To tell the truth, Arthur Morgan was pissed off. Now, a characterization such as this warrants a measure of clarification, as to the untrained eye Arthur Morgan was pissed off just about always. To the untrained eye, Arthur was a gruff man at best, a man whose bristled beard seemed often to grow so large that it weighed down the corners of his mouth, preventing any hope of what the average ogler might recognize as a smile. Yes, it would seem that he was pissed off so very often that the necessity of verbally acknowledging his ire and indignation was continually negated. But if that is the case, then consider this: If Arthur Morgan operates in a constant state of pissed-off, so pervasive that to recognize the fact would be redundant, then how pissed off must he have been when describing him as such actually meant something? How angry was the man when he was legitimately angry? Well, now you understand what it means when the words are spoken truthfully, that hot coal has gone from black to red. And you can be assured that, in this case, the implication runs as honest as the Dakota. Arthur Morgan was very pissed off.
Why? Well, because he couldn't be. Yes, because you see the man was used to being angry. Anger had kept his blood running, had kept the whole gang safe, at times. When a drunk man grabbed Tilly by the arm and tried to push her up onto his fat horse, Anger shot the man right in the tip of his spine, then broke his jaw with a boot heel. When a 68-year-old barber refused to pay up to Heir Strauss, Anger offered to shave the man's neck with a broken bottle of Kentucky and changed his mind. Or at least that's what Arthur let on. That Anger and Arthur weren't just close cousins, but for all intents and purposes the same word. Whether or not there was more to it was frankly irrelevant, because whatever he was doing was working.
Until now. Now, getting grizzly was only liable to make things worse, he knew. Now, the gang didn't need Anger, because the situation was delicate. Vulnerability caused such a state, in which it seemed they all collectively woke one morning atop a lake frozen thin as stretched linen, brittle like rock candy. They couldn't stomp now, metaphorically speaking. Couldn't place a foot on the wrong patch, move too quickly. One crack and there would be dire consequences.
Because the boy had been taken. Little Jack, son of Abigail and John. Well, probably son of John, most definitely son of Abigail. He'd been stolen away, a squirrel in talons. Abigail's in pieces, of course. John's just, well, pissed off. And that's what worries Arthur. Because they'd already been out to get the boy; they'd guessed at where he was and they were right, almost. Dutch rounded up every man in the gang, and they rode on the Braithwaite Manor. Killed more men than Arthur cared to count, drug the old matriarch out in front of her big fancy house, and burned it to the ground.
And maybe Arthur was getting old. Because as he rode off after Dutch and the others, fire blazing at his back and old crone wailing into the night, it occurred to him that, had the boy been under custody of the Braithwaites when the fight turned against them, it would not have surprised him if the old bitch had ordered the boy killed right there and then. He'd known terrible people. He'd been terrible people. His own dismissal of tact and subtlety had landed him in the proverbial shit before. And people did terrible things when they were desperate, spooked, excited, or just plain crazy. In fewer words, Arthur knew that if they weren't careful, they could lose little Jack. And Arthur was never one to croon over the tedious work of being careful. Hence, we find him now pissed off. Quietly. Riding toward Strawberry on a horse named Verruca.
Dire as things were, Dutch believed they had time. The boy must have been safe, because Old Lady Braithwaite had no reason to sell him off if he was going to be harmed. Jack was officially a tool to get at the Van der Lynde gang. And so a strange, cold calm spread over the camp. It couldn't be at ease until Jack was returned. No one, not even John, lost control over their senses. After, all Dutch was persuasive.
Arthur didn't like hanging around camp even when things weren't so tense, so he'd ridden out first thing in the morning after they'd returned from the Braithewaite Manor affair. Told Dutch he was going to do some digging.
"We need the boy back, my friend," Dutch had said. "And we will get him. But don't forget, we also still need money. Don't you stop working just because some loons have one of ours."
He was a little shaken, Arthur could tell. Dutch didn't like to lose. That was why he didn't want Arthur to stop "working," because that would mean the enemy had gotten to them, taken the life out of them.
