Scribbs

Looking once more to the barred door with the addition of the rectory table and chairs to act as a barricade, you finally allowed yourself to feel the exhaustion built up from the day.

It had been enough scrambling to collect from the snares out in the woods, yet everything you had to get done after that… heaving a great sigh, you tried to forget the additional events. Shifting down, tossing and turning into several different positions before settling, your eyes began to grow heavy. Hands and forearms slithered under the pillow to feel the cold of your cleaned weapons there soothing lingering nerves.

As though you had just closed those weighty eyes and slipped into that darkness, did they snap open to see the rectory lit with the cool, indigo tinge of dawn. Looking over to Alfie, worry’s additional weight lifted as you heard his snores rumbling along.

Sitting up, relief repeated itself as you saw the precautions with the door remained undisturbed.

Remaining alert and assembling your attire – aside from the trousers and thin, stained undershirt – to head out, you secure your hat with the leather tie that had long since replaced a delicate satin band that adorned the dark stained piece. Upon reaching under your mattress and securing a belt of six partially filled sheaths, you cautiously pulled twin Seneca throwing knives out from under your pillow. Careful not to shift them together and wake the slumbering reverend, you place them into the empty sheathes.

Even more carefully, you maneuver the various furniture pieces until your head could poke out just beyond the door. Bracing for an ambush or some sort of disgraceful scene, your weary eyes and knife-hilt-hovering-hand were taken aback.

All twenty of the people thought problems, remained asleep across the pews.

Slinking through the narrowest crack possible to make it past the door and press it quietly closed, you kept on the balls of your feet. Each step measured across the altar and down the center aisle. Shifting your gaze left and right, you kept track of all movement; a good thing too as a large leg came to fall from where it had been propped on a pew’s back into your path.

Scowling at the man it was attached to – Bill you inferred from the exchanges overheard last night – you side stepped around and successfully snuck to the door.

Taking care in shifting the latch away to prevent jingling, you gave the room one last scan before slipping out the door. The hushed click of the oak closing was simultaneously accompanied by Arthur Morgan’s eyes snapped open. His caution mimicking your own as he rose from his false slumber to creep on the balls of his feet. Pressing himself firmly to the chapel’s front wall to stay out of sight, he peered out of the front window.

Watching as you jogged off for the barn, the man held his post. There was no way out of the chapel beyond the main doors; he would need to be patient to see what you were up to.

Damn if he had not almost missed you walking through here with eyes closed like that.

Having been on watch for the last two hours after Davey tapped out early, Arthur had nearly started praying for you to make a move. Ironic given he wanted to get out of here so bad because it was a chapel. That preacher man’s little sermon had been ringing in his head far longer than he preferred.

Minding your actions, he watched you lead out a fiery chestnut mare – the same one that had tried to take a bite at him while unsaddling Boadicea last night – from the barn; her back burdened by twin set of saddlebags. Quite the hefty load for so early from what Arthur could see; especially as he noted the bow and arrow-filled quiver shifting as they were slung around your body.

Closing the barn with practiced hands, you mount up and spur the horse on to vanish from sight.

Repeating your cautious moves with the oaken door, the man crept outside with the stealth befitting a man of crime as he measured your pace picking up towards the distant tree line. Now was his chance to tail you.

After saddling up and securing the barn, the outlaw spurred on his own mare.

While you had long since disappeared into the forest, Arthur had watched where you entered between a half-fallen pine and a towering, golden leaved aspen. There he kept his keen eyes trained until he and Boadicea were cantering past them and onto a thin, but well beaten trail that if not for watching you, could have been mistaken for a mere deer path.

As the sun proceeded to rise and brighten the woods, a glint flashed through the underbrush.

Reining the horse into a walk to steer her around a bush and over towards the side of the path, Arthur glared down at a throwing knife wedged into the stump of a long dead tree. Yet, the blade was not the greatest source of his curiosity as he noticed the lighter, too thick rings on the wood’s surface.

Swinging out of the saddle to investigate closer with a pat to Boadicea’s neck, he grunted as his aging legs protested a squat with both ache and unwelcome snaps.

