A/N- I actually made it to chapter four! Again, thank you for all your support. So this chapter has more JackxOC than the previous ones and more action than them too. Danai Y: i described Effie in this chapter :) and thank you so much for your review Evelynn! It makes me want to keep writing.
Disclaimer: I do not, nor will I ever own Red Dead Redemption or any of its characters. The only parts of this story I own are the plot lines that come after the ending of the game as well as my OC characters. The content of this story was not meant to insult anyone in any way, shape or form. Rated T for violence and coarse language.
Chapter Track: Poison & Wine -The Civil Wars
Chapter 4: In Need of Experience
Sweat beads on my brow as I aim for my target, a gray-coated wolf about 700 meters away. I've been sitting on the roof of the Marston ranch house for the past half hour, trying to take down this same wolf's entire pack. The gun digs a bit deeper into my shoulder every time I fire a round until I've lost all feeling there.
"You have to keep him in your sights, Effie," Jack calls up from below, "Make sure the crosshairs are right on 'im."
"It's too heavy!" I complain for about the thousandth time. Jack rolls his eyes, also for about the thousandth time.
"You can shoot a hat off a man's head from almost 200 yards with your pistol. You shouldn't be havin' this much trouble with a Carcano."
Grumbling to myself, I return to staring down the lone wolf through my scope. I'd picked off a few of his pack when they'd gotten too close to the cows but I've been generally unsuccessful in every other way. Somehow, I don't expect my next couple shots will hit their target either.
When Jack and I had gotten back home from Armadillo, the first thing I did was punch him hard in the gut. If it had been any other day in any other setting, he wouldn't have even felt the blow. That day his guard was down. He'd doubled over, groaning in pain, but didn't react otherwise.
"What the hell, Jack?!" I demand as he moves, still bent over, into the living room. Rufus prances along after him, simply overjoyed to see his master again. Jack collapses on the couch with a low moan and I follow him there before proceeding to roll him over so he's facing up.
"Hey," he greets me. I glare at him and then jam a forefinger into his ribcage without warning. He yelps and bats my hand away.
"Would you stop tryin' to kill me?" he chokes out, massaging the damaged area. I shake my head furiously and cross my arms over my chest.
"Not until you tell me exactly what happened since that last telephone call I got from you two weeks ago."
Jack scowls at me and pulls himself up to a sitting position. For some reason I feel both angry and overjoyed all at once. It's been so long since I've seen any real emotion on his face that his god damn annoyance is making me happy.
"I killed him. Ross. We dueled and I killed him."
I blink a couple of times before taking a seat on the couch beside him. He pauses briefly, then rubs his hands together and continues to speak.
"It didn't…I didn't feel any better. I thought I would but I didn't. And I didn't wanna call you or come home until I felt like somethin' was different. Then I took down a couple of people in Armadillo because I knew some of those guys were plannin' on kidnappin' MacGuffin's daughter next week."
"How'd you find that out?" I say, eyes wide with surprise.
"You hear a lot of gossip in a saloon."
Rufus, clearly upset that no one has paid him any mind yet, barks at us with his tail wagging hard. Jack smiles a bit at the dog and ruffles his fur.
"Why were you tryin' to kill Jonah?" I ask. That whole duel was a bit of a shock for me since I've never thought Jack the kind who'd end up in front of a lawman's gun. I guess I've gotten a lot from him in the past few months that I didn't expect.
"That idiot came at me with a gun," he says accusingly, "What was I supposed to do?"
I fight back a bout of laughter, remembering the comical look on Jonah's face as he'd stared down the business end of Jack's revolver. Jack doesn't notice this, too busy seething over the encounter. Glancing at him I remember the other thing Wade Johnson had told me back in his office. The innocents. There's no way Jack would kill innocent people by choice, I know that. Still, I feel worried as I pose the question to him. I don't want to hear anything that will make me fear him.
"It wasn't me that killed that girl." Jack replies quickly, looking upset, "I got into a shootout with some guy from Walton's Gang. He used her like a human shield until he got out of the bar and then shot her."