"Mhm," Arthur had said, and nodded. Then he pulled himself into his alligator skin saddle and was off. If he was being honest, he knew they'd find a way to return Jack soon enough. They being Dutch and Hosea, the grand thinkers. He just didn't want to be around, for a while.
He moved Verruca along slowly, scanning the hills for something to shoot, skin, sell. Seeing a good deal of nothing but rabbits and crows. He patted the horse's broad neck. "Quiet morning girl," he said lowly. "Ain't that nice for a change." It was an attempt at tricking himself out of his own disposition, which he knew full well was feeble. He breathed a slow sigh, felt cold air sting his lungs. He should've worn a thicker coat, probably the bearskin one he'd worked so hard to get but never left the camp with. Oh well, he could gripe about it in his head for a little while longer or he could ride a little harder and work the cold away. But just as he made to squeeze Verruca into a trot, two men pulled up on either side of him.
He knew they were men by how they smelled, because he'd never met a woman that smelled like scotch and cow piss. And he knew by the fact that they were flanking him that they probably didn't ride up to ask him for help. He could try to ride away, but men that smelled like cow piss were most usually the kind that would shoot you in the back. He slipped a cigarette out of his vest pocket and lit it, because smoking helped his trigger fingers.
He took a drag and said, "Today ain't the day, boys." Shit, he was so angry he couldn't even sound angry. The two men didn't seem to take notice of his words. The one on his left leaned forward to get a look at his face. Should've had his bandana up.
"Yup," said the leaning man, still leaning. "We know who you is." The man on the right giggled, which all but confirmed to Arthur that this was a pair of morons.
"That right?" he said. "Then you probably know I got two pistols on me." Not strictly true; he had one pistol and one sawed-off shotgun. No reply. "And you probably know that I could put you in the dirt before your piss hit the ground." He didn't quite know what that meant, but he knew it sounded right when it came out.
"Yeah," said the left man before he licked his teeth, "we was thinkin' we'd take our chances. Unless maybe you got something to give us might change our minds?" More giggling from the right man.
Arthur took another drag. "I already told you what I got to give you." Kill them this close to Strawberry, and he was liable to attract witnesses. He was in no mood to ride to a post office to pay off a ten-dollar bounty. Then again, maybe he wouldn't have to. He patted Verruca again.
"Alright boys, take your best shots." And then the right man snorted, and then they took their best shots. Each moron ripped a pistol out of a holster, flung it up into the air, and pulled the trigger. And as they did, Arthur simply leaned back. And they said Dutch and Hosea were the thinkers.
The right man shot the left man square in the head, and right as he did the left man's bullet punched deep behind his ribs. Close up like that, the shot really stung, Arthur knew. The man's horse must not have been used to the sound of gunfire, because it kicked dirt as soon as its rider was shot, and spilled him right over its behind. Arthur watched it sprint off down the trail, the smell of hot gunpowder leaving just as quickly.
"Look at that," he said, "you boys are better shots than I expected." He pulled Verruca up and slipped out of the saddle. "Not a miss between you." The left man's body slunk off his horse, and Arthur approached it, because he was never one to let a dead man's possessions go to waste. The right man lay on his back and croaked blood. His shirt was soaked where he'd been shot. "Got him right in the head," Arthur said to him as he stood over his partner's body.
He was a bit less pissed off now, to tell the truth. The dead man was wearing a grey coat, felt like sheep skin, nicer than Arthur would've expected. He patted the pockets, pulled out a small empty bottle (there was the scotch), a couple cigarettes, and a rolled-up piece of good paper. "What's this?" he said. The dying man didn't answer, because he was dying. Arthur unrolled the paper and gave it a read.
