There ought to be some kind of poetry for falling in with the likes of folk his so called father once knew. Joseph’s sermons from youth come rushing back all at once like a warning bell as he walks into the lion’s den. Careful boy, sometimes your blood counts for shit and sometimes, well, sometimes it’s worth the weight in gold. Step by step, he finds himself in the little camp lead on with the reassuring jab of steel at the small of his back.
The man, the one with the rifle and unfortunate good aim, insists that Issac come into camp to prove the truth behind his claim. ‘My father is Arthur Morgan’ just didn’t seem to carry the weight it did before with outlaws and he wonders why, what changed? Shoved down to his knees, he manages to smile slow as he examines the leader from under his hat.
“Mac, found this one sniffing about, claims he knows Dutch,” Rifle Boy says and Issac is waiting, counting the steps, the bullets, the breaths taken. He is coiled and wound and Rifle Boy hasn’t taken the knife hidden in his boot. His smile twists into a grin and Rifle Boy decides he doesn’t like that as the but of his gun comes crashing down hard. What was one more bruise on a patchwork of scar tissue?
“Claims he’s Arthur’s kid or somethin.”
Sometimes the best way to catch elusive prey was to become bait. So Issac waits, licking blood from the corner of his mouth and spitting it at their feet. All he needs is for one of them to spring the trap.
-- @violentbastrd