He's looking down at his hands as he recounts this and I can tell how sorry he is. Even if he won't admit it, Jack and his father have a lot of things in common. Being distressed over a death they could've prevented is one of these things. I think to myself that if John Marston could see his son now, he'd be proud.
"He didn't have to do that. He could've let her go." Jack continues, "I still remember the look on her face. If I ever see him again I'll-"
"I know." I interrupt, not wanting to get Jack riled up. I'd rather not have him running back to Armadillo just a few moments after getting home. Besides, this is the most Jack has said to me in a long while. It's a big step forward and I'm not about to mess that up.
"So…" I try a different route of conversation, "What happens now?"
Jack just looks at me.
"I'd like to sleep pretty soon." he says. He looks confused though, and I assume it's because I haven't been very clear.
"Well…I meant-" I break off abruptly, gathering my thoughts, "I meant after. From now on."
He swallows, avoiding my gaze, then stands up, his eyes on one of the cow skulls that adorn the walls of the house. I've always wondered why it was that the Marstons chose to decorate their house with a variety of animal bones, but I have to admit that it does have a certain rustic allure.
"I know what I should say." he admits, still not meeting my gaze, "I'm supposed to stay here, right? Be a rancher like my dad wanted."
Somehow it seems less like he's speaking to me and more like he's speaking to himself. So, I stay still, worried that he may stop talking if he remembers I'm here. A lot of times it feels like Jack's a wild animal and I'm trying to coax him out of a bush or something.
"But I don't want that," he pauses and turns to me, "At least not yet. Is that stupid?"
So he hadn't forgotten about me.
"No."
"When I took down those pricks in Armadillo, I felt," he takes a deep breath before continuing, "I felt good. Like I'd done somethin' worth doing."
I think about the stories Mr. Marston used to tell us and the western novels we used to read together and I understand perfectly what he's trying to say. Being the hero in those tales is everyone's wildest dream.
For a moment I just watch Jack and try to imagine how he must see me: dark, curly, untamable hair loose around my shoulders, attentive blue eyes. Most of all, though, I'm aware of how small I must seem to him. At around six feet he's never had to worry about reaching the top cupboard shelf in his life, not like I do. This is why I believe that what I come up with next will not sit well with him.
"Then that's what we should do."
He freezes up as I propose this, eyes unblinking, chest not moving as he breathes. I can already tell what he's going to say next.
"We." he repeats, and there is no inflection in his tone.
"We." I refuse to budge. We're locked into a stare down of sorts and I find that it's not easy to stop myself from breaking his gaze.
"There is no we." he says with the same monotone voice, "You ain't gettin' involved in this. Ever."
"Why not?!" I demand, pushing up from the couch, "I can do this! I can shoot better than you, Jack Marston, and you know it!"
He moves back towards the couch, towards me. Jack's a good ten inches taller than me so being this close forces him to have to look down.
"I don't care if you can outshoot Landon Ricketts," he almost growls, "I won't let you give your life up that easy."
In my head it's a much simpler thing to admit that I am scared. The Marstons have this remarkable ability to frighten off any friendly faces within a thirty mile radius with a single look and that's the exact same glare Jack is giving me now. Even Mrs. Marston had been known to use it on occasion when Uncle put his filthy boots up on the dining room table.
"This isn't giving up, this is a choice. My choice," I emphasize, "Everything I have will still be here when I come back for it."
Jack laughs softly but I can tell he's not amused. He's mocking me.
"That's what my dad thought. Now he's six feet under."
That sentence hits me harder than a slap would have. We've talked about John Marston's death before in passing, but never so blatantly. And the anger-anger at his father no less-is more obvious in his tone than it's ever been before. Even so, I decide to try again.
"You and I both know you're not going to stay here." I hiss, unwilling to back down, "And you can't go alone. You're too emotional; you'd be dead in a week."
