Just a Man on the Tight Rope
The sun was high. A fly crawled along the rim of Bill's whisky bottle as he dozed next to Uncle in the cool shade of the old gnarled pinion pine, where it stood sentinel in the center of camp. Their current camp was on a grassy little bluff overlooking the smooth silver expanse of Flat Iron Lake. The land sloped gently towards the muddy shore. Little Jack Marston played at the water's edge, trying to catch rusty crayfish with bits of gristle on string. Arthur sat nearby. His attention seemed riveted to the disassembled rifle laid out on the rough-hewn table before him, cleaning and oiling to keep the mechanisms pristine. Hosea Matthews knew better.
Blackwater boomed since their last visit all those years ago. Trading outpost no more, it seemed that the mayor had it in his head to become the Boston of the South West. Construction on a train station was rumored to begin the following spring, and the Ferry Dock would start ferrying passengers to St. Denis starting in April. Stage coaches arrived daily laden with the hopeful or the desperate. All looking for a chance to start over.
Hosea hoped as much. The Gang had a rough winter. Perhaps they were getting too big. What had once been a tight, well-oiled trio had ballooned to twenty-five souls. Dutch could not help but collect the lost and damned.
It took much and more to keep a crew of this size together. The clashing of personalities and talents. Fist fights and bawling had long become a nightly occurrence. Even the women were at each other's throats like barnyard cats. Hosea hoped he was not growing curmudgeonly in his twilight, but he longed for days passed. When he strolled garden parties in his Sunday best, weaving a confident tale and coaxing the greedy to part with their wealth.
The boys rode back into camp like conquering heroes. Sean MacGuire, Micah Bell and Davey Callendar, specifically. Chests puffed out and smiling wide with all the swagger of a heist well executed. Hosea walked over to greet them.
"Like shooting fish in a barrel," Sean crowed. An Irish hooligan they'd picked up a couple years back. Cocky and brash.
"Two in one day," Davey said, as he sauntered up to the stew pot. A young man with a talent for violence. He grinned from ear to ear. "We caught sight of one on the way back and thought… why not?"
"Did it go easy?" Hosea asked, pragmatically.
"Just a few warning shots," Davey said. "They quieted down real nice."
"Not at all worried this might be going to the well too often?" Arthur asked, speaking up from the table. Instinctually cautious. Despite Dutch's efforts to break him of it.
"Don't know if you noticed, cowpoke," Micah Bell stated, his voice rising defensively. A permanent sneer lingered on his upper lip, hidden beneath his long blonde whiskers. "But we gotta whole lotta mouths to feed and very few willing to work."
"What are you talkin' about?" Arthur said. "Money's been good. Seems to me we ought to work a place slow…"
"Work it slow?" Sean asked with a laugh. "Are ye talking about a job or women, English?"
"My answer to both is to hit it hard!" Davey chimed in, while chewing, his mouth twisting into a grin.
Neither comment dissuaded Arthur. "We keep actin' crazy, hitting 'em always on the same lines," he reasoned, "we'll bring the law down on us faster than a dog gets fleas."
"Why you always so sour, Morgan?" Micah asked caustically.
"I'm just sayin' ya need to let the waters still, damnit."
"The ladies and I have found good pickings in town," Hosea offered. "And we haven't had to draw a gun on a soul yet."
"Yes. A pocket-watch here. An earring there," Micah conceded. He spoke with that strange deferential lilt to his voice but Hosea had been at this far longer and no amount of honey could ever sweeten Micah's tongue to his ears. "You gotta take your time… and pick twenty pockets all in the same amount of time it takes us to rob one itty bitty little bank coach. Work smarter, not harder, old-timer."
"When you want to cook a frog you'll get more success with patience," Hosea replied smoothly. "Turn up the heat in increments and they won't notice until it's too late."
"Only, we're not cooking frogs. Are we?" Bell retorted. "We're trying to get money. To feed all the dead weight sitting in this here camp."
"And what's that supposed to mean?" Arthur demanded, voice building an edge. "I never see you lift a finger 'round here."
"Look,…" Micah said, confidently hooking his thumbs into his gun belt, belly swelling slightly over the buckle. He grinned, already chuckling at his own joke. "Playin'… nursemaid and stable boy might suit some here… but that's not what I was brought on for."
Arthur shook his head and chuffed. "Well, I seen you shoot, so I know it weren't as no gun."
Micah's smile fell.
"Heh… you're a funny guy, Morgan. Real funny. Way I see it, yer a big boy… so it's only right you pull your weight proper."
"Uh-huh. I'm sure you do."
Micah huffed an irritated little breath and Arthur turned his attention back to cleaning the bore of his rifle. Hosea took a seat next to the enforcer at the table and watched the hitman trudge off into camp.
"I…just don't know what Dutch sees in 'im," the younger man muttered.
Hosea looked at Arthur. He did not know. Once, it had been just the three of them; two con-artists and an angry boy. They had been a gentlemanly finesse crew then. Confidence games, and pick-pocketing. By the time Hosea fell back in with Dutch and Arthur in '86, the gang had grown. Everything had changed.
"You know," Hosea started, on a whim. "I could use you in town."
"Me?" Arthur asked, setting down the Springfield next to the double-barreled shotgun. All clean and gleaming. "Weren't you just braggin' you had no need for violence?"
Hosea smiled and rubbed the back of his neck. He remembered a time when Arthur had been valued more for his caution and deft touch rather than his strength or steady aim. He could still crack a safe faster than anyone else in the gang. Before they had an inkling to how big he'd get. Before Dutch learned Arthur would do anything, with all the starved eagerness of a boy, desperate for approval.
A damn shame Wisdom was such a funny, fickle thing. You only gained it after you needed it.
"Come now…" the older thief said. "You used to run scams and schemes easily."
Arthur wiped the gun oil from his hands on a handkerchief. He smirked under the brim of his gambler's hat. "Oh, sure. When I couldn't fight…"
Hosea nodded, and faked a smile. Yeah, boy learned to fight alright. Through more trial and error than Hosea had ever felt right about. The scars on the younger man's face and knuckles remained a constant reminder. He came to them a starving, desperate boy and they made him into a… well, Hosea supposed it turned out fine. Arthur never complained.
"Come check for leads with me," Hosea pressed. "Might be good for you. Get you out of camp for a few days."
"I could do with getting out…" Arthur started. He looked up and met Hosea's gaze. "Just don't do too well in civilization…"
"You do better than most of this rabble," Hosea said, and it was true. A brute Arthur could certainly be. Could back a man down or lay him out sure as a bullet to the brain. But he could be observant. Patient. Able to allow opportunities to bloom. "Think about it, at least."
"Sure, maybe you're right."
Hosea hoped for a taste of the good old days.