EXECUTIONER VACANCY
TOWN OF CHICKEN WATER
$700 FOR EVERY HEAD
NANCIES NEED NOT APPLY
"What in the hell is 'chicken water'?" said Arthur. He went over to the dying man and held the paper above his face so he could see it. "This real?" The man didn't answer so Arthur pressed a boot toe into his bloodied ribs. A louder croak escaped the man's throat. "Hey," said Arthur, pointing at the ad in his hand. The dying mad nodded. "Yeah? It's real? Where the hell is Chicken Water?" But then the dying man finished dying. Arthur shook his head. This land wasn't his home, and he didn't know every part of it, but surely there was no town called Chicken Water. Still, $700 hundred dollars a pop was a damn fine rate, and surely qualified under the gang's broad delineation of "work." Wouldn't hurt to move on to Strawberry and ask some questions.
It was a good fifteen minutes until he hit the small town, nestled right over a squirreling little river they called Hawk Eye Creek. He made for the bridge first, and Verruca's hoof clops on the wood bounced away into the sound of running water. A portly man was crossing from the other side, and Arthur nodded to him as he passed. The man's eyes flicked over Arthur and then pointed decidedly the forward. He gave Verruca as wide a berth as he could manage on the slender log bridge. Arthur just had that effect on some people. "Mornin'," he said to the man as he passed.
He'd start at the hotel, he figured, because it was the first thing on the left after the bridge, and because he'd come to understand that those who ran hotels were expected to know some measure about the land surrounding. He hitched Verruca, climbed out of the saddle, and stood by the stairs leading up to the hotel's porch. Chicken Water? He had to be sure that was actually about to come out of his mouth, so he pulled the ad out of his satchel and read it again. Yes, Chicken Water. Executioner Vacancy. Well, alright then.
He made his way up the stairs, nodded to a mousy little woman sitting not in a chair but right on the porch floor. She didn't nod back, but she did stare at him like a dog stares at a rope chew. Strawberry is a damn strange town, he decided.
Inside the hotel was a large bear, two bucks, and a couple other things that might be included in a taxidermist's paradise. Arthur nodded to the bear like he had the portly man at the bridge, and rubbed his hands together for a moment while the heat from the fireplace killed away the cold on him. At the far end of the lobby was a man in a tie and a thick mustache. He stood and watched Arthur, waiting for him to state his business.
"Mornin'," said Arthur.
"Good morning," said the man, possibly smiling under his mustache but Arthur couldn't quite care enough to tell.
"Was wondering," he said, unrolling the ad, "if you could give me a little direction." He held the paper in front of him.
"Can you point me to the town of Chicken Water?" This voice came from behind him, and he turned. It was the mousy woman. Apparently she'd followed him in, though he hadn't heard her. Her mouth stretched out into a big, full toothed smile. Well, almost full – her left canine was missing. "That's what you were gonna say, right?" That time when she spoke her voice didn't carry a heavy twang like at first. Was she mocking him?
Arthur raised his eyebrows. "It is. How did you know that?"
The woman crossed her arms, so that now between her and the mustached man Arthur was boxed in by crossed arms. "You killed Vic and Paul, didn't you?" He could guess who Vic and Paul were.
"Well," he said, "to tell you the truth, Vic and Paul killed each other."
The woman seemed to think about that for a second. She wore a red derby hat that looked a bit too large for her small head, and it was a tipped a bit forward so that Arthur nearly couldn't see her eyes. Suddenly she stuck out her right hand, as if to offer a shake. "I'm Dora," she said.
Strange, strange woman. Nonetheless, Arthur took the hand and shook it. "Arthur."
"I can take you to Chicken Water." She spun around and pushed open the door. "Follow me."
Arthur scratched his beard. "Alright." He tipped his hat to the mustached man, whose arms were still crossed, and walked back out onto the porch.
"This your horse?" said, Dora, as she pulled herself up onto Verruca.
What in holy hell? Arthur had no worries about the horse being stolen – he knew his girl wouldn't ride off without him. But he couldn't help feeling a little perturbed. "Yes," he said, walking down the stairs, "that is my horse. Where's yours?"
