#rdrreversebang2021

Between running jobs for the camp and his own problems, Arthur had had enough. The burn of alcohol still lingered in his throat, warming his belly. Maybe a fight was what he needed. He’d promised Hosea he would keep to himself. Avoid trouble.

This time at least he could argue it wasn’t his fault. From where he was, he could already see the scrappy kid in the center of it all, long hair flying around his face as he brandished a broken beer bottle. Arthur wasn’t sure when he got here, but as soon as John sidled up to him at the bar, he’d shared a few choice words. 

Now as he watched his brother attempt to hold his own, he wondered if he was too harsh. John had come to check on him, probably sent by Hosea, and now here he was being held back by two men as a third pulled back an arm to drive a fist through his nose. 

Arthur wrapped his hand around the man’s wrist, twisting his arm so they stood face to face. The scraggly beard did nothing to cover the man’s pocked skin, and before he could open his mouth to speak, Arthur’s fist connected with his jaw. The rush, from his hand and creeping up the length of his arm, settled in Arthur’s chest. Earlier Hosea had warned him of the danger of acting on his anger. He had denied it of course--he wasn’t angry, not at all.

In the front room of the saloon, among the clamor of drunken brawlers, Arthur stood tall as the man dropped to the floor, out in a single hit. 

It wasn’t anger he felt. It was much more than that.

Attention shifted toward him, and John was shoved back and forgotten. It seemed most everyone tonight was just looking for an excuse to fight, men joining in the fray just to get a few good hits in and scram for the door. Arthur wrestled with one man, managing to knock him out just in time to throw his arms up to shield his body from a flying chair. 

He caught sight of John, whaling on another man with a broken piece of furniture. His knuckles had turned white, feet shifted toward his target as he swung. All focus on his action, he failed to notice what his current victim was doing. The flash of a blade was quick, and Arthur’s shout of warning came too late. 

To John’s credit, he didn’t scream, didn’t even stop his swing. He stumbled forward with a single shout, and the wood connected with the man’s head. Arthur grappled with another fighter who tumbled his way, and in the process, caught an elbow in the face that made him see stars. Biting back the pain, he threw off the attacker to see John retreating to one of the few tables that had yet to be overturned.

“Marston!”

Arthur’s shout joined the sounds of beating and breaking, but seeing the kid duck his head and tense his shoulders, he knew he was heard. He continued his retreat, and Arthur dodged the chaos as he followed behind. John was trying to make himself smaller, stumbling across the wooden planks. 

He finally caught up to the younger man, clapping a hand on his shoulder to turn him around. John swung wildly when he did, his club of a fist catching Arthur in the side. It was a weak hit, and when Arthur didn’t move John had to step back to keep his balance. He was cradling his arm to his chest, blood staining the sleeve of his shirt a darker red. 

“Christ, boy, what were you thinkin’?” Arthur’s drawl, low and angry, cut at the knees. 

John braced himself against the table with his good arm. “Good, y’fuh,” he paused to clear his throat, swallow back his words, “finally joined us.”

“Oh dear God. Are you drunk?”

“No.” John’s face morphed into a scowl, an expression Arthur was beginning to become more and more familiar with.

“Cause to me it sure look like--”

When standing among a dozen fighting men, in a room that looks as though it is a bullet and a moment away from turning into a bloodbath, it’s best not to turn your back on the action. Arthur knew this, and yet faced with the idiocy of his fellow gang member, he did just that. 

He didn’t notice the man in green approaching like a rabid animal, steel knife sharp and shining. Not until another figure, in a flash of brown, broke between him and John. The knife slit through the thick fabric before sticking, the figure wrapping the cloth around the man’s wrist in a second. The attacker twists with it, crying out for the sake of his hand, and Arthur doesn’t hesitate to step behind him and wrap his arm around his neck. He flexes, and the knife is forgotten. The man’s limbs thrash, hands going to pull at the bicep that chokes the air from his throat.

It takes a moment more, and Arthur lets him slide to the floor. Then he looks up.

“Where you come from?” 

His voice isn’t accusatory. Not even bothered by what just happened. He’s genuinely confused, and he thinks that’s what makes you smile.

