurry over, assisting Abigail in raising the man into the flatbed, where Reverend Swanson pulls.

“Reverend, Abigail, you keep packing, I need to help Mr. Marston with his dressings, anyway.” He nods and hops out, following Abigail.

“Now? Really? We’re about to leave.” John complains, flopping back onto a prepared bedroll.

“Yes, now,” you huff, retrieving the balm you’d prepared and used over the last couple nights from your pocket, “I said every morning and night, and I meant it.”

“God, you’re worse than Abigail.” He groans but lies still to allow you to begin unwrapping the bandages.

You ignore his whining and peel the sodden gauze from his face, inspecting the wounds beneath. Pink, wet and swollen, though not hot to the touch nor oozing any foul pus. Thank God, you think, carefully salving the last of the mixture across the cuts, you can’t even begin to imagine your fate if you accidentally rotted the flesh clean off one of their men’s bones.  

Through your daydreaming, your ears prick at the conversation occurring just outside the wagon.

“We should set up camp in Horseshoe Overlook, near Valentine.” Hosea advises. Valentine, that’s a name you recognise. You hope John doesn’t notice the spark of excitement that runs down your arms at the opportunity of a real town. “We’ll be able to hide out there, no problem, so long as we keep our noses clean.”

“Well then, let’s go, clean noses and everything else. Arthur, you’re in that one, bring Hosea… I know you two like to talk about the good old days and what’s gone wrong with old Dutch.” The leader says with his usual arrogant authoritarianism.

Arthur peeks into the wagon just as you’re tying off the fresh bandages. “There you are.”

“Yes, Mr. Morgan?” You wipe your hands on your skirt as you stand.

“You’re with me.” He gestures to another wagon in the convoy with one hand, reaching the other to help you from the flatbed.

“Sure thing.” Ever gentlemanly, his grip does not linger once your feet find firm ground (though a deep, secretive part of you wish it did). “Mr. Marston, I’ll check them bandages once more when we reach our next stop. And I don’t care how uncomfortable it gets, don’t scratch at it, y’hear?”

He waves a hand dismissively.

“’M serious, Marston.”

“You heard the woman,” Arthur cuts in, “she’s got twice the brains and half the attitude you do; ‘could learn a thing or two from ‘er.”

“Yeah, whatever.” John says tiredly.

“You got all your things?” Arthur turns to you, voice far softer than what he reserved for his fallen comrade.

You nod and duly follow him through the hustle and bustle of everyone rushing to their own spots, passing another flatbed where almost all the women and a few men are crammed in like canned sardines.

“Ah, miss, you the lucky lady who gets to sit with the cargo?” Hosea smiles from his perch at the last wagon’s box seat.

“Appears so, Mr. Matthews.”

“Cargo? She’s got the best spot in the house!” Arthur playfully spars, leading you to the back of the carriage.

“Aw, saved it just for me?” You flirt, confident now with the promise of freedom so close.

Arthur chuckles and shakes his head, ducking the brim of his hat to hide his pretty smile. “Yeah, sure.” As always, he offers you a hand as you climb into a nook between the wall and some rolled up canvas, perching yourself on an old chest.

“You finally trusting me not to jump and bolt from back here?” You poke, crossing your legs and settling back into the seat.

“Well, be my guest to give it a go,” he gives the boxes around you a last few shoves, ensuring their security, and a gentle pat to your knee, “not sure how long bears’ll remain your favourite animal, though.” He shoots a teasing smirk, blue eyes catching the morning light.

“Very funny.”

Dutch’s voice booms across the once main road of the town, calling for the caravan to begin. Arthur takes his spot as driver and flicks the reigns, rolling the cart into its gentle rumble along the hard dirt and soft snow. You watch the town shrink, farther and farther till it disappears over the hill, simultaneously thankful for the refuge it provided and the fact you’ll never have to see it again.

The journey was uneventful, for the most part. Aside from a broken wheel that sent the cargo (and you) hurtling to the dirt road, the ride was calm and slow, allowing you to observe the array of bird species your convoy spooked into the trees. Singing orioles flew in their loose loops, crows cawed indignantly from the branches, and you even spotted an eagle soaring in lazy circles far above your head. You listened to the conversations the men were having, only adding your own opinion when asked. The bass their voices carried relaxed and lulled you, and by the time the carriage finally grinded to a halt, you were deep asleep.

A hand on your shoulder gently shakes you awake.

“Miss, we’re here.” Arthur speaks softly, much like he does his horse.

“Hm?” You sit up with a yawn, rubbing your eyes in the bright sunshine.

He chuckles. “Sleepin’ like a baby, you were.” He takes his hat off and wipes his forehead with the back of his hand. “Leavin’ all the unpacking to us, huh?”

The first thing you notice is that Arthur’s rid himself of that thick blue coat, the afternoon sun warming the skin. He instead wears a tan jacket and simple blue work shirt, but what catches your attention is the first few buttons of said shirt. They’re open, exposing his sweaty, freckled collarbones. The second thing you notice is the rest of the group diligently milling around, carrying boxes and bundles to their allocated places, everyone catching an earful from Ms. Grimshaw the moment they enter her vicinity. The camp is quickly taking shape.

“Oh my goodness, I’m so sorry!” You fluster, smoothing your skirts and instinctively reaching for Arthur’s palm to help you. “You should’ve woken me sooner, Mr. Morgan! How long have we been here?” There are already tents standing and wagons parked with rocks jammed under the wheels to prevent them from rolling off the nearby cliff.

“Ahh, don’t worry, we got here late.” Arthur barely grunts as he foregoes your hand to help you to the ground by your waist. It may be your hopeful imagination, but you could swear one hand loiters longer than it needs to. He guides you to the centre of camp, where Dutch shoos Uncle from his chair at a ramshackle table.

“Gentlemen!” Dutch calls, his voice far less burdened than it sounded up that godforsaken mountain. “We have survived.”

“For now.” Hosea adds.

“Now,” Dutch optimistically steers the conversation, “it is time to prosper.”

“Arthur and I were about to prosper in Blackwater.”

Dutch seems annoyed to hear the topic raised once more. You had of course feigned distraction when the men discussed it on the journey down, speaking of a ferry job gone sour in a Southern town, a hasty escape consequence of hasty decisions. Disaster, death, money – all at the hands of one Dutch van der Linde, it seemed, if you read between the lines of Arthur and Hosea’s discourse.

“We were onto something big,” Hosea continues, unperturbed by Dutch’s irritated sigh as he reclines in his chair. “Then Micah got you all excited about that ferry and here we are.”

“We have all made mistakes over the years, Hosea.” Dutch stands suddenly, meeting him head on with a dangerous scowl. “Every last one of us. But I kept us together – kept us alive, kept the nooses off our neck.” He begins to march off, and you follow doltishly behind Arthur as he and Hosea rush to catch up.

“I guess I’m just worried.” Hosea reasons, a diplomatic hand on his partner’s shoulder. “I ain’t got that long, Dutch, I- I want folks safe before I go.”

“Me too.”

“But now we are stuck East of the Grizzlies and out of money, and a long way form our dream of virgin land in the West.”

The way the rest of the gang continues to mill about indicates to you that these discussions are a regular occurrence. You decide to continue following Arthur like a lost dog, rather than wander and find yourself in hot water with Ms Grimshaw.

“I know, my brother, but we are safe.” Dutch implores; one foot raised on a box in that ever-present braggadocio fashion. “We make a bit of money here, then we move again. Head out around them, be West of Uncle Sam, in a few months, buy some land.”

He does a great job of making it all sound miraculously easy.

“I hope so.” Hosea concedes.

“Would you just look around you,” Dutch says dreamily, hands thrown wide like a cult leader in sermon. “This world has its consolations.”

A shrewish man pushes past you to whisper business and earnings in the leader’s ear, and you resist the temptation to chew him out for the minor disrespect he showed, instead staring him down when he scrambles back to the horses.

“Everyone! Put your tools down for a moment. C’mon gather round, quickly now.” Dutch whirls and gathers the groups attention, everyone immediately dropping what they’re doing and scuttling over like ants to their queen. “I know that things have been tough, but we are safe now, and we are far too poor. So, it is time for everyone to get to work.”

People nod along servilely, though you can’t help but eye the plethora of thick gold rings adorning Dutch’s fingers, the shiny thin chain of his pocket watch.

“Get to work but stay out of trouble. Remember; we are itinerant workers.” Hosea clarifies.

“Laid off when they shut down our factory to the North. Now get out there and see what you can find. Uncle, Reverend Swanson; no more passengers.” Dutch singles them out, and the group erupts with giggles at an in-joke you clearly aren’t privy to. “It is time for everyone to earn their keep.”

“There’s a town a little way down the track, name of Valentine. Livestock town – all mud and morons if I remember right. That seems a decent place to start.” Hosea gestures to the North, and you gaze into the trees as if you’d be able to see the freedom beckoning your name between the branches. Mud and morons will have to do, so long as they have cheap horses or even cheaper train tickets.

“And, uh, we need food,” Mr Pearson interrupts, “real food. That means every day, one of you.”

“And remember,” Dutch recalls everyone’s attention, setting an intricate wood box with gold detailing on an upturned barrel between himself and Hosea, “whatever your find, the camp gets its slice. Now, be sensible out there.”

Everyone disperses immediately, hurrying back to their own tasks, and you’re quietly amazed at the organization of it all. You suppose you never gave much thought to the workings of outlaws and their infamous gangs, letting it run wild in storybooks and wanted posters rather than your head, but it makes sense. If the law has had such a struggle weeding out the last surviving gunslingers, their arrangement must be at least somewhat coordinated to have evaded capture so long.

“And you.” Dutch grabs your attention.

“Just the woman we wanted to see!” Hosea announces, far cheerier than his partner.

“Misters.” You greet politely.

“Miss, we need to talk.” Dutch says, voice carrying a lethal sincerity.

“S-sure.”

He gestures to the haphazard seating around an unlit campfire, and you tuck your skirt beneath you as you sit on a log, bracketed either side by the men, faintly aware of Arthur lingering at your back.

“You’re looking well.” Dutch speaks, nodding at you.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Much better than when we found you.” He smiles, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“I seem to recall finding you.” You joke, and at least Hosea has the grace to reward you with a chuckle.

Dutch just hums. “Yes, that seems to be the issue, miss.”

The little humour present has abruptly excused itself, and nervousness duly replaces it.

“Look, we aren’t stupid, and we know you ain’t neither. We’re on the run, in hiding, whatever you want to call it; we aren’t looking to be found.” He says, maintaining eye contact you don’t dare to break. “You’ve got your own life to live, it wouldn’t be right for us to keep you here forever.”

You hadn’t realised that was a possibility they were considering.

“But, if we so graciously let you run free, how can we trust you not to turn us in? Run to the nearest sheriff and cry wolf about the group of, honestly, innocent people just tryna make a living?”

You’re not unfamiliar to his tactics of manipulation, having lived with your own dictator for a good long while.

“Oh, sir, I completely understand.” You lay it on thick. “I know things aren’t easy for y’all, I wouldn’t want to make it any harder. I mean, after all, you gave me shelter, warmth, food, a ride, what kinda person would I be to throw y’all under the wagon?”

Dutch leans back with a smug smirk. “That’s a good girl.” He drawls. “We’ll have Arthur drop you off at Valentine station, you’ll be able to find your way from there.” He stands, and you rush to meet him.

“Oh, thank you so much.” You take his hand and shake vigorously, really selling the damsel in distress roll you’re playing. “I can’t tell you how thankful I am to have met such kind folk.”

“Don’t mention it, miss.” Hosea stands with a groan. “We hope it all works out for you down the road.”

Ms Grimshaw scurries over, snapping you from your daydreaming. “Now, the girls have your tent ready, Mr Morgan, just over there. You two will be ready shortly.”

Just as Arthur is moving to take his leave, Ms Grimshaw turns her hawk eyes on you.

“You!” Ms. Grimshaw snaps, “What do you think you’re doin’, standin’ around?”

“I was just – I mean, how can I help?” You forego any attitude back, knowing this is not your place to argue.

“How can you help?” She mimics judgmentally, looking around with her hands on her hips and surveying the camp. “Y’don’t know where anything goes, who anything belongs to… and you can’t even sew.”

Okay, the last part was uncalled for. You glance back at the empty firepit. “I can go collect some kindling, for a fire. Or chop some wood, if you’d like?”

Ms. Grimshaw looks at you and narrows her eyes. “No, no you’re not allowed out of my sight, missy. Lord knows where you’d scurry off to and run your mouth. I’ll have Mr. Smith take care of that. Besides, ain’t no woman in my camp chopping wood like some hillbilly.” She struts off in the direction of the girls, leaving you standing and simmering with barely concealed anger. Who does she think she is, bossing you around like your mother? You’re no member of this ragtag bunch; you’re not going to stand for being treated like a maid.

Charles catches your eye through the bright rays of light of fading day, chopping wood by the camp’s edge. You hurry over, careful not to be seen by Ms Grimshaw.

“Mr. Smith!” 

He regards you, a nod of his head indicating you may continue.

“I’ll take care of the wood, don’t worry.” You open your hand to take the axe.

“It’s alright, I got it.” He side-eyes you.