"Don't got one," said the little woman as she petted Verruca's neck. From the look of it, she'd sure as hell ridden one before. "That's why I needed Vic and Paul, or one of them at least, but you went and killed them." He recognized no point in arguing his case there. She looked him in the eyes. "So now I need you."
Right. She looked exuberantly confident that everything was going to her plan, as she sat there at the front of his saddle, on his horse. "And you can get me to Chicken Water?"
She rolled her eyes. "Yes, and I can get me to Chicken Water."
"And why do you need to go to Chicken Water?" He half expected her to say she lived there, a loony woman from a made-up town. But she just pointed to the ad that was still in his hand, and said,
"Same as you. To kill some folks for money."
"Mhm," Arthur said. He was fairly confident that Chicken Water probably didn't need more than one executioner, but then again, the ad didn't specify. Even if she was competition, he surely wouldn't lose a contest of death-dealing to a woman. And anyway, he sure as hell didn't know anyone else that knew how to get there, if there really was a there to get to. "Well, alright then," he said, rolling up the ad and stuffing back into his satchel. Then he made a motion for her to scoot back in the saddle so he could climb on. She didn't move.
"No, I gotta sit in front," she said, raising her thin eyebrows as if he should've known where they stood on the matter. Arthur did not agree.
"The hell you do."
"The hell I do," she said, that pseudo-cowboy drawl back in her tone. "I gotta sit in front so I can see where we're goin'."
Good grief. This lady was looking more and more like the varmint as which Arthur had originally assessed her. Maybe these $700 heads weren't worth quite this much headache. "Alright, I changed my mind. Get off my horse, woman." He gave her no time to remove herself, his patience already expended, but instead reached up to displace her himself. She wildly kicked at his hands.
"Alright, alright!" She could be louder than he expected. He stopped. "I'll sit in the damn back," she said, and emphatically slid herself unto Verruca's rump. The horse grumbled. Arthur still had an urge to pull her off, but he decided to refrain and see where this took him. And so, he slung himself up, and they were off.
"We gotta go west," said Dora as they crossed the bridge. "Follow the Owanjila all the way up."
That didn't sound right. "All they way up the Owanjila is mountains," said Arthur.
"Yes, friend," said Dora. "And in the mountains is Chicken Water."
Whatever. Least it wasn't too long a ride. If he really kicked up Verruca he could be at the base of the mountains in less than five minutes, but a high-speed horse is a beating when your sitting on its ass. Although, he wasn't quite sure how concerned he was about the comfort of his passenger. Pending consideration of how annoying she decided she'd be, he kept at a reasonable pace.
They were quiet as they left Strawberry, quiet as they went along. They past a few other riders. He eyed a man slinking behind a tree up on a ridge, most probably stalking some game that he could not see. He watched the hunter, waiting to see if he'd get his kill, and then Dora yelled "BANG!"
Arthur jumped, only a little. "Jesus, woman," he said.
"I saw you, stalking that stalker," she said, giggling a bit like the right man had. And then, for a few minutes, they were quiet again. Because Arthur knew he had no real reason to trust that this woman wouldn't stab him in the ribs and try to take his horse the rest of the way without him, he started a conversation to distract her from the thought.
"So tell me Dora, what previous business have you had in Chicken Water?"
"Business?" she said. "I don't think I've ever had business anywhere." No reason to ask what the hell she meant by that.
"Alright," he tried again, "why have you been to Chicken Water?"
He heard her shift her seat a bit. "Oh, I've been all over with my brothers. We chase the money, just like you do. Well, chased." Brothers?
"Brothers? Those boys that jumped me...?" He stammered a bit, not exactly because he began to feel guilty, but perhaps more because the woman sitting at his flank had possibly just suggested that she was newly estranged from her kin on his account. He slowed Verruca.
"Yeah," said Dora, "can't say I'm not a little pissed." Decision time. Should he dump her off the back and be done with this? He didn't, because next she said, "Not at you though, I suppose. You said yourself they killed each other."
Good, run with that. He nodded. "That they did."