“I came here with John,” you say. Your hands are already tearing up what is left of the shredded brown coat, making a long strip and reaching for John’s injured arm. “I assume it was you two that started this.” 

It’s a statement, not a question. It was actually very offensive.

“I ain’t--!”

“No, it--!”

Arthur and John shouted over each other, stopping when they realized you believed they only looked more guilty.

“It ain’t like that,” Arthur started, nodding in gesture to the brawl that was slowly making its way out the door. The barkeep stood atop his bar, red in the face and shotgun in hand. He’d been screaming for some time now, but without having fired a warning shot, no one had taken him very seriously. “Where the hell were you anyway?”

“I stepped outside for a smoke.”

Arthur narrowed his eyes at you, watching you closely as you leaned to rummage through the pockets of the unconscious man at your feet. “You don’t smoke. Whose coat was that?”

Your eyes followed the accusatory point of Arthur’s finger to the fabric that you hastily tied around John’s knife wound before you shrugged. “Someone left it behind. Along with these,” you opened up your own coat to slip in the snagged silver watch to already-bursting pockets.

Arthur’s attention was pulled away by the shouts of a couple men, likely the friends of the bastards who already slept on the floor. “Kleptomaniac,” he uttered under his breath, “c’mon we out to get outta here b’fore--”

“Oi!”

The voice came from behind where the three of you stood, belonging to a tall man dressed all in black. Two men flanked him, each armed and wearing wicked grins.

John swore. 

“Boy, what did you do?”

“Might’ve…” he fell into mumbling, “said a few things.”

“Must’ve been more than a few things,” Arthur was already moving, grabbing the back of John’s shirt in one hand and your elbow in the other. 

“Front door is closest,” you suggested, just as eager to quit this place as he was.

“You can’t make friends with anyone,” Arthur accused the younger man.

“They’re O’Driscolls!”

He stopped in his tracks.

“Shit.”

Sure enough, a second look was all that was needed to see it was a green vest, not black, that the man wore. Another behind him sported a green bandana around his neck.

The situation just became a lot more complicated. 

Dutch had expected to lie low for the coming weeks, not wanting to draw attention to their new camp. Things had been on the up since their latest loss, and Arthur believed that perhaps Dutch would let the feud settle between him and Colm even after the death of the woman closest to him. At least, he wasn’t out right seeking revenge at the moment. 

But John, impulsive and, well, drunk, had seemed to decide for them all.

Arthur pushed the both of you out the doors first, keeping an eye on the man stalking after him. He exited a second later, stopping between an injured and intoxicated John, and you, with your hands on your hips and a grimace on your face.

“Well,” you breathed out, “this is unfortunate.”

In front of the saloon, maybe half a dozen men were spread out, boots still planted in mud. All of them were wearing green.

The largest man, pot-bellied and standing front and center, stared Arthur down, a hand already resting on the handle of his pistol. Arthur mirrored his stance, fingers brushing the polished wood of his own revolver, and planted his feet on the boardwalk.

On his left, he heard your warning whisper, “John…”

To his right, John sighed. “Fucking he--”

They drew.

Some have said there is an art to a duel, the flash of two guns, the quick spin of fingers. Who clears leather first? Whose aim is true? It’s a moment understood best by gunslingers, something Arthur never intended to be. He’d practiced in his youth, proudly following behind Dutch and Hosea, thinking himself mighty and gallant and out to make the world a better place one well-meaning crime at a time.

He’s older now, and he likes to think he knows better. He’s loved and lost more times than he wants to remember, the very reason for his being at the saloon in the first place. He had yet to kill anyone tonight, but as he lifted his Cattleman, pulled the hammer and pressed the trigger, a .45 caliber flew from the barrel and into the throat of the O’Driscoll in a burst of red spray.

In an instant, their fate is determined. The first shot fired that opens the gates of hell in the streets of the small cattle town. Arthur knows he has to move, but is torn between protecting you or protecting John.