We just stand there scowling at each other, face to face, noses only inches apart. Eventually, though, I see something soften in Jack's expression. He backs down, rubbing his temple with two calloused fingers. He looks tired. Considering that I didn't get more than a few hours sleep last night, I must look pretty worn out too. Without warning he turns away from me and stalks off to the kitchen. Confused, I don't follow him immediately, but hurry after him as soon as I gather my wits about me. By the time I get to the brightly lit room his boots are disappearing up the ladder to the attic.
"What are you doin' now?" I call up after him. There's no reply but I hear the sound of something heavy being moved around above me. After a minute there's a loud crash and I single out my friend's voice letting out a string of curses. An object scrapes across the attic floor and falls through the entrance. As it hits the ground with a resounding clatter I notice that it's an old and worn suitcase. Jack jumps down after the suitcase, landing just barely in front of it.
"You need to understand something." he advances on me as if he didn't just fall out of the ceiling two seconds ago, "I never wanted to involve you in…this."
He gestures wildly, indicating (I assume) his entire world. I narrow my eyes, upset by his words.
"I'm already in it." I say adamantly. Instantly, he shakes his head.
"Not this. I don't mean that shit out there," he jerks his head towards the largest kitchen window, "I'm talkin' about what's inside my head and trust me, it ain't pretty. If you do this, you'll be thinkin' the same."
This, I know. If his actions are any indication to go by his thoughts must be a complete mess. When he stood by his father's grave and refused to cry, I thought I understood. Maybe understanding wasn't enough.
"You're not supposed to have this life. Do you know who you are?" Jack continues, "Patrick MacFarlane is your father. You could be someone important. This is what you're supposed to do: Marry a decent guy and live safe and happy."
I blink rapidly to cover up my surprise and lean against the table that's pushed up next to the wall. I don't know how to respond to this. I'd imagined Jack saying a lot of things, most of them relative to my inability to hunt down potential targets, but nothing like this. I'd never realized he'd given a single thought to me having a different life.
"I wouldn't be happy that way," I say after a while, garnering a look of discontent from Jack, "Besides, we promised we'd stick together. Remember?"
He's silent, but I know he remembers this. Even if the entire world shattered around us, we'd both remember that promise. Instead of answering me he lifts up the battered suitcase and places it on the table I'm leaning against.
"What's in there?" I ask as he clicks the suitcase open. Inside is what looks like a pile of rags and winter coats. Jack rifles through the coats and pulls up a pair of women's trousers.
"My ma's riding clothes," he says, smoothing the fabric out, "From back when she was with the gang. You and her are about the same height so they'll fit you."
I think back, recalling Mrs. Marston's somewhat curvaceous figure, and doubt this extremely. However, my sowing skills are fairly high-end thanks to finishing school. I could make the clothes fit after a few nips and tucks.
Jack lays down his mother's old clothes and continues to dig around in the suitcase until he eventually comes across a very familiar vest. My breath catches in my throat at the sight of the laurel green cloth and the tan button-down shirt beneath it. Mr. Marston's clothes. I can tell that this is not the set he died in, though, due to the lack of bullet holes. Jack lays down his father's clothes beside his mother's and turns back to me.
"If we're gonna do this, you've gotta give up on wearing nice things," he looks me up and down pointedly, "And keeping as clean as you do."
I brush out the skirt of my light blue summer dress and feel a sense of worry for the first time. Girls of my station are expected to dress a certain way and that way includes a corset, slip, petticoat, gown or dress, and sensible shoes or boots. Giving that up feels a little bit like sacrilege.
"Trousers." Jack gestures towards his mother's clothes, "And experience. That's what you need."
As it turns out, experience truly is what I need. Although I'd proven on our first day of 'training' (that's what Jack had taken to calling it at least) that I still had unmatchable skill with pistols, revolvers, and repeaters, my talent in other areas was less than satisfactory. For one, rifles seem to be too heavy for me to carry and use regularly. I've also shown that my lasso throws aren't firm enough and that I am nowhere near as good as I need to be with throwing knives and sniper rifles.