She was quiet, and for a moment he thought that was all there was to say on the matter, but then she snorted and said, "Doesn't much surprise me, really. They always were a couple of goat heads." Goat heads. Yes, for whatever reason that did seem to be an accurate title. "Oh shit," said Dora, slapping him on the shoulder, "stop here." She had already slid off of Verruca, and was quickly walking away, off the trail.
Arthur looked beyond her, and saw that they'd reached the Owanjila lake. "You said it was up in the mountains," he said.
"It is," she called back.
"So why are we stopping?"
"Just give me a damn second." She stopped at the ridge, and then just stood there, looking out over the lake. Arthur walked Verruca up behind her and looked as well, wondering what the hell he was looking for.
"Lady, can we move along?" he said. Moments like this, he thought about how easy it would be to put a bullet in the back of a head. "I don't have all da-"
"Oh, yes you do," she cut him short. "Give me a damn second, I said."
Arthur gave a heavy sigh, instead. "What are you looking for?"
"My little girl."
Was she crazy, or not? This might have been the moment where Arthur should decide, once and for good. "Your what?"
"My little girl," she repeated. "She drowned out there, years and years ago." Oh. "She was just a kid. I was too, really. Told myself every time I passed I'd come look for her, for a bit, just in case. Don't know why." Jesus, everyone in the world was broken. Seemed Arthur never ran into a stranger that was just a plain, well-lived individual. Probably that was enough for the conversation.
"I'm . . . sorry to hear that."
She stood for just a moment longer in quiet before she said, "Anyway, let's move on." She turned, and he pulled her back up onto the horse.
There were no more words until the road turned away from the river that fed the lake, and Dora said, "Okay, off the trail, follow the river."
"There's no road to this town?" said Arthur, following her instruction.
"There is not. Just trust me." Sure, just trust her. This was cougar territory, he knew. He'd better not get eaten over this. The river didn't run long before it became waterfall, and they were at the mountains. Arthur looked up at the white water bouncing off the rocks.
"Now what?"
"Cross the river," said Dora.
Oh, hell. Arthur grumbled, but turned Verruca toward the pool of the fall, where the water was most steady.
Dora snorted. "I'm shitting you. Just turn up south and go until you hit the trapper."
This damn woman. "Real funny," said Arthur, turning the horse back around. He began moving her along between the trees and the mountain foot. Wait, trapper? "What do you mean 'til I hit the trapper?"
But then, there was the trapper. Full stall, in the middle of cougar territory. "Back awful soon," he said as they approached. It wasn't just a trapper, but the trapper. He was everywhere; Arthur had hardly seen another man of the same vocation in these parts. He had just sold the man some furs two or three days ago in Saint Denis, on the far side of god damned Lemoyne. He admired the man a bit, if he was being honest, and suddenly he wasn't too concerned about cougars.
"Well, hello," he said.
The trapper nodded. "What brings you up 'round here?"
"Headin' to Chicken Water," said Dora, before Arthur could.
The trapper closed his eyes, nodded again. "Mmm, pain in the ass."
That Arthur had assumed. "The journey?" he said.
"The town," said the trapper. He nodded some more for a bit, and Arthur took the opportunity to wonder exactly what kind of pain in the ass this place was going to turn out to be. And then the trapper said. "Welp, you got business in Chicken Water, you better get in and get out quick as you can. Don't let me hold you up." That sounded reasonable. He did have to admit, Arthur felt a mite better about this pursuit knowing that the trapper acknowledged the town's existence.
"We shall not," said Dora. And Arthur agreed, so he walked Verruca past the stall.
"Where am I going now?" he said.
He saw Dora's pointing finger in the peripheral of his left eye. "The trail in is just there, behind that big rock that looks like a duckling." Arthur saw the big rock, but wasn't sure how it looked like anything but a big rock. They came up to it and he brought Verruca around. Well shit, there it was. A clearly treaded, narrow path that twisted up into the mountain. "Probably don't want to squeeze your girl here up that," said Dora.
