Chapter Twenty-One; Certain Kind of Fool
He should run this place.
The sun sank and Micah Bell strolled through the Van der Linde camp, looking at the saps around him. Bill and Uncle were already getting into the whiskey he had earned. Pearson prepared yet another pot of heavily salted stew. Whatever stringy bushmeat the red-skin caught, over cooked to the point it disintegrated into slop. Heavy on potatoes and onions. "Good for scurvy," the fat fuck always said. Someone needed to pound it into him that he was on dry land.
These people… Dutch was a fool about this shit. Carrying so much dead weight; Whores that didn't fuck the earners and men worth less than what his horse shit out. Walking with their heads down and their hands out. Bunch of beggars and freeloaders.
Micah thought, once again, about ditching this outfit, feeling cheated on what he'd been sold. Thirty-four. Thirty-four bank heists in twelve fucking years. And that was not counting the stages, or the lending. No other gang could boast such success. Not Jack Hall, or Colm O'Driscoll, or even Jesse James and Micah could not fathom how this lot ever pulled it off.
Micah crossed paths with Dutch at a fence. The boss was trying to sell gold to a disagreeable fence in a disagreeable mood. At first glance, Micah pegged the older dandy as a windbag. Working at being some mysterious fucking enigma, wrapped in a vest. Does the trick on some. Others just shoot first.
Then Dutch shot the fence. For having the temerity to insinuate he was a huckster. Micah appreciated that sort of self-esteem. Appreciated it enough to help the dandy shoot his way out of that shop and ride off into the wilderness with the lock box.
A campfire and a few nips of whiskey later and Micah Bell signed up as a Son of Dutch.
Getting to know his 'brothers', however… It left Micah to wonder how they ever achieved such uncanny success. Hosea Matthews, Dutch's right hand, was a man that should have had the good sense to die five years ago. Cautious to the point of paralyzation. And then there was Arthur Morgan…
Dutch's lieutenant. The third in command, such as it was. Big, dumb bastard. Sour and sarcastic and so quick with his tongue. Where was that pretty boy now? Off chasing cooch for the better part of two months. That's where.
These losers all sulked and moaned now that he was scarce. Abigail Roberts and her whiney bastard going on about Uncle fucking Arthur. No wonder Marston drank himself stupid and hit on Big-titty Karen in front of Sean. It would be sad if it weren't so fucking hilarious. Sean… Stupid little mick. Why did he never ask Micah for pointers on shooting? Or Mary-Beth. Makin' her dopey moon-eyes. "Oh, I hope Arthur's doin' alright. We need him!" Why? Why did they need Morgan? What did that big stupid bastard do that Micah did not?
Oh, there would be a reckoning. Very soon.
Dutch van der Linde was where Micah had left him hours ago, while Micah was out earning. Making things happen. Being the man of action they all so desperately wanted. Here was the Boss, sitting in that stupid chair, reading.
"Fucking lot a good reading does," Micah grumbled. Dutch looked up, but the shmuck hadn't heard him. All the better.
"Micah," Dutch said, putting on a smile. "How's it going?"
"Just added twenty-five dollars to the box, Boss," Micah stated loudly, hooking his thumbs in his gun belt. "More than some other people, I noticed."
"That so," Dutch said smoothly. Micah gave him a winning smile.
"Heh. It sure is," Micah confirmed. Dutch closed his book, placed it on top of the barrel next to him, and stood.
"That's good, Micah," he said. Good? That's all? "You're a good earner. Makes me proud, seeing you set such an example for the rest."
"Yeah," Micah said, feeling his smile grow taut. "Good thing 'Uncle Micah's' got mighty big shoulders. Been working my own jobs, and now I been there for old Strauss. Seems other folk decided they be better off livin' all civilized down in Blackwater…"
"Arthur, you mean," Dutch said. Micah nodded curtly and Dutch chuckled, setting the gunman's blood to boiling. "About time he got over that Gillis woman. All high an' civilized as she was."