You make the choice for him. By the time the shot is fired and the man falls, you’ve already taken cover, your own custom Colt in hand. John lies on the floor, attempting to hide behind a crate with his own gun in hand, but dammit, too drunk to be very successful. He fires two shots into the man who steps out the saloon door, the tall man dropping dead behind Arthur.

In those few seconds, it became a hailstorm of bullets. 

The O’Driscolls in the street scatter, each finding cover behind wagons and railings. The way they spread only makes it harder for Arthur to find a target, and he lets out a curse. Between shots, he tries to rise to return a few of his own, barely raising his head above the wooden slats. 

The saloon door creaked open, Arthur noticing just in time to throw a discarded bottle at the face that appeared. He needn't have worried, for at that same time, a loud crack sounded beside him followed by a second. Two more O’Driscolls down.

Arthur glanced in the direction of the shots, seeing you peer from beneath the flat brim of your black gambler hat, the long barrel of your revolver resting on your forearm. You had never been a quick shot, but you were accurate, and he said a silent thank you that at least one of his trio could see straight. 

He would have to remember that next time he thought to make fun of the rifle of a revolver you wore on your hip.

He stared a bit too long, distracted over making sure you could hold your own. And if he was being entirely honest, he was beginning to regret having that last drink. 

A glance to his left proved that John was worse off than he was. The cover fire he shot off may give them a slight advantage, but the boy was wasting bullets.

“How in the hell did I get here before you, and you still got drunker than I did?” 

“They had good whisky! And then, well…” John fumbled to reload his gun, crouching down lower. “Found out they was O’Driscolls.”

A bullet whizzed past, splintering the wood of the post just above Arthur’s head.

“Dammit, Marston! Why couldn’t you keep your mouth shut?”

There was only a wooden board between them and the shooters, and a flimsy one at that. If they were going to survive this, they needed to move. Now.

“Would you just leave it?” John’s rough voice was interrupted by a couple of gunshots, and the two of them ducked aside to head for the alley. “This ain’t my fault!”

“To hell this ain’t your fault,” Arthur’s hiss cut through the air. They were tucked behind a crate now, primed to make a dash for it. He glanced down the boardwalk, catching sight of you still hunkered down. You nodded in his direction. Arthur trusted you to make it out of there on your own. You were smarter than the most of them and craftier than anyone realized; he would be surprised if Hosea’s foresight wasn’t your whole reason for being here.

As soon as the volley of bullets slowed, Arthur rose to fire two rounds at the nearest gunman. John, unsteady beside him, managed to fire off a shot before teetering, and Arthur nearly threw the poor boy to the ground in the alleyway. He was still drunk, and though he wouldn’t admit it, Arthur couldn’t claim to be entirely sober either. Tucked between the saloon and the shop next door, they were temporarily protected, but they would be sitting ducks as soon as the men reloaded and worked up the courage to pursue.

Sprawled in the dirt, John groped for his gun. His fingers just barely wrapped around the handle when Arthur’s arm reached for him, hauling him up and already pushing him forward.

“C’mon, Johnny boy,” Arthur’s voice was softer now, deciding to reserve his anger for the O’Driscolls shooting at them. He’d give John an earful when they got out of this mess. 

Shouting carried from the street, footsteps running after them. “Them’s Dutch’s Boys!”

Shit. If they got out of this mess.

John sagged into his side, legs crossing each other as he got to walking. Arthur shouldered him, then propped him up against the back of the shop, hoping the overgrown bush that grew behind it would disguise their presence a while longer. 

Arthur whistled and heard the responding whiny of Boadicea. 

Your figure crashed through the brush, staying low while you glanced over the two of them with wide eyes. “Still alive?”

“For now,” Arthur responded gruffly, wanting nothing more to be safe, alone, and drunk out of his mind.

You holstered your Colt, glancing from him to John. “Oh, Christ.” Your hands fisted the material of his shirt, holding him against the wall. “You need to sober up.”

The slap was quick. Arthur watched as you drew your hand back--front hand, back hand, and then front again.

“I am, I am,” John’s rasp was slurred, but Arthur could see the panic in his wide brown eyes. He raised his hands in defense, cheeks red from your sobering remedy. The flailing of his own hands landed a smack across your cheek. The corner of your lips curved up, and you nodded your satisfaction. 