Reaching out, he left the weapon be and traced gloved fingers over the stump, raising them up to reveal a paint like substance staining the worn fabric. Rubbing them together, the man observed as the white crumbled a bit: chalk. A chalked target turned paint-like from the rains that had dripped down through the thick canopy above.

Hearing echoes of movement further up the path, Arthur brushed off the chalk and tied the horse up to a sapling. On foot, he crept down the side of the worn earth for better cover. All senses sharpened for signs of you or anything else out here.

Several more chalked stumps bearing throwing knives sunk into their bullseyes lined the path. Some targets further out than others, with no less accuracy displayed.

Keeping low, he broke over a steep hill as the sun rose over the mountains to pierce sharply through the foliage. Narrowed blues scanned the shrubbed area below to find the trees dwindled in number to make way to a swaying meadow.

A speeding shadow swept past the tree line and Arthur was quick to scrunch down further to watch you turn your mare back out into the meadow. The thud of what he could only imagine was more knives, the outlaw advanced down the other side of the hill; carefully keeping to the thickest of bushes. Eyes blinking to adjust to the brightness at the forest’s edge, he wound behind the broadest tree available to peer out into the open as you sped around five different logs turned up on one end.

Each piece of lumber varied in size and were riddled with knives and arrows; the latter of which you currently had nocked in your raised bow. Loosing the arrow, it sunk with a hearty thump into the top of a log. Yet it had missed the center of its chalked target.

Something that made you cuss loudly before steering the mare to serpentine between the logs.

Huffing in amusement at the colorful frustration, Arthur leaned into the tree; interest peeked as you rounded back to hit your mark on a second attempt. Then – upon resecuring your bow and relinquishing the reins – your hands moved in unison to snatch up a blade in each, then circled around the meadow to race between two of the logs. There, both hands swung out to send twin bullseyes firing into the wood.

As you snatched the reins back up without a hitch to veer left, the outlaw could not help the admiration shining in his eyes. Nor could he resist the urge to slink along the tree line to afford himself a better view.

Looking away to thread through suitable undergrowth to hide his movements, Arthur paused to peer back up from behind another pine. Yet his brow furrowed to see the chestnut mare left riderless to graze at the edge of the meadow; with craned neck, he found that you were nowhere in sight.

“Now where’d ya get off to, woman?” the outlaw mumbled to himself, daring to lean out a tad further.

The snap of a twig from behind had him whirling around with gun drawn quick as a whip only to be aiming at nothing but an empty forest. Grunting, he was halfway to re-holstering the firearm when a knife’s tip pricked into his back.

Freezing, Arthur straightened and allowed the gun to swing loose around his index finger as he raised both hands up. Slowly, he turned to peer over a rigid shoulder; your severe glare was there to greet him.

A sly smirk curled up through gruff stubble as he chirped, “Well now, ain’t no need for that, Ms. Murphy.”

“And there is no need to be skulking about the trees like some predator,” you fire back, unmoving in your position, “Yet here you are, stalking.”

All amusement falling from his face, Arthur defended, “Was just watchin’. No stalkin’ involved. Ain’t a man like that.”

“Every man like that says they are not,” you countered with no shortage of bitterness.

Blinking at this, the outlaw nodded; there was no arguing with your point there. “Fair ‘nough,” he admitted, turning away to ponder the nature around them before asking, “How can I prove it then?”

A hollow laugh answered him before you shot flatly, “Chop off everything between your legs.”

Barking out a far more entertained, full laugh, Arthur could only shake his head before pushing his luck and – with hands kept up – he turned to face his side against your blade and grinned, “Anythin’ besides that?”

Without much more consideration for the threat he posed, you lowered the knife and gave him a wide berth as you marched passed. “Get lost,” you added over a shoulder, making off for the meadow. Swiftly abandoning the shadows, the light of the morning gilded your form.

“Already am,” the outlaw answered in earnest, following from a comfortable distance, “But I take ya meanin’, I’ll leave ya be. Well, juuust after ya point me in the right direction, if you’d be so kind, darlin’.”