"And this is better?" Micah demanded, dumbfounded. Micah had seen Morgan about town. At the city hall construction site, specifically. Banging nails and hoisting beams and Micah delayed confronting a debtor in front of him. Something in Micah's gut warning him that Morgan would not be an ally. "This doctor? Strauss says she's from some old Eastern money. Pretty strange. Morgan payin' off her debt. A whore'd have been cheaper."
Dutch checked at that. His eyes tightening with that predatory shrewdness that gave Micah some hope that he'd get a taste of past glories. "What are you going on about?"
Micah smiled. "Oh, no one's told you?" This was rich. "Your boy's playing house," Micah continued, inveigling. "You look in that ledger recently? Pretty strange indeed."
"He'll come back," Dutch said, uneasily. "People 'round here need him and he knows it. In the meantime, … let him have some fun."
Micah seethed. What would it take for them to see? Micah was the man with the ideas, and the balls to see it through…
"Do you want some fun?" Micah inquired, bringing his anger down to a simmer. "I got some fun for you."
"Really," Dutch said. Micah nodded eagerly, smug shit eating grin blooming on his face. He couldn't help it.
"Really," he said. "You know how Blackwater's Bank has been sending less money out on the stages, right?"
"Right," Dutch said.
"Well, that's because they're getting' ready to move it all," Micah said. "One day, one place. 'Bout two hundred thousand dollars, if they move everything. Which they will."
Dutch looked at him for a long moment.
"Two hundred…"
"Thousand," Micah finished for him. No one ever put something forth like this. Dutch's eyes remained fixed on him. The boss played at being some sort of noble savior, but Micah knew. Dutch wanted that money. No different than him or any other outlaw. This was a score. The score.
"Where?" Dutch finally managed.
"A ferry headin' for St. Denis," Micah explained. "One day. A few guards, but nothing I can't handle."
"When?" Dutch continued.
"May ninth," Micah answered. "Take 'em some time to put all the money together and find an extra gun or two. That's what it looks like. Passenger ferry, few guns… and two hundred thousand dollars, right there."
Dutch turned away from him, thumb and index finger pressed to his mouth in thought. Smoothing his moustache. He paced once, twice, then turned back to him.
"How did you find this out?" he finally asked.
"Well, since Morgan ain't doin' it, I been collectin' for Strauss," Micah began, puffing up a bit. "This new teller at the bank, he got in too deep at the faro tables. He ain't got the money, but he did have information."
"You forgave his debt?" Dutch concluded. Micah laughed.
"Of course not," he replied, chuckling. "This ain't no fucking charity. But the poor bastard thought I would!"
Dutch considered the information for a long moment.
"I'll talk to Hosea and Arthur," Dutch finally decided.
"You need to talk to them about this?" he asked. "Two hundred thousand dollars. What's there to think about?"
"We need them on this," Dutch said. "They know what they're doing. How to think on their feet."
Micah inhaled sharply. He held his anger in check, barely.
"You know Hosea ain't no shooter," he pointed out.
"Exactly," Dutch replied. "He'll find the path of least resistance."
Fine. "And Morgan…" Micah began. No, they did not need him. "Cowpoke's put himself out to stud, I'm afraid. Would probably sell us out for -"
"Arthur'd never betray this gang," Dutch said evenly. "It's time my best gun got back at it."
Jesus fucking Christ. Micah bit his tongue. Just convince Dutch to do the damn job. Then they'll all see. "This is our chance, Boss," Micah tried, though he could no longer smile. "All that money. Two hundred thousand. You pass this up and we'll be robbin' two-bit stages 'til we're in the grave."
"Movin' that kind of money, they gotta have more than a 'few' guns," Dutch said absently. "And that Terminal… it's located right across from the goddam Police Station."
"That's the beauty of it," Micah assured him. "The location makes 'em complacent. We walk on like we mean to take the trip, take out them lazy guards, walk off. There ain't nothin' more to it. Two hundred thousand dollars, Boss. Think about it."
"I will," Dutch said. Micah looked him over for a long moment.
Dutch wanted that money, too.
Micah turned without another word, leaving Dutch to come to the only conclusion.