“Please, Mr. Smith. Ms. Grimshaw don’t trust me to do nothin’ around here, and I just wanna be helpful. This is the only way I know how.” You plead, and it’s only slightly humiliating.

Charles chuckles. “In that case, be my guest.” He hands you the axe and you quietly triumph.

“Thank you.”

“Sure.” He waves you off, retreating to find another errand.

You smile to yourself in quiet victory and hurry to the awaiting stack of sawn logs. A strange feeling of nostalgia settles over your mind as you shake out the weariness from your arms and roll your shirtsleeves to your elbows, plucking one thick log from the pile and sitting it on the chopping block. With a heave you swing the axe around and over your head, splitting the wood with a swift crack. Setting the twin pieces aside, you lose yourself in the moment, placing the next condemned hunk of wood on the executioner’s row. If you raise your head maybe you’ll spot your mother watching you from the warm light of the kitchen window, echoing the splitting of wood with her kitchen knife and carrot. She’d shake her head when your eyes met, knowing better than to argue, and resign her gaze to her cooking. It’d hurt, deep in your chest, that oh so familiar twisting, pulling pain that tugged you to apologise, to ask how to tell when to turn over the steak, where you went wrong in your knitting, when the best time to dry the linens is.

But you wouldn’t. You’d pick up another chunk of wood and bring the axe down so hard it gets lodged in the chopping block. You’d compromise for nursing school and last less than a semester before the head nurse expels you for ‘bad behaviour’. You’d return home only to spend your days hunting and foraging, avoiding your mother. You’d get a once in a lifetime opportunity from your father, to study in the big leagues. You’d throw that life away too, on only your fourth official expedition, to this seemingly haunting ‘bad behaviour’.

The axe buries itself in the tree stump with a dull thunk. You’re almost breathless, standing over a frankly ridiculous heap of split firewood, sweaty and angry and reminiscing over the nigh endless list of mistakes you’ve made to lead you here.

You sigh. What-ifs won’t change where you are, you reason, and get to moving the wood. Tucking three splintering logs under each arm, you deposit them by the firepit, marching to and fro to bring them all over. You stack them in a neat pyramid, just like you used to at home. You recall the woodshed practically overflowing in the evenings after an argument with your mother.

It’s weeks before Arthur has an opportunity to take you into Valentine, and a selfish little part of you is gladdened by it. You like Arthur, that much is obvious. He’s kind and understanding but never patronising. He’s funny and sarcastic, but never at your expense. There are a few moments you tumble around in your head like sea glass, moments of stolen eye contact over a late-night fire, a symphony of crickets and crackling coals orchestrating the dance in that stare. Moments sat beside each other on cold mornings, watching his warm breath fan over bitter coffee, pretending you’re just watching the swirling steam and not the plush pink of his lips. Moments when he brings you small animal skulls like a courting crow and gently asks for your help identifying its species.

It's fun and it’s easy, a harmless girlhood crush with no possible future and a very inevitable end.

That end comes late one morning when Arthur notifies you that time is up.

“Hey, you.” He says, voice gruff but not aggressive.

“Hey, you.” You echo, looking up from your notebook, where you’d been sketching the spider that had insisted on building a web along the wagon-wheel you slept beside last night.

“’M taking Uncle into town. Gonna pass by the train station… should probably drop you off on the way.” He grumbles through an unlit cigarette, rubbing the back of his neck.

It registers in your chest like a surprise, even though you knew it was coming sooner or later. That small, selfish part of you is a little sad; you’d started to enjoy your time here. If not for the looming danger of the law, or equally as dangerous nagging from Ms Grimshaw, it was a life you could most certainly get used to. The sun, the breeze, the birds and the bugs. Simple, straightforward people living a slightly less straightforward life. Maybe you did fit in here more than you realised.

“Guess you should.” You sigh as you get to your feet from where you had been sitting against a wagon, tucking your journal away in your bag and clicking the latches closed with a sentimental finality.

“If you’re gonna take the girl ‘n’old man into town,” Karen calls suggestively, leaning on a tent pole after abandoning her sewing duties to eavesdrop and interrupt, “could you take us too?” Tilly and Mary-Beth stand behind her like nervous ducklings following their Ma.

“Why, what you got planned?” Arthur asks suspiciously, fishing for a match to light his cig before striking it against the sole of his boot.

“Nothin’…” Karen admits, “We’ll find something for y’all to do. We always do.” She beckons her fellow troublemakers to follow her over to the cart.

“We’re bored outta our minds – been cooped up here for two weeks now.” Mary-Beth reasons. “Karen’s bout ready to murder Grimshaw.”

“I’d pay to see it.” You mumble, but Karen must hear as she shoots you a collaborating smirk.

“Well, can Ms Grimshaw spare you?” Arthur asks, looking between the gaggle of girls.

The three of them look annoyed by his answer, Tilly standing defiantly with hands on her hips, Mary-Beth scowling, and Karen mocking his statement.

“Can Ms Grimshaw spare you? What’s happened to you Arthur? Three young, healthy women want you to take ‘em robbin’, you’re worried about house chores? Let’s go!”

Arthur glances at you from his peripheral, acutely aware of your watching of this back and forth. You shrug, proving your indifference to whatever character they’re trying to induce.

“Fair enough, you got me.” He shakes his head defeatedly, and the women whoop and holler in excitement as they clamber into the back of the wagonette break. Karen tugs you up and in with a firm hand, and you smile gratefully. It’ll be a shame not to see Karen anymore, you think, as Arthur and Uncle climb onto the box seat and flick the reigns, hard to find another woman as stubborn and brave as her.

In fact, you think further as the cart rattles down the dirt paths, providing metronome to the (frankly appalling) singing the girls hoot, it’ll be a shame not to see any of these women anymore. You’ve never met so many women so proud, brazen, surefooted and unapologetically themselves. Maybe you’ll have to write to them, keep in touch with the wonderful women who seem to have mastered the art of existing as themselves in this world, something you seem to have been struggling with for quite some time.

When another carriage on the trail loses control and horses run free, you think of something else you’ll pine from this misadventure. You watch as he jumps down almost immediately, sauntering over to a spooked mare whinnying and kicking with more confidence than you ever had in your left foot. He raises his hands and hushes it, and you can’t help but smile at the memory of him doing the very same to you.

“Watchu smilin’ at, girl?” Karen teases, bumping you with her elbow.

“Wh- me?” You feel yourself flush, embarrassed at having been caught staring.

“Yes, you. He’s got you hooked like a fish!” She and the girls erupt into giggles.

“Oh, stop it.” You gamble another glance at the man, ensuring he’s out of earshot. He stands before the rearing white shire, shushing it gently.  

“It’s cute.” Mary-Beth croons, one hand over her heart. “Lord knows he’s got his eye on you, too.”

“He does?” You whip back around.

“Don’t act like you don’t know it.” Tilly grins.

“Does he! Man’s sweeter on you than a prairie rose in spring.” Karen rolls her eyes.

“Oh, it’s sad though, ain’t it? With you havin’ to leave n’ all…” Mary-Beth sighs, seemingly more torn up about it than you. “S’ a modern-day Romeo and Juliet.”

Uncle twists in his seat, face crumpled in disgust. “You ladies and your gossiping! Leave the man alone, he’s got a soft heart underneath all his rough n’ toughin’ ways.”

“Oh, he was anything but soft when he first saw you in your night things.” Karen taunts, the other girls exploding into scandalised squeals.

“Ms Jones!” You shriek, checking again to make sure Arthur hadn’t somehow materialised behind you, finding him calmly leading that spooked shire by its reins back to its frazzled owner. “Do you have no regard for my dignity?”

“None at all.” She smiles. They at least display the compassion to quit their gossiping when Arthur climbs back onto the cart.

“What were y’all giggling ‘bout? Sounded like a group o’ schoolgirls.”

“Oh, s’nothin’, Arthur.” Tilly waves him off, though her grinning eyes don’t leave yours.

The smell of Valentine hits you before the sound, a thick waft of sheep wool and shit consuming your little entourage. Mary-Beth fans her nose, but you continue to breathe unencumbered. It’s scarily similar to the towns around your little ranch, growing up. Thick mud oozes beneath the wagon wheels, sheep bleat in their masses, fibres of hay and hair part around your carriage like the red sea. Nostalgia hits you like nausea.

You know you must leave. Run home, cry to your mother, wash dishes and polish silverware to the day you die. An independent life lived freely and fully was always a pipe dream, and this misadventure was nothing more than an early onset midlife crisis. You don’t belong in a criminal gang. You don’t belong surrounded by pompous scientists. You’re just a girl – you belong in your mother’s arms, your father’s guidance, until you’re sold off the highest bidder, of course. Though you suppose any kind of prize you could’ve been considered has much depreciated in value since the onset of adulthood, gaining education, and – heaven forbid – opinions.

Karen jostles you slightly. “You with us, girl?”

“Hm?” You snap out of your self-pitying daydreaming, noticing the cart has halted in front of the train station. Arthur stands at the back of the wagon. “Sorry, had my head in the clouds, I guess.”

“C’mon, then. Don’t wanna miss your train.” He encourages, familiar open palm raised to receive you.

Mary-Beth and Tilly envelope you in a tight hug, gushing about how much they’ll miss you. Karen rolls her eyes but joins anyway. Uncle wishes you well. You promise to write.

Arthur grips your hand harder than he ever has before as you step from the carriage, and you blame it on the slipperiness of the mud, though you know better. Ever the gentleman, he carries your bag for you as you round the ramp up to the station doors.

You wave the group off as Uncle continues to drive the wagon toward the town centre, telling Arthur he’ll pick him up on the way back.

“Thank you for waiting with me.” You tell him as he holds the station door open for you to pass.

“Don’t mention it.” He says, following close behind as you near the ticket booth.

“Morning, Miss. What can I do for you today?” The clerk asks, leaning against the counter.

One ticket to the chopping block, please. Trust me, I’ve put it off long enough. “One ticket to Saint Denis, please.” You slide the little money you have left through the bars.

“’Course. Got here just in time - it should be passin’ through in just a few minutes.” He tells you, ripping a little paper coupon and stamping it with the date. “Have a safe journey, now.”

“Thank you.” You take it from him with a polite nod. Instead of purchasing a train ticket, it feels much more like you’ve just sold your soul away to the devil.

Turning around and returning to Arthur waiting patiently by the platform doors, he must notice the turmoil on your face.

“You alright?” He asks, opening the doors for you to step out into the late morning sun baking the faded wood of the station platform.

“Yeah, of course.” You can hear it yourself, how obvious the lie is.

“What’s wrong?” He urges, not with pressure but friendly support. You both sit on an empty bench on the far-left side of the platform.

“’S nothin’.” You lie again, picking up someone’s discarded newspaper left folded next to you.

Silence descends over the two of you, where only quiet conversations among other traveller’s drift through the still air. A bird flutters by, landing to peck at the stones of the track for only a moment before flying away once more.

You skim the cover of the New Hanover Gazette No.27, eyes scanning the headlines, more for distraction than actual care for current events.

BLACKWATER LOCKED DOWN. BANK BOAT HEIST LARGEST ROBBERY IN YEARS. DUTCH’S BOYS ACCUSED, BOUNTIES PLACED. You scoff quietly, imaging if it was your name being displayed to the nation. Hopefully for breakthrough ecological discoveries instead of record-breaking crimes, of course.

BLIZZARD AFTERMATH IN GRIZZLIES. SNOWMELT WORRIES THOSE IN FLOOD PRONE AREA. Unfortunate, of course, though you wouldn’t trade it to be trapped up that mountain again.

BEAR ATTACKS WORRY RESIDENTS. MAN KILLED WHILE HUNTING. A tragedy that a man has died to an animal, though you struggle to find sympathy upon reading that despite it being known the bear was only protecting her cubs, a bounty has been placed on her head for her actions. We are but more animals in the food chain, your dad used to say, and animals have no respect for our rules or laws. Remember that out here. He’d sat you down on a fallen log after a startled raccoon had taken a nip at your ankle, talking you through your childish tears as he disinfected the bite.

“These animals ain’t trynna hurt you just for the fun of it.” He’d said, dabbing alcohol on the scratch, “They’re just spooked, or hungry, or confused. So out here, in a world run by animals, you’ll be treated like one. You gotta be careful, sweetie, or they’ll eat you right up. It’s moments like that you gotta be an animal back.” You listened attentively, staring at the now dead raccoon behind your crouched father. A knife buried deep in its soft belly, pale intestines bursting out the sides. He’d always been fiercely protective of you, not hesitating to do away with the creature when it snarled and sunk its teeth into the soft young flesh of your leg.

Shaking your head to physically rid yourself of the memory, you scan the last few headlines.

FAMILY MURDERED.

TWENTY-ONE DEAD IN ATTACKS.

BUBONIC PLAGUE SPREADS.

Cheerful, as per usual. You’re about to give up on the depressing reading material when one final line catches your eye.

BREAKTHROUGH SCIENTIFIC DISCOVERY IN GRIZZLIES. TEAM REJOICE DESPITE TRAGEDY.

Interest piqued, you sit up straighter and read on.