Your pace never faltered as you shouted back, “Do not call me darling.”

Whistling two notes sharply, your tune brought the mare’s head shooting up from across the field. The quick footed creature trotting toward you without hesitation as Arthur admired aloud, “Good horse ya got there. Thoroughbred?”

“Trakehner,” you corrected as the horse wound around to act as a living barrier against the advancing man, who halted as the mare’s ears went flat. The criminal might be a fool nine times out of ten, yet he valued his general health enough to not get any closer.

Mounting and taking up the reins in a firm grip, you looked down to Mr. Morgan, “And I had a lot of time to train her.”

“Clearly,” he remarked, looking over the animal as you clicked a cheek to move her into a walk back to the logs to begin removing the higher arrows and knives. Heading towards one of the unattended targets, the outlaw observed how many marks were made – old and new – within that bullseye. Harvesting up the weapons there, he approached you confidently with the pieces upheld, “Bit of a deadeye, ain’t ya?”

Eyes narrowing at the unprompted assistance, you cautiously took the weapons from him. Replacing them into their respective homes, you deigned a response, “More or less.”

Nothing else was said or directed as you walked the horse back to the forest path.

Quirking a brow, Arthur looked around at the plentiful weapons still left to collect. Following along, he shouted to you, “Just gonna leave the rest of ‘em?”

“Yes,” you snap without looking back, “No one else comes out here.”

Jogging a few paces, the man caught up to walk a few feet behind before firing back, “That ya know of. How far off is Orwood from ‘ere anyways?”

Sighing, you finally direct a question back at him, “Are you always this talkative?”

“Fine, fine. Silence it is,” he surrendered despite a shit eating grin stretched over his face as he trudged up the hill; hand swinging out to defend himself against a branch swinging back from your passing. Yet temptation to keep you talking had Arthur breaking his word as soon as he gave it, “Most ladies I met seem to prefer conversation, though.”

Taking the bait, you think aloud, “And I wonder if most of these ladies were being paid when you were engaged in this conversation that they seemed to enjoy so much.”

“Whew,” the outlaw exclaimed as he broke over the hill, “Cuttin’ deep and I don’t even know ya first name.”

“Well, you did not deny it!” you yelled out before adding, “And it is not as though you have made your own introduction. All I know is that you and your merry band are occupying the chapel and the barn.”

As your horse did a small, elegant jump over a log that had fallen across the path, some clanging from your saddle bag caught Arthur’s attention. It sounded heavier, denser than your thin blades that jingled and tinged; nor did it sound like the click of something bumping into the barrel of a gun. He followed a tad closer, minding the horse yet craning casually to see if he could make out the shape of the sound’s source.

Whatever it was, it was making five, evenly spaced divots into the side of the leather: strange.

Steering and stopping the horse on the side of the path, you allowed the man to pass to get to his awaiting mare just a few paces ahead. As he did, his curious blues side eyed the saddle bag to see the divots were pierced from what was causing them: cold tips of steel glinting in the dappled forest light.

Glancing up at you – noting the hand that held onto the handle of a sheathed knife – he gave a half smile and tipped his hat, “The name’s Arthur Morgan.”

As he moved along, your hand fell away from the knife hilt. Returning the courtesy, you give your own name; just your first name. If he wanted to assume your surname was Murphy just because it was your uncle’s, that was his mistake not yours.

Watching and waiting for the man to mount up, he puts on the charm and rolls your name over his tongue like it tastes sweet.

Rolling your eyes, you feel ready to tell him off; biting your tongue on the colorful response you had in mind, you choose a secondary route. Perhaps you have been spending too long in the country with ill-tempered folks. “With all of these questions you ask Mr. Morgan, I wonder if you are familiar with the phrase ’curiosity killed the cat’?” your inquiry falls on amused ears as you pass him by.

“I have,” he confirms and reins the horse about to follow close, “But I got them nine lives too.”

Scoffing, a rare upturn briefly quirks your lips as you begin, “I am certain that—”

The sound of three rapid shots of gunfire stops the pair of you short. Your horse whinnying sharply and shifting about in front of the far calmer, alert mare; both riders listening as several more shots followed.