“If you’re done,” Arthur broke in, “we’ve got a bit of a situation here.”

Hoofbeats thundered towards them, lawmen and O’Driscolls both on horseback, but whether they were hunting each other or hunting them, Arthur couldn’t tell. All he knew was Boadicea was further away than he would like, panicked by the riders and gunfire. Old Boy stood tall beside her, rearing up and startling a deputy in pursuit. 

“Where’s your mustang?”

“Friday’s not as cooperative when he’s being shot at, Arthur,” you retort. You nod at the horses still across the street, skittish from the noise and violence. “We’re going to have to run for it.”

Arthur breathed out a curse. They were running out of time.

With the arrival of the law, the O’Driscolls mounted up, some running off in fear of being caught. Still some stayed, returning fire and shouting to find the bloody bastards from the barroom. You three weren’t safe yet.

“Get John, make a run for it. We’ll split up. You make sure he gets to camp.”

Arthur’s orders are clear, and he’s grateful when you nod without arguing. With another word, he pulls out his dual revolvers, and the three of you are off and running. John is the first to reach his mount; you’re a step behind him with Friday still making his way to you, but Arthur lags behind.

He draws fire, pointing and aiming his guns to take down the riders--O’Driscolls and lawmen alike. John manages to get up on Old Boy with your help, Arthur slowly edging his way to Boadicea. 

Two riders come toward him from around one of the adobe houses, and Arthur tears from the dirt road. His horse is so close, but cornered, he turns and fires. One of the riders falls, the thoroughbred rearing up to dump his body before bolting. The second rider pulls up his weapon atop a beautiful buckskin, letting the horse slow as he aims.

Arthur raises his revolver. It clicks--empty. He swings his second gun around. Pulls back the hammer. Faces the barrel of a shotgun.

The blast makes him stagger, his own cry of pain blending with John screaming his name and your shout laced with terror.

The rider goes down, though Arthur isn’t sure who took the shot. He falls to one knee, hand going to the right side of his body, searching for the source of pain. One of his guns lies next to him on the ground.

You’re at his side in a second, barely checking to see if he still breathed before you hauled him up and ran him to Boadicea. She stood still as he mounted, certain the only reason he got on the horse was the force of you pushing him forward. 

“Arthur you goddamn idiot.” You say it under your breath, and Arthur isn’t sure how to respond. “John! We’re heading North, Hodge Farm. You make sure he doesn’t fall out of his saddle. I’ll catch up.”

His shoulder was on fire, and his cheek too, but Arthur was pretty sure this wasn’t the plan. “I said camp, told you to--”

“You shut the hell up and go, or I’ll finish the job.”

He nodded. You weren’t often prone to anger, and as one of the few people in camp Arthur could admit to genuinely liking, it would be best not to get on your bad side. A sharp smack to Boadicea’s rump, and she took off, forcing Arthur to grip the pommel tighter, fighting to watch where he was going through a grimace. 

He barely remembered what you had said, but John seemed to know where he was going. The ride took longer than he would have liked, and it was in the opposite direction of camp, but soon enough John stopped and dismounted. Arthur felt a wave of relief.

He was still getting down from his horse when you rode up, his one hand gripping tightly to his saddle. The world swayed for a second, and he gasped for breath. You were on your horse, and then in a single blink, you were at his side, leading him gently into an abandoned barn. 

The musty air did little to ease his stomach, and the moon cast shadows through the parted rafters that danced before his eyes. Arthur covered his mouth with his hand.

“You...you gonna be sick?” You sounded unsure of yourself for once, distracted from rummaging through your satchel.

“No,” Arthur sputtered, then groaned. Swallowed. “M’fine.”

Spots bloomed across his vision.

“I wasn’t sure you’d be alive when I got here,” you admitted. 

You looked like you wanted to say something else when John entered. “Horses should be alright, they’re hidden. How is he?”

“Not good.”

“Fine.”

You and Arthur answered at the same time. 

“The usual then?”

Both of you shot John a look. It seemed you found what you were looking for in your bag.