A Lemoyne Naturalist Society expedition team have published ground-breaking discoveries regarding the relationship between wolves, deer, and rivers in the Grizzlies of Ambarino. Evidence suggests wolves directly shape rivers through acts of digging and foraging, changing the shape and flow of water over time. These discoveries do not come without a price. One member of the team, a female, had reportedly gone mad from the conditions of the wilderness. Mr. Kerr, a highly respected wildlife researcher and naturalist, recounts the moment: “She had gone utterly mad - such a tragedy. She had been slowly deteriorating over the weeks, until one morning she snapped.” he recalls, “Unprompted, she burst from her tent and tore the camp apart, our notes, our samples. We tried to calm her, but she was beyond lunacy - turning on us. She tried to kill me, clawing at me like a wild animal. But what can we expect? Women are not built to survive such circumstances. She should never have joined us, all she has brought is pain and suffering to this society, her father, her name. We should take this as a warning; do not let women further interfere in matters they do not belong.” The team tells of how she took into the woods upon being fought off. She has not been seen since and is presumed dead. Lemoyne Naturalist Society has posthumously expelled her and her father from the society. A bounty of $25 has been placed upon the woman should she be found alive. Bounty details on page 22.

You’re speechless. The train bound for Saint Denis screeches to a halt in front of you, steam billowing. Arthur nudges you, but you just continue to stare at the page.

She had gone utterly mad. She tried to kill me. She took into the woods. Presumed dead. Expelled her and her father. Bounty.

“What the fuck!?” You jump to your feet, yelling at the paper as if it’ll answer you. A few people glance in your direction. Arthur startles. “What the fuck!?”

“What’s wrong?” Arthur holds your bag in one hand, the other hovers by your arm in concern.

“They… they’re…” You can hardly believe it, hands scrunching the paper where your knuckles pale from rage. “They’ve got it all wrong!”

“Got what all wrong?” Arthur urges you to continue speaking, but also to begin walking to board. You let him lead you in a stupefied haze.

“My team – ex-team, they- they… they’re saying-“

“Just slow down, darlin’.” Arthur helps you step up onto the gangway, listening intently but also aware of the conductor impatiently patrolling the platform. “What are you talking about?”

“This article, in the paper.” You shove the crumpled page toward him, pointing at the little square of text. He places your bag at your feet and takes the newsletter from your frantic hands. “My team, they published their findings. It’s all wrong, our evidence didn’t suggest this at all. They fabricated the results and- that doesn’t matter!” You shake your head like a woman crazed, almost jumping up and down on the spot from adrenaline. “They’re saying I tried to kill ‘em. That I went mad, I destroyed the camp and tried to kill ‘em!”

Arthurs eyes scan the paper in front of him, standing at the edge of the train platform before you like this was a normal Thursday for him. “Did you?” He sends a sidelong glance.

“No!” You smack his shoulder. “I didn’t try to kill him! I goddamn wish I did, though! All I did was slap the bastard! Now he’s draggin’ me and my Daddy’s name through the mud!” Your breathing is frantic, you run your hands through your hair, overwhelmed.

“Woah, woah, slow down.” Arthur tucks the paper under his arm and opens his hands in his go-to spooked-horse tactic.

“No, you’re not listenin’ to me, Arthur!” You plead, barely audible over the final whistle of the train. “They’ve expelled me from the society. They’re sayin’ I’m dead.”

“Well, go and set the record straight.” Arthur tells you as if it’s the simplest thing in the world. The brakes are released, and the train begins to slowly roll.

“I can’t, they’ve put a bounty on me! I’m a wanted woman!” You glance around you as if bounty hunters would already be sniffing at your heels, panicked deep to your core.

“Shit.” Arthur looks side to side, noticing the carriages beginning to depart as you start to travel down the tracks. He starts walking down the platform to stay with you.

“What’ll I do?” You look to him, feeling like a lone fawn in a wide-open meadow, not tall enough to see over the grass, but knowing hungry wolves sit waiting on the other side.

“I don’t- I don’t fuckin’ know.” He’s practically jogging to keep up.

“I can’t go back.” You realise, holding your face in sweaty palms. “I can never go back.”

“Look - you gotta make a decision and quick, cause you’re well on your way there now.” Arthur yells above the rapidly climbing noise of the train engine.

“You’re right.” You conclude and sturdy your posture with false confidence. “I’m not going back!” You shout to Arthur, who’s dropped from the end of the platform onto the grass of the roads edge to continue running alongside the train.

“What!?” He can’t hear you, quickly losing pace to the locomotive.

“Catch!” You pick up your bag and swing it off the side of the moving vehicle. He does so with an oof of effort, though quickly drops it upon seeing you hitch your skirts and eye the edge of the carriage vestibule.

“Hey, what’re you doing!?” Arthur puffs from exertion.

“Reckon you can catch me!?” You ask, despite knowing your next actions won’t change based on his answer.

“Can I what!?”

If you didn’t know any better, you’d say Arthur looked almost scared when you leapt from the train edge. The wind picks up your skirts and runs between your legs. It rises around you, carrying your hair away from your face. If it weren’t for the ground rapidly approaching, you’d nearly say it was fun.

Arthur vaults to catch you, reaching to break your fall. You land against him, his barrel chest absorbing the brunt of the impact before his arms instinctively wrap around you as your momentum throws you both to the ground.  You roll to a stop in the wildflowers and grass, limbs disentangling along the hard earth, panting in heavy breaths.

You stare up at the big blue sky, slack-jawed, sucking in lungfuls of earthy air, tasting plants and pollen. The train continues to chug on by, entirely unaware of your departure. When the last carriage whizzes past, the sun beats down on your face and shines in your eyes. You squint against it, raising a hand to shield your gaze. The big blue sky stares back, indifferent.

“The hell is wrong with you, woman!?” Arthur sits up, smacking dust from his jacket.

You sit up as well, twigs sticking every which way from your hair and linens and look at him with a blank stare.

“You could’ve gotten yourself killed!” He stands, brushing off his pants and yanking his fallen hat from the Earth.

“That possibility was considered.” You say, and he rolls his eyes in disbelief. “And it was decided preferable to going back to Saint Denis.”

He huffs an incredulous laugh, shaking his head but offering you a hand up regardless. You take it.

“You’re one crazy filly.” He says as he plucks blades of grass from your messy hair while you pat the dirt from your sleeves and skirt.

“I’ll choose to take that as a compliment, Mr Morgan.” You raise your chin to him, tugging your vest back into place.

“So, what now?” Arthur studies you, leaning on one hip with hands rested on his belt buckle.

“Now, I reckon we find your compatriots and head back to camp. Gotta tell Dutch his least favourite parasite will be hanging ‘round for a while longer.” You sigh, planting your hands on your hips and squinting into the sun, watching the last carriage of the train disappear around the bend of a hill.

Arthur chuckles. “Please. That title belongs to Uncle.” He turns to walk back along the tracks, picking up your discarded bag along the way.

You hurry catch up. “That old goat at least has something to offer! He’s a mighty fine storyteller.” You provide, falling in step beside him.

“He’s a mighty fine liar.” Arthur corrects you with a cheeky grin, one you reflect.

Upon setting foot back on the mucky street leading into Valentine, you notice the abandoned newspaper lying sadly in the mud. You lift it with delicate fingers, careful not to tear the front page as you remove it from the greater fold. You wipe away as much grime as you can before folding it into a neat little square displaying your story on its front. You tuck it into the front pocket of your bag, which Arthur holds patiently, watching you.

“A keepsake.” You explain, continuing down the street.

“Course,” He nods, following, “I still have the newspaper slip ‘bout my first bank robbery. Lee and Hoyt, ’87.”

“Delightful.” You grimace.

“Hey, you’re the one who chose to stick around.”

“That I did.” You look around the street, people milling about their day. Herding sheep, leading horses, carrying baskets. “S’pose I’m gonna have to find a way to be useful, huh?”

“If you don’t wanna be kicked out by Dutch or scolded by Grimshaw, sure.”

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m not exactly a homebody. Grimshaw’s gonna have a hard time gettin’ me to do laundry and dishes.”

“Oh, don’t worry, I’ve noticed. Never knew a sock could come back worse than when I sent it for fixin’.”

“Shush it, you.” You send a half-hearted glare. “I’ll have you know I’m very talented in other areas of life.”

“I’m not doubtin’ it.”

The two of you turn down the main street of Valentine, bracketed either side by a row of businesses. Crossing the road and continuing down the wooden boardwalk, you peer inquisitively into storefronts and saloon windows.

“What’re you two doin’ here?” Uncle hollers, sitting straighter from where he was reclined on a bench outside the general store. “Don’t tell me you missed the damn train.”

“Not quite.” Arthur says, setting your bag by Uncle’s feet as he collapses into the seat beside him.

“I’ve decided it’s in my best interests to stay with y’all.” You skirt the issue, clasping your hands in front of you all lady-like.

“Your best interests seem to have gotten you both covered in mud. Just what the hell happened down there?” Uncle presses, glancing between the two of you.

Arthur pulls a cigarette from his pocket, placing it between frowning lips. “She’s got a bounty on her head. Her team’s sayin’ she tried to kill ‘em.” He explains, lighting a match and protecting it from the breeze with a cupped palm.

Uncle looks back to you. “Well, did you?”

“No!” You stomp your foot indignantly.

“S’alright if you did. Young Arthur here has a few of those accusations under his belt.”

“Charming.” You puff.

“What are you doing here?” Mary-Beth appears behind you.

You open your mouth to explain before Uncle interrupts. “She tried to kill her teammate, got a bounty now.”

“That’s not-“

“No matter! You can ride with us a while longer!” Mary-Beth declares excitedly before turning to the men. “Now, gentlemen, I think I got something good.”

Arthur takes a drag from his cig. “Well, what is it?”

“I snuck into this fancy house and acted like a servant girl, usually works.” Her voice lowers. “Someone said her sister was takin’ a trip from New York or someplace – train full of rich tourists, heading to Saint Denis and then cruisin’ off to Brazil.”

“Okay…” Arthur doesn’t sound impressed.

“A train laden with baggage and passin’ through a bit of deserted country at night as to get to the docks in time for the tides, in some place called Scarlett Meadows.”

Seeing the innocent, hopeless romantic you knew Mary-Beth to be transformed into a scheming thief reminds you just how little you know about these folk.

“Yeah, I know it…” Uncle says, “yeah, yeah… it’s right out near New Hanover. Right… it’s real quiet out there.”

“Sounds good.” Arthur decides, stubbing out the last of his smoke on the wood of the bench. “Where’s Tilly and Karen?”

“I think at the hotel,” Mary-Beth sighs, “they were pickin’ up some drunken fellers that they was gonna rob.”

“Why?” Arthur’s demeanour shifts from indifference to concern, and yours follows suit.

“It seemed easy.” She shrugs. “But… they have been gone for quite a while.”

“I guess I’ll go see if there’s any trouble.” Arthur stands with a grunt, and you move to follow him.

“Oh, there’s Tilly over there!” Mary-Beth cuts in, gesturing across the road where Tilly is being shoved down an alley by a man in a long duster coat. “That does not look ideal.”

“Excuse me.” Arthur says gruffly, pushing past to help.

He’s got it covered, you think, knowing if anyone can help in that situation, it’d be Arthur. But your mind snags on a missing detail. Where’s Karen?

A quick glance up and down the street reveals no troublemaker turning tricks on gullible men, so you head for the hotel, like Mary-Beth said.

“Hey, where do you think you’re goin’?” Uncle yells after you.

“Just gonna check on Karen!” You shout back over your shoulder, picking up your skirts to quicker cross the muddy street. Up the steps and through the creaking front door, you’re greeted by a moustached man standing politely behind the counter.

“Can I help you, ma’am?” He asks, flashing a courteous smile.

“Just lookin’ for a girl… short blonde hair, purple skirts?” You provide a brief description, casing your surroundings. The hotel is nicer than you expected for such a rinky-dink town – the wallpaper is a rich blue with delicate patterning, a lacy curtain adorning the corridor archway, and a faint scent of lavender lingering in the still air.

“Sure did. Last room on the right, upstairs. Don’t be causin’ no trouble, now.” He warns.

“’Course. Thank you, mister.” You nod, climbing the stairs and wandering down the hallway. At first you hear a man moaning in what you originally thought to be pleasure, assumedly at the hands of Karen, when you’re quickly corrected upon hearing her shout from the next room over.

“Get off of me!”

You rush to the door, immediately trying the handle. It rattles uselessly – locked tight. “Karen!” You pound your fist against the wood. “Karen, it’s me, open up!”

“I’m getting’ what I paid for.” A man gruffly responds, and all logical thinking flies out the window.

Backing up, you raise one boot and kick the lock as hard as you can. A hollow thunk resounds through the hallway, and you kick again. And again. And on the third time, the wood splinters and the door swings open with a slam.

Stumbling inside, you find Karen on the floor, hands raised in self-defence. Her attacker, a young, scrawny thing clad in only his union suit, looks bewildered and insulted at your entrance.

“Who are you?” He asks, almost offendedly. Karen rolls onto her front and scurries to the far corner, hand holding her bruised cheek.

“That don’t matter - what do you think you’re doin’ to her?” You raise your voice to match his.