“That was from the parish,” you whisper aloud; horror draining the color from your face.

Slamming your heels into your mare’s sides, you spur her on at a breakneck speed down the path. Arthur mimicking your actions to be hot on your heels as the both of you broke out onto the plains situated around the chapel to witness three riders making their escape: all of them riding out towards Orwood. Two riderless horses were galloping wayward in their wake.

While you were ready to make off after them, a scream went up from the chapel. Eyes dragging over there from the five strange riders, you could see a crowd gathered around the entrance. Two figures upon the ground strewn in odd fashion was no less alarming.

Groaning in frustration, you veered off from the hunt.

Jumping off from the horse as she was still slowing, you raced forward on blazing feet for the group. Your eyes scanning over the two bodies on your way; their faces unknown to you with their eyes opened and glazed. Their bodies bloodied in several spots to stain the grass as you finally made it to the group surrounding another on the ground. Barking out demands for what had happened, you shoved past, and suddenly all thought faded, all sounds became muted, and all words turned to ash in your mouth looking down to Uncle Alfie.

Your uncle’s shaking hands held firmly over his abdomen as crimson squelched around it and between his fingers. His kind face twisted in agony.

One of the dark-haired women – a Ms. Grimshaw from what you had heard barked from Mr. Van der Linde – was already next to him. Her hands gesturing around her to various people with lips moving rapidly; no doubt giving orders that your ears could no longer hear. All of them began moving; all of them doing something of value while you just stood there: useless.

And it continued this way all up until your uncle was being carried away into the chapel by a few of the men. Even then, your eyes stuck on the spot where he had been. The blood that had leaked out of him staining the ground.

A gentle pressure landing on your shoulder suddenly rushed all your senses to alarming clarity.

Leaping away with a hand immediately to one of your knife hilts, you were faced with the stunned yet sorrowful face of Arthur Morgan. His hand still raised where it had begun to touch you before he recoiled, asking if you were going to head inside to be with your uncle. Breathing shakily and blood rushing in your ears, you looked down and around aimlessly.

Without a word of reply, your feet drag you into the chapel. Your body simply moved on its own accord with pulse still rushing from the interaction with Mr. Morgan. Hence your hand still on your knife’s hilt; the grip edging on painful with knuckles turning paler.

Pausing at the threshold to the rectory, you watched as Ms. Grimshaw examined the wound and dabbed with a cloth whenever the blood rushed up. Everyone else faded from relevance as you stood waiting.

After the sun had risen to its highest point in the sky, after you received several apologies when the older woman declared there being nothing to be done, after you were left to sit with Alfie, you glared down at the blankets covering him. Tears burned behind your eyes, but you would not let them fall. If you had been here instead of out there… if you had stood your ground and turned these people away, then perhaps—

“Oi,” the good Father Murphy piped to turn you away from regrets and toward his weak smile, “Time enough for silence later. You know better than to try an’ drown yourself in it.”

Blinking, you loathe the water that escapes to trail over your scar and croak, “I am… so sorry. This is—”

“The Lord’s plan. That’s what this is,” he interrupted, gently reaching for one of your hands. You pulled away, leaving him to set it back down, “I trust in it. I trust that he will bring me home. I trust that I will see your mother, your grandfather, your… your sister, rest of the family up there. And I know that one day you’ll be right there with us. You need to trust in His plan for you now.”

Jaw tightening, you cannot look your pious uncle in the eye as you revealed what you believed, “The Lord’s only interest in me is how fast He can hurtle my soul down into the fires of Hell the second I cease breath. I…”

You trailed off. The thought of telling Alfie that you believed you would never see him again outright… it was too cruel; even for you.

“I believe that this happened, that these people showed up, that you were far away from the danger, all for a reason,” your uncle began before clearing his throat that evolved into a grievous cough that furthered the cracking in your chest, “Do not surrender to your hate. Be Daring and trust… trust in what love c-could bring you.”