“I need to take a look.” Your voice was soft, and Arthur noticed how tired you looked. Your hands were gentle in pulling away his shirt, but his gaze was set on your face. You seemed shaky.

“You alright?” His whisper carried in the dark, made you pause in your task. 

Your eyes lowered, and you adjusted your coat. “Fine. I’m going to need to cut away your sleeve. It’s...a lot of blood.”

Arthur hadn’t even looked. He just nodded, slumped a little lower against the wall. You set to work, whipping out your knife and cutting away the material, ordering John around to look after his own wound. You were funny, cutting away the pieces of his shirt and laying them into a neat pile. Your tonics were lined up beside them, and you analyzed him with a furrowed brow.

He scanned you over, noticing the tear in your coat, the splatters of blood. He followed the motions of your ungloved fingers as you removed the last of his shirt. It was then he realized something.

“Hey. That was m’favorite shirt.”

You pointed your knife at him. “Then you shouldn’t have gotten fucking shot.” The force of your words seemed to startle the both of you. A little sheepish, you added, “we’ll get you a new one.”

With his blood-soaked shirt no longer sticking to him, Arthur felt the chill of the air and the sharp pain of his wounds. Your face was pinched tight, and he finally risked a glance.

Several bullet holes littered the right side of his body, buckshot embedded in his arm, shoulder, and chest. Blood stained his skin, making it hard to see the extent of the damage. He liked to think he’d know if he were about to die, but sitting here in this moment, it was hard to tell. 

“You’re lucky,” you finally spoke, drawing the attention of John. “If he’d been any closer, you’d already be dead. They’re not too deep but…”

You trailed off. Arthur noticed how drained you looked, the downturn of your mouth and the slump of your shoulders. You looked like you might be sick. He looked at the splatters on your clothes again.

“Whose blood is that.” Arthur took a deep breath, tried to lean forward to pull at your coat. “I asked you a question, whose blood is that?”

“It’s nothing.” You moved to sit back on the floor beside him, and your coat opened. A bright patch of red soaked your side, dripping down to your hip. “It’s just a graze. We need to focus on you.”

Arthur spoke your name in warning, and your eyes darted up to his for the first time since you took on the role of doctor. They were tired and pleading, and it was only due to his own exhaustion he relented. For the second time that night, he realized he trusted you.

You examined the damage the blast had done, counting each bullet hole, every cut and bruise he sustained from the fight. Your hands were soft, another reminder of the very different life you led before you joined them.

“Five. I think. Five pellets still in you. Your arm’s bleedin’ the worst.” You look up to Arthur then over to John. “We’ll need bandages. And water.” 

You were breathing kind of fast. Raised a shaky hand to pull off your hat and toss it to the side before wiping the sweat from your brow. 

“There’s a creek nearby,” John offered, “and I can grab some extra clothes.”

Arthur finally turned away from you to look at his own arm. You were right. His arm was bleeding a lot, and it wasn’t slowing.

“We’re gonna need a fire too.” John nodded at his addition. “That means kindling and dry wood. The longer it’s been dead the better.” John nodded again. “There’s some pine around here, pinecones can--”

“I know how to start a fire.”

“Hey, when you go out there you stay quiet. I don’t want you spotted by anyone, y’hear? Keep a hand on your gun, and don’t--”

John turned his back and was already walking out the door. “Yeah, yeah! Jesus.” His rasp broke the hushed tones you spoke in before. Arthur tensed, watching the boy’s lanky form retreat. 

You spoke up beside him. “Didn’t realize you were his mother.” You were teasing him. Trying to distract yourself with preparing your tonics.

He was quiet for a moment. “I--I jus’, well. I just wanna make sure he knows. That he’ll be okay.” He was somber, earnest in his words. His sincerity must have surprised you by the way you froze. 

“He’ll be okay,” you whispered. Arthur nodded. “Will you be okay?”

“Suppose that depends if you can get this lead outta me,” he smirks.

“That’s not…” you ducked your head, letting the conversation drop. 

Moments later, John walked in, arms full of wood and cloth. “I got some supplies. I only got a cup for water, you think it will be enough?”