"Suppose you're right," he said. He wasn't about to bring a horse into any space where it couldn't turn around. Verruca was a talented and reliable beast, but backward running wasn't something they'd practiced. They each slid off.
"Well," said Dora, gesturing, "after me." She made her way into the crack, and Arthur shook his head and followed. It became a bit darker and a bit colder as they moved through the tight passage, and once again Arthur thought of his bearskin coat. He looked up at the slice of blue sky between the high rock walls above him.
"Exactly how far a walk are we looking at?" he said.
"Short enough for you to quit your bitching," said Dora.
Sheesh. "I'm not bitching, I'm asking."
Dora giggled, again. "Yeah, yeah. It's not a long walk." Some kind of mountain rat skipped over Arthur's boot. He listened as it rustled off back the way they'd come.
"How many times you been here?"
"Once or twice. One doesn't typically find a reason to visit."
"And why'd you come the last time?"
"Oh, you know, to visit." Of course.
"You are one painful woman to talk to, you know that?"
Snort. "I would venture an assumption that the same has been said about you."
She had him there. "Yeah well, I'm a dirty outlaw. What's your excuse?"
"I don't need an excuse. I get it from my mamma, just like she got it from hers, just like my baby girl got it from -"
She cut off. Crazy and irritating as this woman was, losing a kid couldn't have been easy. Arthur thought of little Jack, and Abigail. And John. Who knew what he would become if something happened to the boy.
"How old was she, your girl?"
"We're here," said Dora. And so they were. Beyond her the space opened up wide, and Arthur could see huts of wood. They moved into the space and the picture became fuller. It was a huge basin, big enough for a good fifteen of the small huts, some built on the base floor, and some up on ridges at the sides. He saw a pool of water up to the right, and a narrow rope bridge connecting two of the large rock catwalks that grew out of the mountains to either side. People, sporting a general uniform shagginess, moved about, working or mingling or lazing.
"I'll be damned," breathed Arthur.
"Probably," said Dora.
"Who the fuck are you?!" shouted a voice from the rope bridge, and several of the people in the basin turned their heads toward the two.
"Hello!" said Dora, cheerily. Arthur looked at the man on the bridge. Quite large, and quite round.
"Hello!" said the man. "Who the fuck are you?!"
Dora elbowed Arthur. "Show him the thing."
Right, the thing. Arthur dug into his satchel and brought out the ad. He held it up to the bridge man. "We saw your ad! You got folks need killing?"
This seemed to make the round man, and a good portion of the other people paying attention, very happy. "Our executioner died!"
"How!?" yelled Dora.
"He fucked a deer, so we ordered him executed!"
Executed the executioner? "Well who executed him?!" yelled Arthur.
"He did!" Oh. Well alright then. They stood in the echoes of their voices for a bit, while the folks of Chicken Water stared at them, a good portion of them grinning. The round man moved, quicker than Arthur would've expected, across the rope bridge and then down a ladder on the rock wall. "So!" he said as he scurried down. "Which one of you is our killer?" He hit the ground and waddled up to them. "Hm? Which one?" He scratched his big belly as he waited for their answer.
"Well," began Arthur, but Dora finished.
"Suppose that's up to you. We're both killers."
"Aaahhh," said the man, raising a fat finger in the air, "but which of you is our killer?" He smiled, raised his eyebrows twice, then clapped and said, "A contest!" His voice carried around the basin. Raucous cheering arose from the townsfolk. The man spun and began waddling quickly away. "Follow!" he shouted.
Arthur looked at Dora, who looked at him, grinned, and patted him on the shoulder. She walked off after the loud man, and Arthur rubbed his eyes and followed. Perhaps he had miscalculated in assuming the woman's female status gave him an inherent advantage. They had to move quickly to keep up with the man, who Arthur figured it was safe to guess acted as some kind of mayor. He led them to the left corner of the basin, and Arthur learned that the town was bigger than he'd thought, as the rock wall folded back and revealed another, smaller pocket of space. As they went, Chicken Waterites fell in behind them in a crowd of maybe thirty, their excited exclamations bouncing off the mountains.
