#pebble snatchers..........................

“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 ;)