“I’m just getting’ what I paid for.” He spits, taking a step towards you.

“You leave her the hell alone, you sick bastard.” You argue, anger positively brimming.

“Want me to give it to you, instead?” He threatens raising a hand.

You duck just in time for his fist to swing futilely through the air. Glancing around, you quickly spot a candelabra on the mantle beside you. You reach for it, but the man grabs you before your fingers can wrap around its slender neck. His hands dig into your shoulders, pawing their way to your throat, where he grips and begins to squeeze. Almost immediately your head starts to throb. You bring one knee to his groin, feeling the half-hard flesh crease with your blow. Taking the opportunity of his pained stumbling to finally grab the candelabra, you hold it like an axe and swing it down onto the back of his head with all the force you can manage, knowing you don’t stand a chance in hand-to-hand combat, should he get up. It connects with the back of his skull with a sickening, dull donk of metal, and he crumples to the ground immediately.

You and Karen pant in the silence for a few moments before you drop the candle, letting it clank off the floorboards.

“You alright? What happened?” You stride over, pulling her hand from her cheek and brushing her hair back to allow a clear look.

“Was trynna play him… not very well.” She mutters, evidently embarrassed.

No matter, you think, reminiscing on how many fights you found yourself in with paper boys and ranch hands back at home. The corner of her lip is swollen and bruised, but all the damage seems superficial enough not to need attention.

“Are you alright, hun?” You ask, moving your hands to rub her shoulders supportively.

“M’ fine.” She shrugs you off.

“What on Earth happened in here!?” Arthur’s voice booms through the room. You whip around to find him standing in the open doorway, the man still laying folded at his feet.

“S’nothin’, Arthur. Nothin’ to worry about, just… men.” Karen waves him off as she steps over the stranger and pushes past.

Arthur looks back at you for further contribution.

You shrug, not wanting to embarrass Karen further. “Some bastard thought he could put hands on ‘er. I just…” you toe around the sleeping body, eyeing him circumspectly, “stepped in.”

“Goddamn, girl.” Arthur exhales as you squeeze past to follow Karen down the hall.

“Stupid bastard was talkin’ bout the bank.” She tells Arthur as the three of you descend the stairs.

“The bank?” Arthur inquires.

“Sure, I know small town banks are usually a waste of time, but this is a livestock town. There’s lots of cash, sometimes.”

“S’true,” you interject, much to the other’s surprise, “used to pick pockets at the auctions while waitin’ on my Daddy.”

Arthur smiles a little at this admission before opening the door to the street for you and Karen.

“Thank you.” She says to you, barely audible as you step back onto the mud of the road. “I don’t much like being saved, but when I have to be, it’s nice that it’s by another lady”

“Don’t mention it. I’d be happy to give a hiding to any woman-beating piece of shit every day of the week if I could.” You whisper back with a wink before falling into comfortable silence upon meeting the others.

“You okay?” Tilly worries as your little group reconvenes.

“Sure, he only punched me,” Karen downplays, “should’ve seen what our girl here did to ‘im.”

You feel your face heat fiercely, though Arthur gives your back an encouraging pat. Nothing indecent, of course, but your spine tingles beneath your clothes regardless, hairs standing on end where they know his palm is separated from your skin only by a few layers of cloth.

You’d love to say the rest of the afternoon was uneventful, but of course it wasn’t. After Arthur vanished to pursue a witness to prior escapades, you retreated to camp; having thoroughly had your fill of drama for the day.

By the time the wagon rolled back into the Horseshoe Overlook, all adrenaline from beating a man black and blue had completely drained from your body, leaving you more than ready to call it a day. However, far more pressing matters called your attention first.

“Mister Van Der Linde!” You called as you hopped down from the flatbed, leaving your bag under the seat (you’d have all the time in the world to retrieve it later, after all).

“Miss…” Dutch seems surprised to see you trotting back into camp like you owned the place. “What’re you doing back here?”

He closes the book on his lap at your approach while you glance around, praying Arthur had made it back before you. No such luck.

“It’s a long story.” You begin, standing in front of where he sits comfortably in the shade of his tent, hiding from the late-afternoon sun.

“I’m a great listener, miss.”

Somehow you doubt that. Cutting to the chase, you explain. “I’ve been accused of attempting to murder my former scientific team; exiled from the society and a bounty placed upon me. I think it’s best that I stay with y’all for a while longer.”

Dutch considers your words, nodding his head and taking a drag from a fat cigar he’d left smouldering in an ashtray beside him. “You tried to kill your little science team?”

“As far as the law is concerned, yes.”

“Did you?”

“No.”

You’re not sure why Dutch bothered to clarify, as it doesn’t look like he even remotely believes you. “And what exactly will you do around here? Ms Grimshaw made me privy to the fact you can’t sew… or cook…”

This, again?

“And I’m well aware you got a penchant for runnin’ that mouth of yours.” He gestures to the offending unit with the smoking cigar.

“A habit I’ve suffered the consequences of more times than I can count.” You stand a little straighter, not letting a comment like that assuage your confidence. “But trust me, Mr Van Der Linde, I’ve been looking for a way to leave society behind for a long time, now. Ain’t no place for me out there. You said it yourself; I’m a pathetic excuse for a woman. Can’t cook, or sew, or knit, or… you get the point. And yes, I’m quick to anger and even quicker to voice it, but… I’m a good shot. I can hit a deer more than a hundred yards away with bow, two hundred with a firearm. I’ve picked pockets since I was Jack’s height. I can clean and dress a wound twice as fast and three times as clean as anyone else here. And… I really don’t have any other options.”

He regards you quietly, face unreadable. Your heart thumps with each second that passes, prediction of acceptance or rejection swaying with each throb.

“Did you try to kill your team?” He asks again.

“No,” you sigh, “I struck a man named Mr. Kerr. An egotistical, misogynistic prick who honestly deserved worse. He kicked me from the group, leaving me stranded in the mountains, where I found y’all. I didn’t try to kill anyone, I never have, but I been real close a handful of times.”

A few more tense seconds pass. You stare back into his probing brown eyes; nothing to hide anymore. You’re sure your worst behaviour is shown up by any member of this gang acting their Sunday best.

“Very well.” Dutch says finally. “You’re welcome to stay as long as you want. But I need you to understand; this ain’t no charity scheme. We are building ourselves a better future… a better world. We only take what needs taking, hurt who needs hurting. So, you ought to get your ego in check, ‘fore you go an endanger all of us with another little outburst.”

If that ain’t the pot calling the kettle black… “Of course, sir. I understand completely. You won’t get no trouble from me.”

He nods and returns to his book, waving you off like a child.

You turn and wander back towards the wagon, feeling a little floaty. Your whole life has taken another wild, unprepared and unpredicted turn. Falling in with an infamous group of outlaws wasn’t exactly on your ten-year-plan, but neither was being accused of attempted murder. Just like any other animal, you’ll have to adapt.

You’re reaching into the back of the wagon when a thick arm stretches past you, easily seizing your bag and sliding it within grabbing distance.

“Thank you, Arthur.” You find yourself sighing again.

“I’m guessin’ you spoke to Dutch?” He nods in the man’s direction.

You gaze follows his, finding the leader conversing with Hosea, presumably catching him up on their new recruit. “Sure did.”

“How’d it go?” He asks, falling in step beside you as you take your bag back to the girls’ lean-to.

“Not bad, all things considered.” You answer, dropping your case to the earth and collapsing into an empty chair with a huff.

“I’m guessin’ I’ll be seein’ more of you, then?” He stands in that relaxed posture again, leaning easily on one hip, big hands engulfing the buckle of his gun belt.

“I think you’ll find it difficult not to see me.” You lean back and close your eyes, near exhaustion.

“Well, that sounds mighty fine by me.” He chuckles, head down to hide his face under the wide brim of his hat.

You hum in agreement, sending him an insolent smile as he bids you a good evening, retreating to his own tent in the pink paint of the setting sun. Admittedly, you also assumed your ten-year-plan would be spent largely alone, though these reoccurring departures from your original campaign may hold more promise than you initially thought.

Thank you so much for reading! Also, please leave a comment, like, reblog, I don't mind, just something to let me know you've read it (and maybe even liked it hehehe). Let me know if you wanna join the taglist!

Tag list - @morgansroan , @4-leafed

“How do you deal with anger?” You ask, leaning against a tree and gazing at a V of geese cutting through the blue morning sky over the Dakota River.

“Anger?” Arthur clarifies before blowing a cooling breath over his steaming coffee. He had been sitting peacefully beneath the little pine at the edge of camp, reclining against its trunk with his hat resting on his lap, when you wandered over.

“Anger.” You confirm, letting the geese blend into the obscurity of the horizon.

“I dunno.” He says uselessly, taking a sip from the morning brew. He sighs and smacks his lips gratefully.

“Hm, insightful.”

“Why do you ask?” He looks up at you over his shoulder, squinting in the late dawn sunlight without the protection of his hat.

“’Cus I’m fuckin’ angry.” You mutter and frustratedly kick a pebble, watching it bounce and roll along the stony earth to the cliffside of Horseshoe Overlook. It slows and teeters on the edge for a moment before surrendering to the call of gravity and falling over the outcrop. You can hear it click off the rocks and branches below.

“As you should be.” Arthur says.

“I know, but it’s gettin’ damn old real quick.” You huff, standing up straight and adjusting your skirt. “Hard to concentrate on chores when your hands are practically shakin’ with rage.”

“Grimshaw still got you on the lady’s work?” He asks.

“Designated to laundry, mostly.” You offer him a hand as he moves to stand. “Though she’s at least lettin’ me chop wood, gather kindling ‘n’ the like.”

Arthur hums, nodding, dusting off the denim of his pants. You take a moment to voyeur as he glances around camp. His hair stands a little wayward from recent sleep, his face still healthy tan; not yet reddened by the New Hanover sun.

“Reckon Grimshaw can excuse you for a few hours?” He turns back to you, setting his hat on his head, and you very convincingly act like you weren’t staring.

“Why?”

“Why’s it matter, you wanna keep rottin’ at camp with your chores?” He chuckles a little, knocking you lightly with his elbow as he passes.

“No!” You pick up your skirts and hurry after him.

“Ms Grimshaw!” Arthur greets friendlily.

“Mr Morgan.” She returns, not looking up from where she scrubs a round dinner table.

“I’ll be takin’ the lady out for the day. We’ll be back by the afternoon.” He tells her simply, not waiting for an answer as he continues to the horses. You follow.

“W-what? No you ain’t!” She calls, throwing down her rag.

“Sure am! Just for a few hours, tha’s all.” He yells back, checking which firearms he has stored on his saddle.

“My lord…” She whispers to herself. “Soon enough we’ll have the women runnin’ jobs with the men…”

“Here’s hoping!” Karen butts in from her seat nearby, clearly losing in a game of dominoes against Tilly.

“Shush it, you.” Ms Grimshaw snaps back. “You’re meant to be doin’ laundry.”

“You can take Old Belle, she needs her legs stretched, anyway.” Pointedly ignoring Grimshaw’s nagging, Karen waves you off as she returns to her game.

You smile at their little dynamic, a far more explosive mirror of you and your mother. Standing at the side of the old Nokota, you whisper a little introduction and brush her withers. Her ears flick uneasily and she tosses her head.

“Shh, it’s alright girl, I’ll take ya nice ‘n’ slow.” You speak gently, and she seems to relax, at least enough to let you tug at the buckles and girths of the tack. With one foot in the stirrup, you swing yourself into the saddle, proving more difficult than initially thought due to your many skirts. Your frustration must be evident, as Arthur speaks from atop his mount.

“You alright?” He asks, taking the reins and gently kicking his shire to pace.

“Sure… just….” You can barely get the words out as you tug at the mess of fabric around your hips and legs.

“Havin’ some trouble?” Arthur teases boyishly.

“Shush, you.” You give up in a huff, blowing hair back from your face and pulling Old Belle to follow her packmate now trotting down the dirt path cutting through the surrounding woodland. “You got no idea what it’s like to try ride in all these skirts… never mind a corset.”

Pulling alongside him, you swear his ears burn the slightest bit pink at your blasé speaking of your underthings. “Y’know, you don’t gotta worry ‘bout all that ‘round here. Most days we’re lucky if Karen even gets a shirt on.”

You laugh at his honesty, because yes, Karen does usually just stick to her chemise. “I just don’t have any other options. My luggage was on the main cart, back with my team. Heaven knows where it’s ended up.”

“All ya got is in that lil’ bag?” Arthur whips to face you as you step out from under the forest canopy and into the unfiltered sunshine. You raise a hand over your eyes to better see him.

“Sure. Ain’t so bad. Got my notebooks, some instruments, a few dollars. Could always sell some of my equipment, need be.” You say optimistically.

He pshaws at the notion. “We’ll stop by the general store on the way back, pick you up a few essentials.”

“I can’t afford none of that, Arthur.” You remind him.

“Well, I can.” He says matter-a-factly.

“Arthur, no. I won’t be acceptin’ no alms from you. I got no way of payin’ you back.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t wanna hear it. Ya can’t be livin in the same clothes for a month. Besides, ya don’t even have a hat. Look atchu - squintin’ like a bat in the sun.”

You turn your nose up at his comparison.