Your lip wobbled at the use of that familial epithet, so long unused. Slamming stinging eyes shut and gripping onto the sheets at your side instead of taking the dying man of God’s hand, more tears slithered out from your eyes.

“Please,” he choked out with labored breaths, “C-choose a new path. R-Rosie… Rosie would want… so much more for you, than th-this… please…”

- Chapter 8: Carrying On

- Chapter 9: TBD

- Chapter 10: TBD

Yet, the rain’s harsh force encountered the unique surface of a firm roof over a chapel nestled within a clearing amidst towering evergreens and aspens. From within, golden light glowed out of seven modest sized windows and the circular, stained-glass depiction of Saint Christopher above sturdy oaken doors at the front.

In the haze of rain, a pair of distant figures were barely visible closing a sliding door to a nearby barn. Both hustling back to the chapel along a muddy, beaten path; hats drawn low over their faces as lightning crackled.

The man in the lead swung open one of the twin doors, shorter than the man behind him and deeper of complexion when the chapel’s light revealed his scant facial hair. Dark eyes growing big as thunder boomed overhead as he warmed his hands together and stood aside for the other man to enter, “This storm is insane. Kinda surprised more of the horses didn’t start bucking like Old Boy did.”

“Not gonna lie, Javier,” a deep, gravelly voice came from the second man who closed the door behind him; striking blue eyes shimmering with mischief as he added, “I’d of bucked a sorry sack of shit like Marston too if I had ‘im on my back.”

A bitter laugh sounded from further inside the chapel among a host of others milling about or getting comfortable. “Shuddup, Arthur,” John Marston barked from where he was laid up on a pew.

His wrapped leg rested propped on a folded blanket with a light amount of red soaking the strips of cloth; certainly, less blood than the first set of ruined bandages set aside on the ground held. Those had been haphazardly applied out in the wild after John’s stallion had bucked him when a tree had fallen into the gang’s hurried path, causing for him to tumble down a ravine and eventually land poorly – with a sickening snap – on his leg.

The results of which Abigail had kept young Jack far away from as the bone had punctured the skin.

After finding him, one of the girls had spotted some light in the distance. They were far off enough from Deadboot Creek where they had crossed paths and bullets with some O’Driscoll’s, that the worry of running into the rival gang in this direction, was unfounded.

Upon getting the caravan cautiously down the way to the large meadow, two of the men went forward to investigate while the rest waited with bated breath, shivering within the tree line. Luckily, not for long as the two men had returned with news that the building was a chapel and the preacher running the place was opening his doors to them.

Now, here all twenty members of the Van der Linde gang were nestled into the confines of the chapel. A wearied yet welcoming looking preacher handing out what few supplies he could muster from the attached rectory.

“It’s not much,” he spoke with a clearly Irish accent that perhaps mismatched his looks, “But hopefully it will all do until mornin’. There’s a village, Orwood not too far off just can’t be makin’ a do out there in this weather. Can go there for some additional supplies.”

“It is far more than what we had up on that trail, Father Murphy,” Dutch Van der Linde boomed from up on the candle filled altar where he had been speaking with Mr. Matthews, “We thank you for such hospitality. We don’t encounter it often.”

The preacher nodded as he handed a final blanket to Ms. Gaskill who smiled prettily in appreciation. “Think nothin’ of it,” he spoke approaching the men in charge. Despite his cheery tone, the darker featured leader noted how the preacher’s eyes repeatedly ventured towards the door; how his wrinkled hands wrung each other as he sighed deeply.

“I can assure you that we are all accounted for, Father,” Dutch guaranteed, gesturing around the space.

Smiling tightly, the man of God agreed, “Course, o’ course. Not you folks I’m worryin’ about.”

“Who then?” Hosea intruded, removing his hat to shake away rain still clinging to the brim onto the cobblestone floors. Suspicion clearer than glass on his sharp features.

“My niece,” Father Murphy answered, eyes begging those doors to open again, “Went out before the storm to clear out snares so what she caught wouldna be soakin’ wet or washed ‘way by the rains. ‘Er ‘orse is a good one and she do be capable, but like what happened with your poor man there, any nag could get spooked.”