“I’ve got a tin cup in my saddle bag,” you added. “You can go and grab that too.”

You sprang into action, moving aside the clean clothes and gathering the wood John brought to start the fire. You were worried, he realized. 

“You ever dig a bullet out before?” Arthur asked.

You looked up from the kindling, your box of matches in hand. “...No.”

Arthur’s hand had been applying pressure to the hole in his arm, but even still, blood seeped through his fingers. “You’re going to need to cauterize it.”

You stared at him, face impassive. 

“You never done that before neither.”

He wasn’t asking. You hadn’t seen many shootouts, and the scrapes you had seen were usually patched up by someone else.

“Have you?” you asked him.

Arthur paused. “Well, no. But I’ve seen it done.”

“Great.” Arthur scowled at your response. “Just...tell me what you need me to do.”

John returned holding two tins of water. While you set to cleaning up his wounds, John took over tending to the fire, running for whatever you needed, and Arthur made sure to refrain from making any comments. He was too distracted by your poking and prodding, stopping his explanation to hiss when you swiped blood away from sensitive skin. 

You frowned, stopping your actions when he cussed. “Whiskey,” you had reached behind you, and held up a nearly full bottle. Arthur took it gratefully, chugging a few swallows. It burned a path in his throat and flushed his skin. 

“Good stuff,” he rasped. 

You nodded. “Okay. You ready?” Arthur nodded back at you. “And I just…” You trailed off, making a motion with your small knife. 

“Just like I told you. Hey, don’t you come at me with shakin’ hands. Here,” he held up your bottle of whiskey. If you were going to do this, you needed it.

You took it from him cautiously, looked at him as if asking for approval. You didn’t wait long enough for him to offer any before you were already downing a swig and stuffing it away.

“Okay.” You raised your hands over his arm, one hand around his bicep, the other hovering the knife over the wound. “Okay,” you looked over your shoulder, “John?”

“Ready.” The kid had his own knife in hand, heating the blade over the fire for the moment you got the shot out.

“Right,” you said.

Arthur sat still, sick and tired of bleeding and waiting. “Oh for Christ’s sake--”

You dug the blade in, twisting and pulling to get out the metal ball. Arthur screamed. Between the pain, the whiskey, and the blood loss, he couldn’t be too sure, but he thought you might have screamed too.

John was quick with his own knife, cauterizing the wound with a grimace as soon as you pulled out the buckshot. The next four were easier. They were visible when you cleaned away the blood, and you thanked the bone in his shoulder for stopping one shallow enough you could pull it out with your fingers.

As soon as the job was done, you took to preparing the bandages, making a poultice like Hosea had probably taught you. John was more than happy to retreat to the fire with a can of beans, pouting over the line of red that bled through the white cloth on his forearm.

You stayed at Arthur’s side, soothing and covering the charred skin. Patience was a rare trait among outlaws, but you seemed to have it in spades. He wanted to thank you for having his and John’s backs out there, but he didn’t know how to say it before you finally spoke up.

“We’ve been worried about you, you know. And I’m not talking about you bein’ shot.” You tied a strip of his old shirt around his shoulder. “Why do you think we were sent after you?”

“I assumed Hosea.”

“Hosea sent John ‘cause he wouldn’t shut up about it. And he didn’t want you getting in trouble again.”

“Then why did you come?”

Finished with his shoulder, you brought a wet cloth to his face. The sting had dulled, already having forgotten the graze on his cheek.

“Hosea sent me to make sure John didn’t get into trouble...”

Arthur cracked a smile.

You matched it. “Can’t remember that last time you smiled,” you said.

He looked up where you hovered, lips tugging into a smirk. “You been keepin’ track?”

“No,” you shot back, “just don’t recognize you lookin’ like that. Careful, you might give people the wrong idea.”

Arthur shook his head, letting the smile fade. “You ain’t got to worry about me none.”

“You always go out drinking or hunting--only you don’t bring anything back, so I have to assume you were just hunting for another drink--” 

“I resent that.”

“You been acting different Arthur.” 

“I go out all the time.” It’s true he knows. He never was consistent in camp, always bouncing from a job or to his own entertainment. Entertainment that as of recent, had morphed into obligation.