At the end of the wide corridor they turned into was a large wooden platform, which the round man pointed to. "You two go on and wait up there. Thurman, get some swords!" Then he turned to Arthur and Dora. "We use swords here, like they did in old Germania. Only way to god damn do it." Arthur disagreed. There were many ways to kill a man. But if a sword was going to get him $700 a head, then a sword it was. He and Dora made their way to the platform, and as they did Arthur saw to the right the mouth of a sizeable cave, and out of it came walking a tall woman, holding the handles of two long swords, blades down, in each hand. Claymores, he heard Hosea's voice say in his head, though he didn't know if that was the right word, or why the old man would know that. Then again, that old man knew a lot.
"Those for us?" Dora called to the woman, who nodded. She walked in front of them and held a sword out to each. She was a good head taller than Arthur, and clearly stronger than most men he knew. Maybe she should've been the executioner, but that was none of his business.
"Thank you, Thurman!" said the round man, who apparently had already made it onto the platform, then he gestured for the two to join him. Dora took her sword, and immediately the blade hit the ground.
"Heavy son of a bitch," she said, and dragged it behind her as she approached the platform. Arthur took his and slung it onto his shoulder. He watched Dora, with some obvious effort, swing her sword up onto the platform. It didn't seem to have any stairs, so she had to squirrel herself up. That was his competition. This shouldn't be hard. He laid his sword on the platform and then hoisted himself up. It was maybe four feet high. How the hell did the fat man get up?
Arthur stooped to take up the sword, and then turned to the large mass of eager people. Crowd in front of him, fifty-foot-high rock behind and to the sides. Boxed in, not his favorite place to be. The people were growing louder, one man trying to start a chant of "Blood! Blood! Blood!"
"Hush up, Horace!" shouted the round man, who stood between Dora and Arthur. Horace hushed up, along with most of the others. "Folks, we have finally received an answer to our prayers." A cheer, then "Hush, dammit! As it happens, we have received two answers." He gestured to Arthur and Dora. "So, we gotta choose ourselves one! We gonna see which half of this fine couple is the better chopper." Arthur scanned the faces that looked up at him, wide eyed. These people were very excited, and so probably very excitable. He'd better be somewhat careful. He had a feeling this could easily turn into a heap of chaos, and a lot more blood than Horace wanted. Although, he didn't see a gun on a single one of them. "Aaaand," said the round man, "Whoever we choose is gonna get a whole lotta money!" The crowd cheered again, and this time they weren't hushed. Money, good. That's what Arthur was here for. Wait, did these people actually have money? "Ladies first!" said the round man. "Thurman, bring one out!"
Dora winked at Arthur, and out of the cave came Thurman, pushing in front of her an old man with a sack on his head. The big woman hoisted the man up onto the platform the way Dora had hoisted the sword. "Stand!" she bellowed, and the old man did. Dora dragged the sword over and stood behind him.
"Whenever you're ready, good lady," said the round man. Dora furled her brow, and Arthur saw her jaw flex as she bit down.
Then he heard the old man sniff, and suddenly Dora spun her whole body, the sword flinging in a circle around her as she did, slicing air all the way around until it met the old man's neck, and sliced his head clean off. The crowd roared, and Dora spun around once more before she spread her feet out and stopped herself. To Arthur's eyes, she nearly lost grip of the sword. The body fell half off the platform, then slunk to the ground bellow.
"Wonderful!" screamed the round man. The people of Chicken Water jumped over each other, hollered their throats hoarse, until, "Hush! Thurman, one for the man!" The people quieted, and Thurman disappeared into the cave.
Arthur looked to Dora. He was admittedly impressed. "Have you done that before?"
She was breathing heavily, and she smiled. "I have now."