"Shoot the wolf, Effie!" Jack resumes his encouragement, making me feel like a dog, "Shoot it! You can do it, come on!"
I groan and try to keep the crosshairs of my gun right on the damned creature like Jack's telling me too. How on earth is it that I never miss my mark with a repeater, but almost never hit it with this monstrous Carcano?
On the hill across my field of vision, the wolf perks up and looks around. I get the feeling that he's finally caught on to the fact that I'm trying to shoot him. My finger wavers over the trigger a split-second too long and the wolf scampers out of sight just as my bullet hits the spot where he used to be.
"GOD D-"
"Language!" Jack shouts, keeping me in check. I shut my mouth quickly but the curse continues to bounce around in my head much longer than I'm comfortable with.
"Look, it's gettin' late. Let's get inside, we'll try again tomorrow."
I nod and lean over the edge of the roof to pass the Carcano rifle down to him, but inwardly I'm disappointed. I'm not used to failing so miraculously and I've decided that I'd be perfectly happy never doing so again. Sadly, it seems as if I'll be failing a lot over my next month of training. I thought I was prepared for this life, and clearly I'm not, but when I slide off the roof and land beside Jack, I know I've made the right choice.
"Maybe it was too soon," Jack says and I can hear the worry quite clearly in his voice, "We should just go back to the farm and-"
"No."
"We've only been doing this a week, it's-"
"No."
Our horses gallop out of Blackwater at an even speed, each trying in vain to outdo the other. I look at the two of them and wonder why we both had to have black horses. Dark colors are for killers and thieves, not potential heroes. Still, you'd be hard pressed to find two more reliable horses than ours.
In Jack's hand is a rather crumpled wanted poster for one Zebedee Nash: bounty of $300 dead and $600 alive. If we can get him back to the Blackwater jail we'll have made decent headway into our travelling funds. Jack has been trying to convince me that this will not be easy, that killing a man is much different than killing a wolf or a raccoon, but I need this. If I don't learn now I never will.
"Bearclaw Camp isn't too far," I point out as we near the river north of Blackwater, "At least it's closer than Nekoti Rock."
A reluctant shiver passes through both our bodies at that and I know we're remembering the same event. Three years ago, Jack and I had tried to take down a bear at Nekoti Rock to prove to Mr. Marston that we could handle ourselves. We were wrong. If he hadn't shown up to save our asses that day, we'd have both been dead. Jack still has the scars.
"Don't try to be a hero," he warns me, "If it's easier to just shoot 'im, that's what we do."
I roll my eyes and spur War forward, breaking ahead of Jack just a little bit. Kill Nash and lose $300? I don't think so.
By the time we get to Manzanita Post, Jack is positively quaking in his boots. He's killed someone before, he has no reason to be worried when I, who have never harmed another human being, feel so confident. The storekeeper's wife, May, waves at us as we pass but Jack doesn't even notice. He's looking a bit green actually.
"Hey, are you alright?" I ask, leaning towards him as we trot into the forest. In the distance I can hear a train whistling as it makes its stop in Manzanita. I glance back, wondering if I can spot it from the hill above the station, when Jack answers.
"Let's talk about something else, please." he sounds like he's going to be sick.
"Okay, ah…" I look around the woods, hoping that something conversation worthy will present itself, "So it's gonna start snowing soon."
Jack meets my gaze momentarily, a brief grin spreading across his face.
"You'll love that. Remember that time you fell off a hill and it took me thirty minutes to dig you out of that snowpile?"
I laugh openly now, thinking of us back then. Everything seemed so much brighter. Unfortunately, we're nearing the Nash's last known location so I don't have time to reminiscence as much as I'd like.
"It was freezing," I recount, pulling on War's reigns, "But I was happy."
Jack stops his horse completely and slides off beside a high rock pile. I dismount too, and he speaks again as I join him.
"So was I."
We approach Bearclaw Camp from the south, deciding that we'd be better able to see all the cabins and, by extension, the targets from that side. We duck behind a log pile to discuss strategy just as a pair of men walk out of the nearest cabin.