“That’s not what I mean. I know how you’d go out.” That made Arthur stop, wonder how much you knew. “It’s different now. You don’t even talk unless you’re yelling.” 

“I ain’t yellin’ now,” he huffed. 

“No, I think you lost too much blood for that.” You pull out a shirt that hadn’t been stripped for parts, tossing it to him to put on. “All I’m saying is...whatever you lost, Arthur, you don’t have to go through it alone. You got people who are here for you.” Arthur snorted. “I’m serious. Me, John. Hosea and Dutch.” When he struggled, you helped him slip his injured arm in the sleeve. Your hands lingered. “There’s a lot of shit that goes on in this world. And I ain’t saying you need to share anything with me. But if the point was to go at everything alone, well. Then I should’ve let you dig out that buckshot on your own.”

He lets your words hang in the air. Trying to process what you mean, how much you might know as you smile sadly and shake your head.

Arthur wasn’t used to such softness, such kindness. Not from you, not from anyone. He didn’t know what to do with it. So often these days he’d said very little if it wasn’t out of anger. But how could he do that to you now? Not when you told him the very thing he’d been needing to hear, not when your hands were gentle over his wounds, patching him up in more ways than you likely knew.

“We should head back to camp at first light.” A change of topic felt safe to him, returning to his gruff manner. He didn’t like having to sit in one place long after a mess like they just went through. 

“No.” Your assuredness in the way you say it makes him look at you fully, and even John looks up from where he was nodding off on the opposite wall of the barn. “We’ll rest now, you need sleep. First light is only an hour or so away. John, you’re certain the horses aren’t visible from the road?”

He nods eagerly.

“Then we leave late morning. We keep heading North, then take the main road East from here and head to camp from that way. As long as you two hooligans can pass for normal people, we should be fine. You look enough like cowboys in these parts. We’ll be back by evening.”

Arthur opened his mouth to protest, but then you rolled out his bedding, pointing for him to rest. It left little room for him to argue, his exhaustion creeping up on him. It would be a long ride tomorrow, and though your path took longer, they would steer clear of the town at least.

He lies down, hears you settle in by the fire. There’s no way he could stay up and chat, but he listens to the quiet conversation you share with John. You fix yourself up, insisting your graze was nothing. He has to trust you on it, not finding the strength to ask from the other side of the campfire. Arthur’s already dozing, lulled to sleep by the low chatter, but something John says wakes him up.

“He listens to you like he listens to Dutch.”

You snort at the comment. “I’m not sure what you mean by that. Or how I’m supposed to take that.”

John groans, shifting where he sits on the ground. “All I’m saying is...Arthur doesn’t listen to just anyone. Never takes orders from anyone but Dutch.” There’s a pause. He assumes you must be considering what the younger man said, trying to reach the meaning John is implying. “Or Hosea, I guess.”

You’re quiet. Are you thinking on it still? Or have you decided to ignore it? He can’t see you from where he lays on the bedroll, but he imagines you whittling like you sometimes do. Wielding your little knife with an artistic skill he occasionally finds himself envying. You probably have already laughed off John’s comment, told him it means nothing like Arthur is telling himself now. 

“Of course he listens to me.” You finally break your silence. Arthur’s heart speeds up, and he stops breathing to hear what you say next. “I’m the only one here with any damn brains.”

The comment halts his wild thoughts, and he smiles for the second time this night. Of course you would say such a thing. Both you and John likely assumed he was asleep, but hearing the two of you speak, teasing each other and casually discussing what happened like old friends, Arthur realizes what he had been missing. He’s been torn between too many things to be fully present.

As he lays there listening to the crackling fire, the chirping of insects, and the hushed whispers of you and John, he thinks of two graves. Of kneeling on newly dug earth of a boy and young woman he never should have cursed. He knows what it's like to fail, to take the good in life for granted. He isn’t meant for the life he once dreamed up; he has no place in this world. But you were right. There were people he still cared about, whether he deserved it or not. This gang was everything he had left. He lost one family. He wasn’t going to lose another.

.