“’Sides, we’ll be passin’ through valentine on the way back, anyway. Might as well make a trip of it.” He says with certitude, and you sense no room for further discussion as he looks back at the road in front of you.

“What we doin’ out here, anyway?” You ask, looking around. Not many coaches to hold up or richies to rob.

“Goin’ to test your marksmanship.” He smirks, urging the horses to pass through the shade between two tall buttes. The thudding of hoofbeats echo between the sandstone pillars. “Heard you talkin’ big game to Dutch ‘n’ Hosea.”

You cringe at the memory, surely selling yourself a quarter or two high. “I mighta been exaggerating a lil.”

Arthur steers his horse up a small slope leaning along the side of one of the mesas, and you follow single file till you emerge on the grassy, flat top.

“Ah, I’m sure you’re fine.” Arthur says, looking around the open grasses of the Heartlands, pulling the horses to a stop. Old Belle snorts indignantly.

While stroking her neck, you watch Arthur pull a pair of binoculars from his satchel and hold them to his eyes. You’re not sure what exactly he’s looking for, presumably some game to have a go at, but it’s an awful good opportunity to do some staring. He sits in the saddle like a businessman at a desk; his posture is so relaxed, it’s second nature. You’re sure his thighs have grown mighty strong from years of holding his balance atop his steads. You wonder how many pairs of pants have worn thin between the legs from days spent rubbing against the saddle leather.

“There we go.” He speaks quietly, and you’re glad to see he’s still peering through the binoculars when you break your daydreaming.

“Whatcha lookin’ at?”

“Pronghorns.” He says, lowering the eyeglasses and holding them out for you to take, though his gaze remains on the horizon.

You bring them to your face, quickly finding the little herd he was watching. Three females and a male, by the looks of it, grazing the dry grass only a few hundred feet away. “Cute.” You comment.

“Tasty.” Arthur corrects you. “And pretty. That male’s hide can fetch us a dollar or two, his horns the same. That is, if you get a clear shot.” He looks to you with a challenging glint in his eye.

“Depends, do you have the right gun?” You ask as you hand back his binoculars. “I’d say a rifle. Gonna need a scope, at this distance.”

“Right you are, ma’am.” He praises, sliding from the saddle. You do the same and stand beside him, letting Old Belle sniff and paw at the dirt as she pleases. He pulls a beautiful Rolling Block Rifle from his saddle, not yet scuffed or stained with use.

He holds it out to you, and you take it naturally. It feels lighter than you remember in your hands, though you suppose you’ve grown a bit since you last went hunting with your father. Your palm slips around the stock, cool wood along your sweaty skin, your other hand gripping the forestock with practised ease. Bringing it to your shoulder, you peer down the scope - crystal clear. Clearly a recently purchased gun.

“This new?” You ask, bringing it back down to admire again. Not hearing an answer, you glance up and find Arthur staring.

“Wh-what?” He shakes his head, his mind clearly elsewhere.

“You listenin’ to me, cowboy?” You grin cheekily. Maybe the girls were onto something. “I asked if this piece is new.”

He clears his throat, a little awkward. “Sure is. Just got it last week with Marston.”

“’S real nice.” You say, stepping past him to the cliffs edge, cocking the gun as you do. Bringing it back to your shoulder, now familiar with the way it sits against your deltoid, and look down the scope. The pronghorns stand right where you left them. The male raises his head on a swivel to check for predators.

“Now, remember, you only got one shot. Soon as you pull that trigger, any animal you don’t hit gon’ run to the hills, so-“

The splitting boom from the rifle fire cuts him short, his shoulders jumping from shock. The recoil is strong, something you haven’t felt in a while, and it takes you a moment to find the target again. Just as you expected, the male lies listlessly in the dry shrub, a steadily building pool of red beneath his head. The females have scattered.

“Jesus, woman, a little warnin’ next time!” Arthur scolds, though there’s no venom in his words.

“Sorry, Arthur.” You laugh, finding him adjusting his hat behind you.

“Reckon you got ‘im?”

“Know I did.” You say pridefully.

“’Atta girl.”

You remount and hurry over to the kill, eager to reach it before the vultures. Old Belle is more than happy to follow her trail partner back down the slant of the butte and across the dry country. Crows caw overhead, vocalising with the percussion of hoofbeat.

“Goddamn, girl.” Arthur hoots, a proud smile on his face upon arriving at the pronghorn’s final resting place. “Hit him right between the eyes.”

Sure enough, as you dismount and squat to inspect your kill, a bloody little hole descends through the bony ridge between his dead brown eyes. His rectangular pupils are glassy and vapid, the dusty soil around him lacking any evidence of a struggle, and you’re glad to surmise he must’ve died before he even realised what was happening.

“We oughta get you out huntin’ more often.” Arthur says as he bends down to catch your eye while unsheathing his hunting knife. “Or maybe even on the guard rotation. Beats scrubbin’ laundry, I bet.”

“I can’t say I’ve ever shot at a person, Arthur.” You remind him, taking the blade he offers and starting to cut at the thick hide. He tries to help but you shoo him away.

“Didn’t say you’d have to.” He says, taking a seat on the soft grass just a few feet away and pulling out his journal while you work. “You can just sit pretty on a rock in the forest. Make sure no stranger wanders into camp.”

“Maybe.” You say noncommittally, keeping focus on your hands splitting the skin from flesh, gently cutting any tendons and ties with the knife. Healthy young buck, you think, admiring the lean muscle the pronghorn hid below his pretty skin, the distinct lack of scrambled-egg-looking fat. Completely engulfed in the work, your hands pick and peel like second nature – a bone deep understanding honed into you from a young age. You set the skin aside, dig the horns from the skull, and cut thick slices of lean meat from pretty white bone. Shank, breast, loin, flank. Maybe Pearson will be so pleased with your haul, he’ll even let you slip some thyme and rosemary into the stew tonight.

“Givin’ me a run for my money, girl.” Arthur says as you finish up, rolling the yield in its skin and tying it to Old Belle’s croup. “Folks ain’t gonna let me hunt no more when they see how fine you do it.” He stamps out a cigarette on the ashy earth you didn’t see him light.

“Ain’t that good.” You mumble, a little bashful.

“Don’t sell yourself short, now.” Arthur says, remounting as you do the same. “Let’s go see how much you’ll get for this pretty piece.”

The ride to Valentine is mercifully quiet. Much to your own dismay, you catch your eye wandering from birds flitting through the tall grass to narrow hips swaying with each cant of the saddle in front of you. You’re no saddle-scared amateur, practically growing up on the back of a horse, but Arthur must’ve been born on one. His posture relaxed, one wrist lazily leaning on the saddle horn, the reins loosely twined through thick fingers while the other hand braces his thigh. Each rock and divot his horse steps over and into, the lean of the saddle rolls naturally up his spine, as if he and his stead are one being.

Oh, to have a schoolgirl crush again. There’s no torture quite so fun. Though, it now holds far more serious consequences. No longer do you have the option to run and hide, leave meetings with Arthur to your dreams while tucked in bed. No, now you’ll be meeting him every morning over coffee, every evening over dinner, probably every other moment in between. These feelings are sure to germinate, to bloom, their pollen to float through the air and seep into every waking moment, should it not be weeded.

Realistically, there’s two options.

One; you squash these silly daydreams down where they came from and ignore them for the rest of your time with the Van Der Linde gang. This option, while much easier to execute, poses the uncertainty of just how long you’ll need to pluck these pretty posies from their stems and crush them beneath your boot. Not exactly desirable.

Two; you confront these feelings head on. You’ve never been one to shy away from confrontation, that much is certain. You’ve knocked a boy’s teeth out for pulling your pigtails one too many times while working as a ranch hand, and cornered him in an empty stable two weeks later when he wouldn’t quit staring. You never planned to lose your virginity rolling around in the hay of a stall, but you also never planned to ride through heartlands with an outlaw as your trail partner.

Looking at him now, adjusting his hat to hide his fair blue eyes from the harsh early afternoon sun, you struggle to imagine him quite so scary as you know him to be. He’s returned to camp bloody knuckled and scowling more times than you can count, but rather than a shiver running down your spine, your tummy blooms with adoration and an urge to smooth those stress lines from his face. Arthur has always been so gentle with you; barely gripping your wrist while swabbing his split knuckles with phenol despite the sting you know it wields, never copping a feel when getting you to and from wagons, always squeezing your hand just the right amount when helping your step.

You can’t imagine him being violent or aggressive with a little wayward affection, like so many men behave. A less inclined woman might fear protest in the form of a fist, maybe even a knife, but you know your life isn’t on the line with Arthur… maybe just your dignity.

“We’ll stop by the butcher. Make our way back once we got some more cash.” Arthur instructs, and for a moment you fright, like woken from sleep by a splash of cold water.

“W-what?” You sputter, realising you’re already back on the mains street of Valentine.

“We’ll sell the hide and some meat at the butcher, first. With that cash we’ll get you your things.” He repeats. If he’d noticed your daydreaming, he’s kind enough not to mention it.

“Sure.”

The butcher is friendly enough, though you notice Arthur does majority of the talking. Making sure he doesn’t try scam a clueless woman, you’re sure. After a little haggling, you’re presented with $3.75.

Walking to the general store, you can’t help but feel a little dejected. A beautiful, innocent life cut short for less than four dollars? Hell, your ludicrous bounty is worth more than this life.

“Can’t believe I have to come back tomorrow.” Arthur grumbles as you trudge through the muddy street, looking around at all the farmers and working girls clogging the thin walkways.

“What? Why’d you take me out today if you already had an errand tomorrow?” You ask.

“Wouldn’t be able to talk to you nearly as much if Javier and Bill fuckin’ Williamson were hangin’ around.” Arthur smiles cheekily.

You return his smile though dip your head bashfully, not wanting to read too far into his little quips.

You’re fiddling with the coins and cash in your hand, wondering how you’ll afford a new hat with less than a day’s wage as you climb the creaking steps to the entrance of the store. Arthur digs through his satchel before presenting you with a wad of cash at the door.

“What?” You vocalise dumbly.

“Here, get yourself some new threads.” He slaps the fold into your hand and urges you inside.

“Arthur, no.” You say sternly. “There’s gotta be at least thirty bucks here.”

“Good, should be able to get you somethin’ that’ll last.” Continuing to usher you in with a hand at the small of your back, he gives a curt nod to the clerk.

“’M serious, Arthur.” You push, though allow him to walk you to the back of the store where folds of jeans and shirts sit on dusty shelves.

“So am I.” He says, leaning against the wall and gesturing to the clothing line.

Uncharacteristically self-conscious, you look around like a rabbit in an open field. The cashier flips through a newspaper, unbothered. Arthur has both hands on his gun belt, watching your nervous self like a hawk.

“Go on.” He nods to the selection.

“Ugh, fine.” You huff. “But you gotta wait outside… I don’t like being watched. Feel like a deer under a wolf.”

He chuckles and shakes his head but holds his hands up in mock surrender. “Whatever you say, girl.” You watch him leave, spurs clinking with each step. The way he swipes a pack of cigarettes from a display on his way out goes unnoticed by the clerk, but not you.

Satisfied with your privacy, you turn back to your options. As expected for Valentine, it’s practically all farmer’s wears. Not that you mind, a pair of pants sounds close to heaven right now. Shuffling through the cheapest style available, you tug free a pair that you assume will fit (your size, minus two on account of being designed for men, of course). You slip behind a patchwork curtain and rid yourself of your vest, skirt, blouse, petticoat, corset and it’s cover until you’re down to just your underthings. Thank the sweet lord you always opted for combinations over a chemise and bloomers, you think. The idea of riding with nothing between your flesh and denim does not conjure comfort.

You slip into the pants, and it’s a slightly foreign feeling. You would often wear your father’s old trousers around the old homestead, but they were always so loose, requiring suspenders or your mother’s sewing to bring in the waist - one of the few sympathies she graced you with. These new studded saddle pants, however, hugged the tops of your thighs and sat snug around your waist, whispering no threat of sliding down your hips. Looking at yourself in the rusty mirror, you almost flush.

Maybe it’s actually more flattering than all those cinched corset waists and ridiculous hip busts. Your eyes can trace the distinct curve of your body without all the primming and puffing that women’s clothing lend. You grab your blouse from the pile of discarded clothing in the corner and put it back on, tucking it into the waist of the jeans. You look only slightly absurd, wearing muddied riding boots and men’s farm jeans with a frilly women’s blouse, but Jesus it feels better. If only you’d been born a man.

Just as you’re adjusting your cuffs, you eye that pile of your old clothes and ponder. They’re all still in pretty good condition, you reason. A corset, with proper whale-boning and it’s cover, a well-made skirt with a matching vest, and full petticoat, could fetch a pretty price. You fold it all as neatly as you can without an iron and exit the changing room with faux confidence.

“I’ll be buying these pants, please.” You tell the storeowner, depositing the great stack of linens on the counter.

“And all this?” He gestures to the pile.

“That’s the payment.”

He snickers. “This ain’t no tradin’ post, missy.”

“Shame.” You sigh, reaching to take the clothes back. “I’m sure a more educated man would pay top price for these. Maybe down in Saint Denis…” You mumble, as if thinking aloud.