"I heard the boss-man sayin' we're headed for Twin Rocks in a couple days." a gravelly voice announces. Behind the logs I raise my eyebrows at Jack questioningly. He shakes his head and puts one finger in front of his lips, demanding silence.
"'Bout time. It's gettin' mighty chilly up here." another man replies in a thick southern accent. The voices drift away as the men get further and further from us. Jack chances a peek over the log pile and seems to find nothing of interest.
"They're headed north," he says as he ducks back down, "Do you think you can outrun them?"
While normally I'd say yes, today I'd refused point-blank to don Mrs. Marston's old clothes and kept to my regular attire. I'd reasoned that there'd be plenty of time to get used to trousers in the coming month but I now realize that this might be one choice I'd end up regretting. Jack glances over and comes to the same realization I did seconds ago.
"Okay. Okay." he repeats the word as if it will help him maintain focus, "Okay, then it'll have to be just me. I'll make the run and you cover me from above."
"Above?"
He gestures towards a low cliff not too far from the campsite. I know what this means. I'm going to have to use the Carcano rifle.
"Jack, I'm not so sure that's a good idea," I say, feeling nervous for the first time.
"You'll be fine. They'll be aimin' at me and you'll be out of the way."
I don't tell him that this is exactly what I'm worried about. He doesn't realize that I care for his safety more than my own. And then Jack takes my hand in his out of nowhere and I can't think about anything else.
"Effie." he says my name breathlessly and I know he's terrified too, "Don't be a hero. If they get me, run and tell a lawman."
I don't respond to this because I know that if it comes down to it I will not abandon him. Either we both survive today or neither of us do. I feel his fingers releasing mine as he stands up. I do the same and, sharing a parting glance, we head our separate ways. I set up the Carcano against a large stone on the rocky outcrop, hoping that the extra leverage will allow me to put less of the gun's weight on my shoulder and let me aim better. Through the scope I spot Jack, preparing to run straight into a group of five armed and dangerous outlaws with only a Bolt Action rifle for protection. His chest rises and falls as he takes a deep breath and suddenly, he's gone. I don't think I've ever seen him run that fast. He catches the men by surprise and is able to take down one of them before the others have even drawn their guns. I focus the crosshairs on one broad man with a thick beard and hold my breath. This is it. I'm about to take a human life.
I feel my finger press the trigger as if it's a phantom limb I have no control over, but I know that I meant to do it. I watch the bullet pierce the bearded criminal's temple as if in slow motion, burying itself in his skull and bursting through the other side. There's blood. Everything is red,all I see is red. The blood just keeps coming like a gusher and I feel that I'm mere seconds from fainting away. I never imagined that there'd be so much blood. Before I know what's happening the remaining three men have, despite my expectations, turned towards me. I gather my thoughts enough to know that I need to duck and I collapse against the large rock I'd been using for leverage but, once there, I can't move. Shots ring out from beyond my field of vision but I can't think about that. I only see grass stained with blood, a limp body lying in a pool of red liquid. Red.
And then it's silent. I know I should be checking to see if the men are still alive or if Jack is but I can't move. I can't. Someone is approaching me, a gun in their hand and a wicked smile on their face. It's not Jack. He kneels down in front of me, his gun still pointed at my chest, and moves the Carcano out of my reach. It doesn't matter. I wouldn't have been able to use the thing even if I'd been holding it in my hands. The man before me has graying hair and a menacing mustache/beard combination, but I don't have much time to register this before he speaks.
"Kinda small, but you sure are pretty," he drawls and his voice disgusts me, "My, my look at those blue eyes. And that pale skin. What I wouldn't give to be your petticoat right now."
I can't move. I want to throw up, but I can't move. Somewhere in my mind I understand that I should be screaming out for help but even the nausea isn't enough to draw a reaction from me. The stranger reaches forward and brushes a brown lock of hair out of my face.
"You think you're scared now? It ain't nothin' compared to how you're gonna be in little bit."