Thurman reappeared this time pushing . . . oh hell. It was a woman. Same as with the old man, Thurman threw the woman up onto the platform, then yelled, "Stand!" The sack-headed woman stood. Her chest bobbed, and Arthur could hear her crying. He was a dirty outlaw, but he had his boundaries.
The round man leaned toward him. "Your turn, good man."
Yeah, yeah. "What did she do?" he said.
The man frowned. "Crime. She did crime. Kill her."
Arthur sighed a heavy sigh. He could feel the eyes of Chicken Water on him. He heard Horace yell Blood!, even though he didn't.
". . . No."
A collective gasp from the crowd of idiots. "No!?" cried the round man. Boos rang, somebody threw something but it was way off the mark. "Very well, coward! Thurman, another for the lady!"
Again, Thurman bounded into the cave. Dora was leaning on her sword, shaking her head.
"What?" said Arthur.
"Thought you were a tougher man." She giggled.
"Shut up, woman," he said. He was about tired of this whole mess. Why in the hell had he come this far, anyway? If Dora wanted whatever it was these people would give her, which at this point he was sure was anything but actual money, it was hers. And she could find her own ride to wherever she was off to next. "Pardon, miss," he said to the sack-headed woman, and made to hop off the platform. And then there was a thud. Thurman had brought the next sorry victim.
"Stand!"
But this one didn't stand very tall. Only to Dora's thigh. It was a boy, a child. These people had got their hands on a kid, bagged his head and threw him in their cave to await slaughter. Looked a whole hell of a lot like . . . oh, hell no.
"Dora!" he shouted, but Dora was already beginning her spin. Well, she sure as hell wasn't about to cut the head off little Jack. He took his own sword and stabbed hard, skewered her mid-spin. The long blade went through her ribs to the hilt, lifted her off her feet. She coughed in surprise, met his eyes, and died.
And the people were loud, angry. Time to be quick. He spun, scooped up the little boy, and pulled out his sawed-off shotgun, held it out in the air and growled "The boy is mine!" Some of the crowd ran. The round man bowled into him, and plunged him off the platform. He twisted in the air and landed on his back. The boy, in his left arm, grunted.
"Take him!" screamed the fat man, standing over him on the platform. He had tomahawk in his hand, and readied to throw it. Arthur raised the shotgun and blew a hole in his soft belly, then rolled over and stood.
The crowd was clearly hesitant. He aimed the shotgun out in front of him. Thurman was nowhere to be seen. A man screamed and ran full sprint at Arthur, and he shot him square in the chest, nearly sending him into a full backflip. He'd have to reload the gun now, but he was guessing they didn't know that.
"Stay the hell outta my way!" he roared, and moved toward them quickly, keeping the gun threatening. Most of them parted. Some didn't, so he swiped at another man with the gun and him clean in the temple, felt his skull crack. Then he broke into a sprint, holding the boy with both arms. It wasn't a long way back to the pathway out. He just had to get there.
He rounded the corner into the large basin. As the people realized he was just running, they began chase. Things were thrown, bottles crashed around him and a rock stung him in the back of his right shoulder. But he was there already. He dashed into the crack and moved down out of the mountain, hoping to hell he didn't roll an ankle. Voices bounced about behind him. It was a much quicker jaunt through the passage this time, and he burst out of the mountain, where Verruca was waiting.
Still holding the boy, he pulled himself into the saddle and kicked the horse into a gallop. The trapper said "Yup" as he blew by. He sat the boy in front of him as he went.
He raced all the way back to the Owinjila lake before he slowed Verruca to a stop, just to be safe. Least he wouldn't have to worry about a bounty from that place. The boy was breathing quick short breaths, holding the hair on Verruca's neck tight. "Hey, hey," said Arthur, putting a hand on his small shoulder. "You're alright."
He lifted the boy out of the saddle, and lowered him to ground. He climbed down, then kneeled in front of the kid, keeping a hand on his arm. He looked out over the Owanjila for a moment. What a strange, strange woman. Then he looked back to the boy.
"You're alright," he said again, and he took the bag off his head.