“H-hey now, let me get a look.” The man rescinds, sliding the clothes out of your reach. “How much is this all worth, anyway?”

“Oh, gosh… let me think.” You pretend to deliberate, cocking your head cutely as if you are a clueless woman. “At least forty… no, fifty, with the matching corset bust.”

The man snorts, insulted. “You think I’m payin’ fifty dollars for some second-hand clothes?”

“Of course not, sir! They have been worn once or twice, of course. I mean, they’re in such good condition, I just assumed any nice woman around these parts would appreciate some real fine wears. And I am buyin’ these pants from ya. I’ll settle for… thirty-five.”

“Twenty-five.” The man bargains.

“Thirty. And that hat on the rack behind ya’.” You point over his shoulder at a beautiful cutter hat hanging off the wall. The cured leather a shade of brown that’d compliment your boots perfectly.

“Deal.” He says with a self-satisfied smile, completely unaware the clothes were provided by the Naturalist Society more than three years ago.

“Pleasure doin’ business, sir.”

Arthur is reclined on a bench out front when you finally exit, hat pulled over his eyes. You gently kick his outstretched legs and he shoots up like spooked cat.

“Resting well, sleepin’ beauty?” You tease as he darts upright, scrambling with his hat.

“Yeah, yeah, very funny.” He grumbles, but there’s no malice in his voice as he fixes his hat to its usual position. “Did you get what you were-“

Whatever he was going to say is abruptly cut short, as he finally looks up at the woman standing before him. His eyes widen slightly, maybe even his jaw goes a little slack. Arthur’s eyes rake over your body, lingering boyishly on the unencumbered curve of your breast without the corset, down where your thighs fill the fabric and back up again. You supress a flattered giggle.

“Cat got your tongue?” You taunt, leaning on one hip.

Arthur clears his throat, cheeks reddening where they peek from the top of his beard. You save him any further humiliation and slap his bill fold back into his lap.

“Wha-? Damnit, woman, I told you it was fine, how the hell did you pay for this?” He sighs and stands up, sifting through the money to check if you really hadn’t used any.

“Don’t sweat it, Arthur. I paid with my own wears. Made a profit, too.” You’re close to bragging, presenting him with your own pretty billfold before slipping it into the deep back pocket of your jeans. “Thank you, though. ‘Preciate it.” You say a little quieter, and before you can second-guess yourself, you press a kiss to Arthur’s blushing cheek.

It’s quick, and you can see him lean into it, angling his head slightly so your hat doesn’t catch on the brim of his own. You don’t dare look him in the eye when you pull back, turning and trotting to the horses as if your heart isn’t fixing to climb out your throat. There’s only a brief pause before you hear those jingling spurs hurrying to follow.

Arthur might’ve been onto something, saying you’ve taken his position as one of the hunters for the group. The girls ooh and ahh at the great slabs of meat you slap onto Pearson’s table, who thanks you kindly before butchering it for the stew later tonight. Even Grimshaw seems to have found reason for your outing.

“Good work today.” Arthur pats the small of your back before retreating to his own tent and collapsing onto his cot, removing his hat and running a hand through those sandy strands. With a heavy sigh he takes his little notebook from his satchel and begins scribbling. Oh, how you wish to see what he writes.

Instead, you deposit the gang’s share in the tithing box, dutifully updating the ledger. Just as you’re finishing, Sadie shuffles up beside you.

“Hey, Mrs. Adler,” you close the book, turning to give her your full attention – you’ve barely exchanged glances since spending nights cuddling for warmth up in the mountains, “how’re you holdin’ up?”

“I’m not.” She says bluntly, and you already knew it was a stupid question. Her hair is frizzy and unkempt, and the bags beneath her eyes stretch down her pale cheeks.

“I figured.” You know there’s nothing you can really say to help, so instead you place a ginger hand on her shoulder, gentle like meeting a scared kitten that could hiss and swat at any moment.

“I was wonderin’,” she moves on, you’re sure people have filled her mind with her late husband already today, “where’d your old clothes go? I can only borrow from Abigail for so long…”

And just like that, you’re kicking yourself. Selfish, you think, selling perfectly good clothes for your own benefit instead of giving them to someone who clearly needs them more. You scrunch your eyes shut, cringing. “I’m sorry, Sadie, I just sold them up at Valentine.”

She nods stiffly, clearly disappointed. “Sure. I’ll see you around, then.” She turns to return to wherever she had been wallowing.

“Sadie, wait.” You grab her elbow, less gingerly, before she makes up her mind. “I’m sorry, I should’ve thought before I did… got a nasty habit of not doin’ that.”

If you squinted, you might’ve actually seen a little smirk on her sunken face.

“But, I do have some leftover cash. Lord knows I ain’t got no use for it, and you’re probably all crammed up from being stuck in camp for so long. How bout tomorrow I take you into town? Get you some of your own clothes?”

“Are you sure?” She asks, but even if you weren’t, that faded little glimmer of excitement in her eyes would be enough to skew you.

“’Course. Though…” You look around the camp, and while everyone seems to be minding their own business at the moment, you can’t imagine people would be thrilled at the idea of the two freshest members disappearing from camp together, “we might need an escort. Don’t reckon Dutch would like his two new ladies runnin’ off together.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.” She deflates.

Then, something Arthur said pings like a light bulb in your head. “Say, I think I overheard some of the men were headin’ in tomorrow. Escuella, Williamson, and Smith, I think. We can always tag along, I’m sure Karen won’t mind if I borrow her ride just one more time.”

“Williamson? You’re kiddin’ me.” She groans at the prospect of having to be babysat by the man.

“Hey, at least Javier and Charles are there too!” You reason, “And I think Arthur will be tagging along, too.”

Sadie nods, a devious little smirk tugging at her lips. “Ah, that’s why you’re so eager.”

You feel your cheeks heat furiously, and usually you’d begin adamantly defending yourself, but a larger part of you is just glad to see Sadie having a giggle, even if it is at your expense.

“Very funny, Adler.” You faux annoyance.

“It is.” Karen chimes in from her seat under a nearby tree. You weren’t aware this was now a public inquisition

You roll your eyes but can’t quite keep yourself from smiling. “Stay outta trouble, you two. I’ll talk to Arthur about it after dinner.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll be seein’ him after dinner.” Karen snickers, and you shake your head.

“Dinner ain’t ever gonna be served if someone don’t start choppin’ vegetables!” Ms Grimshaw scolds, shrieking like a vulture on her perch by the fire, no remorse for your dignity.

Later, after the sun steps down and the moon rises onto the big black stage of the night sky, you’re collecting stained cutlery and crockery from the grass and tabletops alike when you spot Arthur scraping the last remains from his bowl.

You sidle over to the table as if you’ve no particular destination, as if Arthur just happens to be sitting where you end up.

“Arthur, let me take that for you.” You offer, adding his empty bowl to the stack in your off hand.

“Thank you kindly, ma’am.” He says, tipping his hat like a gentleman.

“’Course.” You take a cursory glance to make sure no giggling girls or carping crones are eavesdropping. “Can I ask you a favour?”

“Depends what it is.” He reclines in his chair, groaning at a full belly and a late night.

“I… I was gonna take Mrs Adler into town tomorrow, but I figure we wouldn’t be allowed out, just the two of us.”

“Probably not.”

“I know you and some others were already headed in, and I guess I was just wonderin’ if we’d be able to tag along.” You’re practically mumbling by the end, like a teenage girl asking for permission to see the pictures. “You won’t even notice us, we’ll stay out the way. We’re just gonna go get her some new clothes too, y’know, since she’s just borrowin’ Abigail’s at the moment and-“

A huffed chuckle escapes his lips, interrupting. “That’s what you’re so nervous ‘bout?”

“… yes?”

He shakes his head in disbelief. “Girl, you’re always welcome to come along. Anything to get between Javier and Bill bickerin’ like schoolboys.”

Right, you mentally face-palm, he just wants a distraction from those two knuckle-heads. “Ah, of course.”

“I’ll come get you ‘fore I head off.” He stands, suddenly reminding you how tall he actually is when he’s not on a saddle.

“Sure thing.” You squeak, bidding him goodnight as he retreats to his tent once more. Left in the cricketed silence of the night, your pounding heart pays no mind to the simplicity of the interaction.

The petite bell rings prettily when you and Sadie enter the general store, boots thumping along the old, weathered floorboards.

“Afternoon.” You greet the cashier with a friendly smile, recognising him from yesterday. He simply nods in your direction, eyes squinting suspiciously. Understandable - considering you were just here yesterday, you reason, a small-town store owner must be dubious to stay afloat.

You guide Sadie to the back wall where the limited options sit on their shelves.

“Here, pick whatever you want.” You deposit the billfold in her hands, keeping a few coins in your pocket for a drink or two at the bar. “I’ll go find the men. Meet you at the saloon.”

She nods farewell and turns to her options. You intend to bid good day to the clerk as you pass, but those same shifty eyes scrutinise you, and suddenly you’re not feeling so amicable. Stepping into the hot afternoon sun, you glance up and down the street, looking for a familiar horse or hat to poke out from the loose crowds.

Like a stag’s antlers in a sea of doe, a worn gambler hat a few inches higher than those around it moves through the crowd outside the bar. Arthur. You watch him weave between a pair of prostitutes posted outside the doors before disappearing inside, raising a hand in pardon. Such a gentleman.

You move to follow him, boots slapping loudly in the wet mud. You pardon me and excuse me through the absurdly thick congregation of people until you’re finally hopping up the stained front steps of Smithfield’s Saloon. The batwing doors creak with your entrance, but the patronage is so rowdy you doubt anyone even noticed your arrival.

The boys certainly didn’t, as you spot them gathered at the near end of the bar. Javier appears to be introducing Arthur to two, unfortunately, gorgeous women.

The one closest to him, an orange-haired beauty. Freckled porcelain skin and busty chest which she masterfully arches to its full extent, swaying tantalisingly for the men before her. The woman next to her, darker features and thinner cheeks, has eyes like melted chocolate, sweet and fluttering. Charles at least seems infatuated.

You suddenly feel insecure, stood in your pants and blouse, flecked with mud and horse shit, looking like you haven’t bathed in days. You haven’t, but that’s not the point. The women’s floral chemises and flowing skirts surely make you look like a teen boy playing dress up.

With a deep breathe to fill your lungs with forged confidence, you make your way over.

“Well, ain’t you just the tough as teak mountain man?” The ginger teases flirtatiously, looking Arthur up and down like a fine cut of steak.

“Oh, you be quiet Anastasia,” her friend lilts, “anyone can tell this one is a pussy cat.”

The boys laugh at their quips, Javier delivering some half-baked joke about pussies, but you’re not really listening anymore. Ugly green jealously curls like smoke in your head, despite the fact you stake no claim on their score.

It’s not your man, and it’s just their job, so why do you feel like smashing a bottle over the counter and telling them to scram?

Arthur beats you to it. “Whatever you say, ladies, but I’m not interested in what you’re sellin’.” He deadpans.

“Well, ain’t that a nice way to talk to a lady?” Anastasia ribs him, not letting her dollar get away that easy.

“Oh, I didn’t know I was talking to a lady.” Arthur dishes just as hot as he’s handed, and the women don’t seem all too pleased.

Anastasia pushes off the bar with a huff. “Excuse me.” She struts past you, loyally followed by her friend. Charles almost mounts the bar trying to hold onto her hand as long possible before she slips away.

Javier sighs disappointedly. “Well, I must say… you got a fine way with the women, amigo.”

“Yeah, a regular dandy and a charmer.” Arthur grumbles.

“I’ll say.” You interrupt, the three men startling at your sudden appearance.

“How long you been standin’ there?” Arthur asks, voice peaking, surprised.

“Long enough.” You sidle up next to him at the bar.

He shakes his head, clearly a little embarrassed, and you nudge him in the ribs with your elbow.

“You plan on takin’ all three of them by yourself?” A raspy voice sounds from a nearby table.

Turning to face the heckler, you find an older man in a fedora and sweat-stained shirt twisted in his seat to properly see you, his friends sat either side and egging him on.

“Might be, what’s it to ya?” You spit back, hearing Javier choke on his drink.

The man smiles, enjoying the little game. “Just wonderin’ if there’s room for one more.”

“Turn back ‘round, partner.” Arthur warns, voice low and growling.

Holding his hands up in mock surrender, the stranger isn’t dissuaded. “Hey now, I was just tryin’ to get to know your lil friend here.” He speaks slowly, oozing sleaze from each syllable as he stands. “Nothin’ wrong with samplin’ the merchandise before a purchase. Hell, when she’s got it on display like that…” the man gestures to your jeans, “I don’t even have to pay to see what I’m gettin’.”

Red hot anger burns the skin of your face and palms, and before you can stop to consider the consequences of your next actions, you grab the liquor bottle from the bar top and swing it into the man’s face in one fell swoop.

It shatters on impact, leaving only the bottleneck in your grasp. Alcohol splashes in a wet explosion between you, shards of glass punctuating the great eruption.