“Could send one of ours out if needs be,” Dutch offered willingly, “Got just the—”

In time with a bolt of lightning that cast a long shadow into the chapel and a boom of thunder – as though summoned from the storm itself – a dark clad figure stepped in from the rain. However, their face remained cast in shadow by a wide brimmed, boater hat that had seen better days, as they adjusted a heavy sack over a dark, coat covered shoulder before spinning back around to slam the door shut.

All heads turned to watch as you tilted your scarred face up into the candlelight; your suspicious eyes narrowed with head held high.

“Ah!” your uncle piped up through the tensed silence as he sprung away from the altar, “There she is, finally.” Stiffly marching for you, the man came to usher you along down the center aisle with hands kept firmly behind his back. His smile tense and false as he murmured through the corner of his mouth closest to you, “I can see you are upset, but—”

“How perceptive of you, Uncle Alfie,” you mock lowly, eyeballing every person in the room as the pair of you fell into step. Some of the odd congregation immediately looked away – mostly the women – from your wounded face. Others held your stare; sizing you up until they left your peripheral vision.

Those were the ones you would have to keep an eye on tonight.

“They have a child with them,” Father Murphy countered as he nodded in the direction of a young boy sitting with what you would have to assume was his mother, in the third row. She pulled him closer as she noticed you, though.

Turning away, you begrudgingly listened as your uncle continued, “And they have women with them as well and of course, that poor lad in the back. His horse bucked ‘im in the storm while they were on one of the mountain passes. Who was I to deny them sanctuary? Mr. Van der Linde assured that—”

“A man of intelligence, perhaps,” you bite back, moving with vicious purpose towards the rectory connected by a door at the left wall next to the altar.

“Now, now,” a voice smooth as silk echoed from Dutch at the altar where he stood beside Hosea and Arthur posted a step below. Pausing, you provided the dark featured man a sharp sideways glance while Alfie shuffled on the side as Mr. Van der Linde strutted forward, “There’s no need to belittle your poor uncle. We are humble folks and neither of you have any need to worry. We’re truly grateful for your generous help.”

Turning to face this silver tongue fully, you removed your hat. All shadow and hair to falling away from the scar that marred your face from the top of your left brow all the way down to your chin that you held high into the light.

Looking him dead in his dark eyes, you watched unwaveringly as the usual ran over his features: stun, discomfort, pity, and then, indifference. The last reaction sometimes went to disgust; you were uncertain which you preferred to see.

“Grateful, I have no doubt,” you start out coolly, head tilting ever so slightly as you monitored him, “Yet I wonder why it is that you were on the mountain passes in such a storm to begin with. Surely, you could have made camp elsewhere instead of continuing on…”

The man’s dark eyes squinted ever so slightly: a tell.

“But perhaps not,” you amended and then theorized, “Heading towards or maybe, running from something. All mere speculation, of course.”

“My,” the analyzed man began leaning back but keeping the eye contact; his tone even and measured now at the statement, “I see that you’re not one to take something at face value. I respect that, Miss…?”

“Do you?” your retort shoots out with no shortage of spite as your head dropped back down, dismissing his request.

Pivoting around to turn your back on the man, you made a beeline for the rectory. Your hand just touching the wood of the door when the man’s voice echoes out again, “I will ask that while your reservations are understandable, give us a chance. Just the one. We ain’t here for no reason beyond surviving the night.”

Giving one last look around the chapel, your eyes dragged their way back towards the man in charge only to pause on one you had not given much consideration. The one who stood a single step below the altar; one that he could surely step up and place himself on the same level as Mr. Van der Linde. Yet there he stood resolute with arms folded in a rain-soaked jacket and a worn gambler’s hat casting a shadow over his eyes that glinted in the candlelight. His substantial, well-trimmed stubble highlighted lips quirking up into a smirk of all things.

A rare, unsettling thing to meet your gaze these days.

Another one to watch carefully. Looking away, you heave a heavy sigh. “Fine,” your reluctant resignation echoes out as you finally push the rectory door open, “One chance.”

