#rdrthemeweeks

It was his fault.

 It was his damn fault.

 He never should have sent Arthur after that bounty, ingratiating themselves with the sheriff or not. Arthur’d not been certain about it — ‘Y’sure about this Dutch? Somethin’ about it don’t seem right…’ but he’d been so sure his boy could do it, Arthur was infallible, no matter what he threw at him he came out victorious. Maybe a bit scratched up, a bit bloody, needing some attention, some medicine, a few days of rest, but he always came out whole, came out with a fantastic story and something to put in the donation box.

 “Easy Son… easy…”

 And maybe the bounty had sounded a bit rough. A man who’d murdered his family something awful well, that is, even more awful than the usual ‘man kills his wife, two sons, and daughter.’ They’d been found slaughtered so gruesomely that it had been thought the work of a pack of wolves or, perhaps, a bear, though in the end it had been determined to be the father who’d done it, the man having been acting off for quite some time. His family had been savaged; their innards made outtards, flung across the flooring of the house, draped from the furniture, shards of bone scattered like specks of blood. And the blood - on the photograph it had been hard to tell what was shadow and what was blood, there was so much of it. But Arthur had dealt with far worse, it was just one man, a particularly unhinged one but still just one, he’d fought Colm O’Driscoll hand to hand (well, gun to gun) and lived to tell the tale, fought fifty-to-one and come out of it unharmed.

 So it should have been easy. In and out, only a few hours, and he’d be back with heavy pockets - the bounty, he’d thought at the time, was excessive.

 Now he thought it wasn’t enough. Not nearly.

 No bounty would have been enough.

 “It’s okay Son… It’s alright…”

 Instead he’d ridden back to town barely keeping in his saddle, throat torn half open, clothes shredded ‘til he was more naked than dressed and so covered in blood it was hard to tell what was blood and what was bruised, rent skin.

 Dutch had thought he’d sent him off to die.

“We’ll… we’ll sort this out.”

 It had been a damn close thing, too. A miracle — that’s what the doctor had called it. ‘If he makes it through the night… well, then maybe. But that’d be a miracle.’ and he’d nearly shot him.

 But the wound had healed, faster even than they usually did for Arthur which, already, was faster than an average man, almost sealed up by the time the sun rose. The doctor had been baffled and said again, murmured, ‘A miracle,’ and let Dutch take him home with antiseptics and all sorts of medical things to stave off infection which were, apparently, more effective than whiskey — he’d made sure to swipe some more on the way out, you could never have too much medicine in their line of work.

 And Arthur had been back on his feet, better than ever, within the day.

 Hosea too, had deemed it ‘a miracle.’ when he’d seen the rapidly fading scar, snipping at the stitches to pull them free.

 “We’ll get you home to Hosea… he’ll get you fixed right up.”

 But could he?

 Hosea could soothe the hottest fever. Knew just how long to dunk someone in a cold bath or river to lower it without risking hypothermia or chill, how many cold rags to use without putting them to waste, just the interval to change them at so they didn’t go lukewarm but also didn’t go to waste.

 Hosea could calm even the most panicked man with just a few words and a soft touch, no matter how lost to sense they were.

 Hosea could fix a wound, even one that seemed so grievous as to put the strongest man in the ground, if he had Susan and the Reverend at his side.