In a matter of seconds, the entire bar descends into madness. Before the stranger can recover, Arthur throws a fist into his cheek, and another, and another, before he crumples to the ground. Javier smashes his shot glass over the head of another patron, Charles launches a chair into the crowd, and Bill wanders in like it’s just another Thursday before catching a punch to his jaw from a bargoer. The whole establishment seems to have been waiting for a reason to whale on the man next to them, as everywhere you look, another brawl is transpiring.

“You okay?” Arthur grabs your shoulder and turns you to face him, looking you up and down as if the man even had a chance to get a hit on you.

“Y-yeah.” You stammer. You’ve never had a man defend your honour before, and you’re starting to understand the swooning protagonists of all those nightstand dime novels.

“What the hell’s goin’ on down here!?” Someone booms from the staircase; a tall, stocky man already missing buttons from his shirt, stomping his way to the main floor.

“No, Tommy, stay outta this!” The bartender pleads from his sheltered squat behind the bar.

“Come here!” Tommy jeers Javier with a slur, who only gets one punch on Tommy’s face (who reacts like a warhorse to a fly), before being practically tossed onto the bar.

Just as Arthur moves to aid, another crazed customer throws themselves over his shoulders, trying to choke him out from behind.

“Get the hell off me!” Arthur growls, thrashing side to side.

Mustering up all the strength you can, you grab the stranger by his collar and yank, sinfully delighted at the surprised yelp he lets out, grabbing at his neck to prevent himself from choking on his own shirt.

Not having planned this far ahead, you stare a little dumbly at the sputtering man as he turns to you, one hand still rubbing his red neck.

“Little bitch.” He spits, smacking your cheek with the back of his free hand with an audible clap!

You stumble, pressing your palm to your offended cheek to ease the sting, but remain steady just in time to watch Arthur throw all his weight into a right hook, connecting perfectly with the side of the man’s head. He collapses to the ground and makes no attempt to get back up.

Arthur rushes closer, but before he’s able to speak, you hear Bill from somewhere behind you.

“Javier could use some help, lovebirds!”

Following his direction, you spin to find your friend being repeatedly slammed into a table by the abominable Tommy.

“Hey, tough guy!” Arthur stalks over, fists clenched at his sides.

“What the hell!?” Sadie’s distinctive rasp calls, and you see her standing at the open saloon doors, gawking at the chaos in front of her. She looks nice, you think, more comfortable and confident, in a pinstripe shirt, buckskin vest and brown trousers.

A glass smashes into the post beside you, dangerously close to your head, snapping you out of your thoughts, and you hurry to meet her just outside the entrance to the bar-turned-boxing ring.

“Sadie! Are you okay?”

“Me? I’m fine,” she looks herself up and down, “hell’s goin’ on with y’all?”

“I…” you glance behind you, seeing tables overturned, bottles soaring, people yelling, “… I started it.”

“Where are the men?” She almost needs to yell to be heard over the great racket behind you.

As if on cue, the window to your right shatters in an ear-splitting crash, Arthur similarly bursting forth and rolling across the boardwalk before falling to the muddy street below.

“C’mon, pretty boy.” Tommy shoves past you, marching after his opponent, who, admittedly, righted himself very quickly considering the significant fall he just endured.

“Pretty boy!?” Arthur rubs the mud from his eyes and spits onto the ground. “You’re kiddin’ me… pretty boy!?”

Like clockwork, a crowd gathers immediately to watch the spectacle. Probably the most exciting thing to happen in this town to date. Arthur blocks the first swing with his forearm and ducks the second, using Tommy’s moment of imbalance to punch him in the jaw. Tommy almost slips in the mud but regains his footing, grabbing Arthur by the shoulder and delivering a solid jab to his gut. Arthur only barely avoids the next strike, jumping back just as the fist swings by his tummy.

The crowd oohs in excitement.

“You’re goin’ down in the mud.” Tommy hisses, grabbing Arthur by the neck and tossing him to the ground like a sack of flour, quickly straddling him.

“Shit.” You breathe and rush to help, not entirely sure how you’d help, but determined nonetheless. You jump down the steps and squeeze through the crowd, bodies packed tight, all trying to get the best view. When polite pushing doesn’t work, you start shoving. Grabbing peoples’ shoulders and forcing them away, you finally emerge the other side, surprised by what you find.

Arthur sits atop Tommy, throwing punch after punch across his face. Every few swings he switches hands, using the other to hold his prey in place by the collar. Tommy’s nose is caved in, one eye dangerously swollen and threatening to completely pop from the socket if the hits keep coming.

“Arthur!” You shriek, not oblivious to the fact he’s completely lost in animalistic fight-or-flight. He either doesn’t hear you or doesn’t care, as he keeps pummelling Tommy’s pulpy face. You dart over, grabbing Arthur by the bicep as he prepares for his next hit. “Arthur, enough!”

You’d have been frightened by the wild, irate eyes that met yours when he whipped around to face whoever dared stop him, if not for the way they immediately melt into soft concern. Such a switch you can feel it in the muscle in your grasp, easing beneath the leather and cotton.

Arthur pants like a dog as you help him to his feet, ignoring the groaning crowd. Disappointed at the lack of satisfying end to their entertainment, they quickly dissipate back to wherever they came from. Not releasing Arthur’s arm just yet, you lead him back to the boardwalk, passing Javier and Bill, both reclined on the saloon steps and licking their own wounds. Sadie leans casually against a post, that same smug little smile on her lips.

“Making new friends again I see, Arthur!” A posh man in a top hat addresses him as you plod down the street, Dutch walking beside him.

“Look who we found sniffing about.” He speaks.

“Josiah Trelawny.” Arthur announces incredulously.

Josiah performs an eccentric bow, gloved hand sweeping through the air.

“Well, well…” Arthur murmurs, leaning on two hands over a barrel of water outside the general store, surely intended for horses, “I thought you’d gone to New York?” He moves to splash water on his face but sways with unease at the lack of support, quickly planting his hands back on the barrel edge.

“And miss all this glamour?” Josiah teases as you cup your palm with cool water, bringing it to Arthur’s muddy and marred face, gently working the scabs of dirt and blood from his skin. “You must be joking.”

“How are ya?” Arthur asks, sending you a little nod of gratitude before moving to properly greet the man.

“Well! Quite well indeed.” He watches you wash your hands in the barrel, observant eye following your every move down the steps of the store. “And who might this fine lady be?”

Arthur mutters your name, still working stiffness from his jaw. “Picked her up after Blackwater.”

“Ah, a pleasure to meet you!” Josiah charms, taking the hand you offer and pressing a kiss to your cold, wet knuckles.

“The pleasure’s all mine.” You meet his smile, though notice his eyes flick to your swollen cheek. Arthur grumbles something beneath his breath beside you.

“Speaking of Blackwater, I went there looking for you gentlemen. You’re not very popular there it seems.”

A vast understatement, you think, judging from the articles you’ve been reading in the papers. You help Arthur bend to sit on the store steps, acutely aware of his hand pressed to his lower back in pain. You’ll have your medical work cut out for you, tonight, you surmise, when Javier, Bill, Charles and Sadie wander into the conversation. Notably, Charles is the only man not rubbing over a sore jaw or nose.

“Ah, Javier and Charles, I’ve missed you!” Josiah welcomes joyfully, “and Bill, looking as well as can be. And, let me guess, another post-Blackwater spot of charity?” He refers to Sadie.

“Something like that.” Dutch squirms.

“Gentlemen, ladies, always a pleasure.”

“You’re right, though, we ain’t too popular in Blackwater.” Dutch says.

“We left a lot of money there.” Arthur interrupts.

“And young Sean, it seems.” Josiah tells them.

Everyone perks up at the mention of Sean, whoever that may be.

“Sean?” Dutch confirms, disbelieving. “You found him?”

“Yes, I have. He’s being held by some bounty hunters trying to see how much money the government will pay them.” Josiah continues, “I know he’s in Blackwater, but there’s talk of them moving.”

Arthur speaks again, but you’ve begun to lose interest in the conversation, your eye wandering to a pair of men stood at the other end of the street, just outside the Sheriff’s office, talking. The one doing most of the listening, you don’t recognise. He’s tall, dark haired and moustached, wearing a fine red vest and scuffed roper boots. You can’t quite read his expression from below the wide brim of his stalker hat. The other man you recognise instantly. With his full beard and white apron, the general store clerk looks out of place when not stood posted behind the counter. They stand close, whispering conspiratorially into each other’s ears, combined gaze never leaving your group. Actually, come to think of it, their eyes don’t seem to be leaving you.

“Arthur.” You reach for him instinctively, tapping his shoulder.

“Just a second, darlin’.” He brushes you off, still discussing plans with the men.

“Arthur, someone’s watching us.” You say a little louder and the conversation dies down immediately. All eyes follow yours, quickly spotting the suspicious duo.

“Charles, go find out what you can about Sean. Carefully” Dutch immediately begins handing out instructions. “Josiah, take Javier. Bill, take Mrs Adler back to camp. I’ll meet you there. Arthur - you and your lady keep an eye on those two – they seem more interested in her than us.”

The group disperses with militaristic efficiency, each heading back to their own horses. The pair down the street do so too, with the clerk disappearing around the gun store, and the stranger behind the Sherriff’s office.

“Dutch is right, they got their eye on you.” Arthur lights a cigarette, taking only a shallow puff before offering it to you. You take it graciously, more than thankful for a little relief right now. “Do you recognise ‘em?”

“Just the store clerk,” you say, smoke billowing from you lips with each word, “saw him again today when I dropped Sadie off. He didn’t seem too pleased to see me.”

Arthur grunts in acknowledgement before taking your hand in his and leading you back to his horse.

“Are we goin’ home? Back to camp?” You ask, finishing the cigarette and snuffing it in the dirt while Arthur readies the horse, who snorts happily at his rider’s return.

“Just cause we can’t see ‘em don’t mean they can’t see us.” Arthur says, swinging himself into the saddle. His words ring familiar in your head – just because a doe stands alone in a clearing, doesn’t mean there aren’t wolves watching her from the trees. “Gonna take the long way round, just in case.”

Arthur holds your hand as you mount behind him, and you’re grateful to not have to sit side saddle again, able to properly fit yourself to his shape. He clicks his tongue and leads the, still nameless, shire away from the busy street.

You’re barely a hundred yards from town when a cursory glance over your shoulder reveals a lone rider shadowing your path. The stalker hat and expensive red vest send a chill down your spine.

“Arthur, he’s followin’ us.” You whisper.

“I know.” Arthur calms you, patting the hand you rest on his belly comfortingly. “We’ll lead him away from camp, get some answers once we’re a little more secluded.”

“Okay.” You trust him blindly.

You’re halfway to Strawberry when Arthur finally slows his horse under the guise of needing a drink from the Dakota River, sliding from the saddle onto the rocky shores just downstream from the Cumberland Falls. He catches you by the waist as you similarly dismount.

You’re too nervous to play pretend, standing and fidgeting with your hands while Arthur mirrors his horse, bending to the cool water and splashing his face. You already know he’s aware of the crunch of gravel and leaf litter approaching from behind, so you don’t point it out.

“Fine country.” The red-vested stranger greets, dusty boots landing on the pebbles and river stones beside his pretty Thoroughbred as he dismounts. She stomps her feet uneasily.

“Mighty fine.” Arthur flicks his hands dry, standing with a deep sigh. “Plenty big enough for you to give us some space, too. Been ridin’ my tail since Valentine.”

The man chuckles, hands in his pockets, kicking stones as he wanders closer. It’s only when Arthur rests his hand on his revolver the stranger stops his approach and holds his hands in surrender.

“Easy now, friend,” the man smiles like a snarling wolf, “ain’t no need for all that. I’m just here for the girl.”

Your heart drops, despite already knowing this was the likely outcome. Arthur’s offhand slides protectively over the small of your back.

“The girl is just fine with me.” He says, voice low and grating, you feel it vibrate through your ribcage.

The stranger sighs and introduces himself, “Conan Randall; bounty hunter.”

“Arthur Callahan.” Arthur responds like second nature.

“Mr Callahan, are you aware you’re harbouring a dangerous criminal?” Randall asks, obviously not the brightest bounty hunter if he doesn’t recognise Arthur.

“What? This one?” He points to you, chewing nervously on your bottom lip.

“That one.”

“What’s she wanted for? Picking flowers on private property?” Arthur chuckles. If you weren’t so scared, you’d be offended at the wisecrack.

“Not quite, I’m afraid.” Randall advances on you again, readying his lasso at his waist. “Attempted murder, assault, larceny. I’m not sure what she told you, but I can assure you it’s all lies. Crazy as a loon, she is. Almost arrested a poor farmer’s wife wearing her old society vest, I did. Tracked down the clerk that sold it to her, and this young lady was the one who gave it to him. She seemed mighty eager to be rid of it.”

You’re bristling with distemper, insulted at this man not only discussing you as if you’re not even there, but besmirching your name no less.

“What’s her bounty?” Arthur asks.

“Twenty-five dollars.”

“Tell me, Mr Randall; is your life worth twenty-five dollars?”

Randall appears a little shocked, hands faltering on the rope. “I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me.” Arthur growls, hand sliding from around your waist as he stalks closer to Randall. “You really wanna die over twenty-five dollars? Bleedin’ out on a dirty riverbank, no one carin’ enough to come lookin’ for you?”