He makes to put an arm behind my back and I understand that he intends to take me somewhere else. I can't force my limbs to move, can't make myself fight him. But then I hear a cracking sound as a brown object collides with the side of the vile man's head and he's fallen over. In another second somebody else is standing over him, striking him repeatedly with the butt of a rifle. There's more blood. I feel a few drops of it hitting my face as the stranger screams for help. In time his screams subside and the forest is silent once again.
"Effie?" a shaky voice breaks through that silence, "Effie, look at me. Look at me!"
I don't. The world goes dark around me and I can't hear Jack's voice anymore.
When I come to the world is moving beneath me or, more accurately, I'm moving over it. A pair of arms are wound around me, fingers clutching the reins of a pure black horse. Immediately I think of the stranger who'd made me feel sick in the woods and I prepare to elbow him in the gut, but then, he speaks.
"Relax," and the voice does not belong to a stranger, "It's just me."
I turn my head to see Jack seated directly behind me on his horse. War trots along after us but besides that we're alone.
"What about Nash?" I ask. Jack shakes his head.
"He was touching you and you weren't movin'. I killed him." he says this all so straightforwardly, as if killing someone is that simple. I know now that it's not.
"We just lost $300!" I exclaim, half expecting him to laugh. When he doesn't I come to the realization that he's not his usual self. His father's hat is lopsided on his hair and he keeps fidgeting with the reins. I wouldn't be surprised if his horse bucked us off soon.
"Why didn't you move."
It's a question, but it doesn't sound like one.
"I don't know," I admit, my voice sounding pathetic even to me. When this doesn't prompt a response from him, I press on.
"It was just-I shot him and there was so much blood and I-and the gun," I break off to take a deep breath, "It wasn't easy. I was expecting it to be easy."
Behind me, Jack is still silent. However, he does stop moving the reins around so much and that's something. In time we'll be able to discuss the disaster we just averted but I that time is clearly not now. Truth be told, I'm still not sure exactly why I'd frozen like I had.
Beecher's Hope is getting close, the top of the silo visible even from this distance. I lean back against Jack, taking comfort in his presence, and let the horse carry us there.
When I wake up the next day, Jack is nowhere to be found. At first I worry that he's left me again to destroy some evil being in God knows where, but then I spot his horse and I can breathe easy again. I scour the entire house and the barn in search of him, Rufus following me at a watchful distance, before I remember the silo. If I climb up there I'll have a better view of the farm.
The ladder is terribly lengthy, its rungs splintered and worn from disuse towards the top. I hold my handkerchief in my right hand as I make my way up, hoping it will stop any woodchips from getting stuck in my palm. When I reach the last rung and push up I spot a battered boot directly in front of me. Attached to it is a man I'd know anywhere. He's reading a book (the cover reads Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad) but he pauses when he sees me.
"Hey." he says simply.
"Hi." I say back. I don't climb that last ladder rung. I've come to the conclusion that I won't be up here much longer.
"How are you feelin'?" he asks. His thumb idly traces the title on the book cover as he awaits my answer and I know he's thinking about yesterday.
"Fine. You?"
His face is impassive as he considers my presence on the ladder. I already know how he feels. I haven't seen Jack calm enough to stay still and read a book since his father was alive.
"Good."
I smile at this and begin climbing back down the ladder. Before I can move my right hand, though, his is on it.
"I'll be inside in a little bit." he says to me. I nod and, once he releases me, continue my journey down the many rungs that adorn this wretched ladder. I've got a slight fear of heights and have to constantly remind myself to not look down. Therein lays the problem. How can I expect to get over my fear if I refuse to face it?
I chance a brief glance down at the world beneath me and my heart instantly shudders to a stop. My breathing turns to gasping in a second, but then my heart is beating again, giving life to my limbs. The fear doesn't disappear but maybe that's okay. After all, neither falling nor killing is an easy thing to do even if both are things I'll have to deal with in the near future. I remind myself that, with time, I can only progress.
I'm not like I was yesterday. Today I can move.