Before any of the hollow thank yous reach your ears, you slam the door shut without a second look.

Making off with a scowl towards the pot hanging over the main living space’s blazing hearth, you unceremoniously toss your hefty baggage onto a nearby table. Removing the four hares and one decent sized pine marten from the sack, you snatch up a knife. All five would probably be eaten tonight now you noted with bitterness as you began skinning the first animal.

---- ---- ---- ---- ----

The storm dragged on into the evening as the stew was cooked, served, eaten, and the chapel fell into contented silence only broken by the occasional hushed whisper and boom of thunder.

Most members of the Van der Linde gang sat strewn about the left side of the chapel, while on the right Dutch sat in one of the back pews; reclined and arms spread out over the back as he eyed the back of your head. Looking on with unnerving calculation where you sat at the front with your uncle.

Both of you were locked in some sort of harsh exchange as he brought one of his hands clutching a flask, to his lips. Taking a heavy swig, he did not glance as another joined him on that pew that creaked beneath new weight.

“Got that look in your eye,” Arthur Morgan’s voice rumbled, propping his elbows upon duck cloth covered knees.

Humming at the observation, the older man extended the flask to the younger, who took it agreeably to take a swift swig. Your voice raised a moment before you turned away from the reverend, who looked like he wanted to say more but chose against it and walked off for the altar. There he seemed to begin praying with his back to the rest of the room, while you just glared out of the nearest rain covered window.

Not knowing what more to say, the leader’s right hand leaned back as well. Flicking some dirt from his filthy, still wet boots before kicking them up onto the pew the next row up as he murmured, “Gettin’ one of them gut feelin’s too?”

Without turning away from you, Dutch nodded, “Something like it.”

“Want me to trail ‘er if she leaves then?” Arthur followed up, crossing his arms in front of him; finally looking up towards you as well. His blues looking on with more severity than Dutch’s browns.

Smiling at his best man’s eagerness to fulfill his role in this gang, the head man quietly chirped, “If you would be so kind, Mr. Morgan.”

Grunting his agreement, the gunslinger’s attention shifted as Father Murphy turned away from the candles and gestured to the room. Most everyone looked up towards the man of God; those that did not were smacked into attention.

Most audibly John Marston who received a smack upside the head from the mother of his son.

“Well, this is a much larger and much later Sunday mass than we are used to here,” Alfie began with a warm smile, earning a chuckle from one of the women. You on the other hand, rolled your eyes and sunk down into your pew as your uncle continued, “But we make do. There is a word from the old country, where my father had fled to, well over eighty years ago as a young man running from a failed rebellion in another land. This word is Uiscefhuaraithe. Odd? Isn’t it?”

“Not to us Irish folk!” Sean whooped from within the most crowded area of the gang; portions of which chuckled or sighed at his antics.

Father Murphy just laughed right along, nodding before translating, “It essentially means ’water-cooled’ or the type of cold only water brings. The kind that sets a chill in your bones after enduring a storm, for example. Yet, the same feeling can change depending on your situation. If you are lost, away from where you call home, it’s a lonely, dampening feeling. If you are where you intended and it’s a scorching day, suddenly it is a relief. A blessing, even. Strange how something you thought you understood, can become something entirely new depending on where you are, who you are with. Who is to say when change can dawn in one’s life? In one’s mind? In one’s soul?”

Arthur blinked at that and looked down to his hands to start picking at the dirt beneath his nails; a habit that made Dutch shake his head as he listened.

“Sometimes such change can be a choice, if the will is strong. Other times, the Lord must strike with sudden, radical change to fulfill the plans unseen by our eyes,” Alfie added, clapping his hands together and jolting Reverend Swanson from his slumbering stupor, “Trust in the Lord in times of change, in times of Uiscefhuaraithe. You never know when it could be for the best.”

With that last line, the preaching man had turned toward his niece, who proceeded to rise and head off for the rectory. Something that did not escape Mr. Morgan.

Coming Soon: Next Chapter: Chapter 2 - Old Habits