“M-my employer will look for me.” Randall asserts, taking a timid step back as Arthur meets him face to face.

“Your employer…” The words roll around Arthur’s head, “tell me about ‘em.”

“My contract demands the upmost privacy of those leasing my services.” He stammers, eyes darting around the clearing like a spooked rabbit.

“Is that so?” Arthur says through a tight-lipped grin before pulling his revolver from the holster and swinging the butt against the man’s cheek.

Randall falls to the ground, scrambling on his knees in the dirt, trying to stand, only for Arthur to clap one large hand around the nape of his neck and begin dragging him to a nearby pine. It’s frightening, the ease with which Arthur conducts himself, both physically and mentally. Randall is no small man - it mustn’t be easy to drag the fighting weight with just one grip, but to be so sure of yourself that the encounter does not sour is another thing entirely. The lasso falls from Randall’s flailing grip as they go, which you promptly pluck from the earth as you follow, determined not only to get answers, but prove to Arthur you’re no damsel in distress.

Lasso lost, he instead fumbles for his revolver when Arthur drops him at the thick base of the tree.

“Don’t be stupid.” Arthur says, kicking the gun from his hands and sending it clattering to a stop on the rocks nearby. He presses one big boot to Randall’s chest, pinning him to the thick tree trunk. Randall claws uselessly at the leather of Arthur’s shoe. “Who hired you?”

“I won’t tell you shit!” Randall hisses, and hucks a glob of spit that lands wetly on Arthur’s jacket collar.

With a sigh, he releases his press on the man, but Randall is smart enough to know this doesn’t mean he’s free to go.

“Pass me that rope.” Arthur instructs darkly, and you do as he says. With frightening ease, he winds the cord around the man, his wrists, and the tree, till he’s tied down tight as a turkey ready for roasting.

“Wait, wait, don’t do this, I-I…” Randall begins pleading, realising his situation is quickly growing increasingly dire.

“I’ll only ask you one more time, Mr Randall.” Arthur comes to stand in front of him once more, setting sun casting his shadow over his catch. “Who hired you?”

There’s a moments silence, where the babbling river rolls by, cardinals singing their late afternoon song, and if it weren’t for the panting man at your feet, it’d be almost peaceful.

“Some scientist, on the road,” Randall finally says, “Said the law weren’t doin’ enough about the bounty, he hired me to come get it.”.

“The scientist, what was his name?” You interrupt, and Arthur steps aside to let you take over.

“Didn’t give one.” Randall sighs defeatedly.

“Where was he?” You press further, squatting in front of him as Arthur ambles over to the man’s horse. She’s spooked - wide eyed and hooves stamping.

Randall doesn’t answer, just stares back at you with a dirty glare, Arthur shushing the uneasy mare somewhere behind you.

“I said…” you ball your hand into a fist and punch Randall in the stomach as hard as you can. He splutters and coughs, and you’re a little afraid at the lack of guilt you feel. “Where was he?”

You allow him a few more moments of coughing before he answers. “New Hanover.”

“Where in New Hanover?”

“East.”

You punch him again, in the face this time, right where his cheek is already swelling from Arthur’s gun. It hurts your knuckles, bone butting against bone, but it sure hurts him more. He groans in pain, head rolling dizzily on his shoulders.

“Where?” You ask one final time, gritting voice indicative of your impatience.

“Some pond, just North of Emerald Ranch. Said he had taken up a residency there, helping the farmers with weeds.”

“Thank you, Mr Randall.” You stand and dust your sleeves like a polite lady.

“Nice horse ya got.” Arthur calls, finally having finally calmed the mare, now stood happily munching on a sugar cube Arthur graciously provided while he strokes her dappled grey coat. “What’s her name?”

“Heaven.” Randall scoffs. “But let me tell you, she’s far from it.”

“Pardon?” You look down at his scornful scowl directed at the great beast, now shoving her fat nose deep into Arthur’s satchel in search of more treats.

“Always bucking and biting – she wouldn’t know a command if it hit her over the head.”

“I’m sure you’ve tried.” Arthur grimaces, running a gentle hand over her scarred flank and hips, great pink stretches cutting through grey hair. “Not to worry, friend. We’ll take her off your hands.”

“Wait, what? No- no, I paid good money for that nag!” Randall attests, wriggling uselessly in his binds.

“You ready for your own ride, darlin’?” Arthur looks at you with a charmingly shy smile, blue eyes sparkling in the early evening light, a boy standing on a doorstep with a fistful of wildflowers.

“I think I am.” You say proudly, skipping over and meeting Heaven where she stands content with all the attention.

“You goddamn thieves! You’ll regret this!” Randall squawks, kicking up dust as he scrambles to free himself, but the binds don’t budge. “When I get out of this, you and your bitch will pay!”

You can almost feel Arthur bristle beside you, a great grizzly rising on his haunches. For a moment you consider stopping him as he stalks towards Randall, a hand on his shoulder, a gentle coax of he doesn’t matter, let’s get out of here, but Randall is dead set on digging his grave.

“What? You’re going to rob and beat a man for your little two-dollar whore? Protect her dignity? Let me tell you, partner, a woman like her doesn’t have any left!” 

Arthur, surprisingly, walks right past Randall, down toward the rocky riverbed.

“Let me guess! She’s ran through all of Valentine, and you… you no good, lowdown, horse-fucking, sidewinder, are the only man left in all of New Hanover!”

Bending down, Arthur picks up Randall’s revolver from the dirt, leisurely wiping the mud and muck on his jacket sleeve as if there wasn’t a hostage hurling the most reprehensible insults his battered brain could gather at his back.

He turns, strolling back past the still yawping Randall, and checks the barrel before clicking it back in place. He comes to stand in front of you, and the hammer clicks with a deadly clarity that finally silences Randall.

“Wanna shut the bastard up?” Arthur asks, voice low and rumbling. He holds the Schofield out for you by the barrel, its grip begging for a hand to embrace it, to wield it the way it ought to be.

Without speaking, you slide your palm under the backstrap, fingers closing around the handle and index coming to rest over the trigger guard. Arthur retreats, and suddenly a man’s fate is in your hands. The revolver isn’t as light as you’d expected. The shiny metal is cold where it presses against the warmth of your skin, an enticing contradiction quickly levelling as your heat seeps into the steel.

“You don’t have to do this.” Randall blurts, realising what’s about to happen. “I-I won’t tell anybody what happened here.”

You stalk closer, your boots feeling heavy as lead with each step. Your eyes don’t leave the Schofield, rotating the barrel. One in the chamber.

“Please, we can talk this out.” Randall begins to plead, a satisfying break in his voice.

Coming to stand between his outstretched legs, you finally peel your eyes off the executioner’s axe in your hand and aim it between Randall’s wide eyes. You look at him, shaking like a leaf, sweating like a pig. It feels awfully good, having an awful man tremble and twitch, pant and perspirate, looking up at you as if you’re his maker.

“Please.” Randall’s shaky lips whisper, twitching like a rabbit’s nose.  

“You’re a lucky man, Mr Randall.” you sigh, lowering your aim to rub dirt from the crevices in the gun’s façade. “You’re reckless, ignorant, unprepared, and lucky. You’ve only got one bullet, and I’ve got better men to spend it on.”

Randall’s eyelids flicker as though he’s about to faint when you tuck the revolver into the back of your jeans, relief coursing through his veins like sweet alcohol.

“But know that if I ever see you again,” you catch his attention before he fully succumbs to the adrenaline fall-off, “I’ll kill you with my bare hands, no need for bullets.”

Randall gulps timidly as you spin to face Arthur, standing by the horses. He’s leaning carelessly on one hip with a hand resting on his gun belt, the other still holding Heaven’s reigns. He’s sporting a smirk that shows more in his eyes than his lips.

“What’re you cheesin’ at?” You feel your own smile tugging at your lips.

“Nothin’.” He says, looking at his feet and hiding behind the brim of his hat. “Ready to head home?”

“Sure am.”

It takes almost the entire ride home for Heaven to warm to you. High whinnies and head tosses slowly decrease in frequency, and just as you’re turning into the loose forest within which Horseshoe Overlook hides, you’re able to stroke her strong neck without her ears swivelling and skin flinching.

“That’s it,” you whisper sweetly, “just like that. It’s alright, sweet girl, ain’t no mean man goin’ to hurt you while I’m around, I promise.”

Heaven seems to trust your vow, as she snorts happily and eases to a lazy walk behind Arthur’s great Shire.

“She’s damn lucky to have found you.” Arthur says, pulling to a stop at the hitching post.

“She’d be lucky to have found anyone but that asshole.” You grumble, parking beside him. He disappears behind the tall shoulders of his horse when your feet meet the ground. He casually wanders around the back of the Shire, already so much trust between them, holding his belt, just like he always does when his hands find themselves idle.

“’Suppose.” Arthur shrugs, toeing at the dirt between you.

“You reckon he’ll die out there, tied to that tree?”

“Naw,” Arthur says relaxedly, “he’s close enough to the road. Someone will hear him yellin’, untie the sorry bastard.”

You nod, not sure if you’re relieved or annoyed. “You thought of a name yet?” You ask, changing the subject, petting his horse’s shiny black flank.

“Not yet.”

“No ideas? No inspiration?”

He looks at you from beneath the brim of his hat. “I got a few ideas.”

You nod your head for him to continue.

“I dunno… somethin’ nature-y would be nice.” He mumbles.

You smile. “Well, I ain’t no poet, but I know nature. How ‘bout a flower? Marjoram, larkspur, acanthus?”

Arthur shakes his head. “Too feminine.”

“Hmm, how about an animal? Wolf, fish, eagle?”

He chuckles. “Ya can’t name a horse after another animal!”

“Says who?” You shove him playfully in the shoulder, hidden in between the privacy of two tall horses.

“Says me.”

“Fine.” You roll your eyes dramatically. “What about their scientific names?”

“Their what?”

“Y’know, the names they have in the world of science.” Arthur’s expression gives no indication of understanding. “What we call burdock root another man calls clotbur, or cockle buttons, or thorny burr, or so on. So, when someone discovers and describes a species, they give it a scientific name in Latin. Burdock, clotbur, cockle, it’s all Arctium lappa, as Carl Linnaeus described it back in seventeen-fifty-somethin’.”

Arthur nods intently, scratching at his chin. “So every plant and animal out there got one of these Latin names?”

“Sure do. Horses are Equus ferus.” You provide.

“What about bears?”

“Which bear? They’re all Ursus.” You decide not to lecture him on taxonomic ranks just yet.

“Grizzly.”

“Ursus arctos.”

Arthur nods again, deep in thought. “Arctos.” He says. “I like that.”

You grin, pleased that your incredibly niche knowledge has finally been of some assistance. “I think it suits him, the great big beast.” You pat Arctos’ solid belly.

A silence stretches between the two of you, and you linger within the relative sanctuary of the horses, acutely aware that something remains unsaid.

“You did good today.” Arthur finally speaks.

“I don’t know.” You respond, a little quieter.

“About what?”

You keep your eyes focused on Arctos’ glossy coat, twisting the black hairs between your fingertips. “It felt too easy… hurtin’ a man like that.”

“Darlin’,” Arthur coaxes your attention, “if it was easy, you wouldn’t be pickin’ my horse bald over it more than an hour later.”

You smooth down the hair you frazzled.

“Look, it’s no easy thing. It never will be. Hell, I still worry for my soul.” One big hand settles on your shoulder. “But you gotta do it to survive.”

You look at him now, ducking his head to better catch your eye, voice soft and mellow, hand warm and gentle.

“You’re brave as a bull, girl, but you ain’t stupid. I know you’ll do the right thing – whether it be givin’ these men hell or sendin’ ‘em there yourself.”

That same silence traps you both again, but this time there’s nothing left to say, only something to do. You grab Arthur by the jaw with both hands and pull him down to you, pressing your lips against his firm and true.

A moment passes where you’re sure you’ve just made the worst mistake of your life, where his hand twitches on your shoulder and his lips remain lax and stunned. Just when you’re about to pull back, heavenly sigh escapes Arthur, and he melts into your touch. The hand on your shoulder slides to the nape of your neck, where fingers tangle with the roots of your hair, while the hand previously laid on his belt comes to rest on your hip, pulling you against him.

You part only to catch your breath, a few short pants exchanged before diving into one another again. He angles your head now, better slotting your mouths against each other. It’s been a while since you’ve kissed anyone, and despite having plenty of prior experience, you’re sure this is the best you’ve had. Arthur doesn’t purse his lips too hard nor relaxes too slack, the perfect amount of push and yield against your own plush musings.

The distinctive crack of dry foliage tears you and Arthur from one another as though burned, and you both twist to see the source of the interruption.

Karen, licking her teeth conspiratorially, stands on the dirt path leading past the hitching posts, rifle in her arms and ready for her shift of guard duty.

“Well, well, well.”

Thank you so much for reading! Also, please leave a comment, like, reblog, I don't mind, just something to let me know you've read it (and maybe even liked it hehehe). Let me know if you wanna join the taglist !

A/N - Realistically, I imagine Arthur probably knows about scientific names, he's pretty educated, but whatever, anything for the plot. You can expect things to get spicier in the chapters to come ;)