I should be studying for my Bio final this week but I wrote this instead. Thank you for the wonderful reviews, and thanks again for sticking with me still!

CHAPTER NINETEEN: WAY DOWN WE GO

I can't count the times
I almost said what's on my mind
But I didn't
Just the other day
I wrote down all the things I'd say
But I couldn't
I just couldn't

One month passed without any trouble. The gang was being very low profile; avoiding public appearances and very rarely leaving camp. Per Dutch's orders, the gang was to limit gun use in and around towns, and to prevent at all cost to be taken by the law. Dutch was planning to take the camp elsewhere, out of the Valentine area, to prevent anyone getting caught. Especially with the stunt pulled in Valentine, the gang had to remain inconspicuous.

After Arya implored Arthur to stop being a fucking fool, Arthur left. John came back and took up some of Arya's physical therapy with a brown little ball. Even though she knew John had seen the ordeal between Arthur and her, they didn't talk about it.

Abigail came in and Arya gave her ginger for nausea.

Arya helped Sean with his aim.

She mended almost all of Bill's clothing.

She switched Karen's whiskey flask for water.

She sat down and learned maps, arithmetic, and scamming tactics with Hosea.

She read to little Jack.

She tried so hard not to think about where Arthur might be, or what he was doing. With who.

All of that didn't matter because he rode back into camp on a drizzling morning. Arya was sitting on the health supply wagon, her boots damp, hair in a thick braid down her back. Sipping on her coffee, she saw Arthur ride up the small slope and to the hitching post. She watched him slip off his mount and trudge through the misty ground. She felt safe behind the curtain of rain, watching with ink drop eyes as the man vanished into his tent.

She was surprised by the subtle burning in her belly, how it was watered down to a dull ache instead of a raging fire.

Before she knew it, the camp had woken up and gathered around the morning stew. Karen carried in her water flask. Bill was wearing all his mended clothes.

Arya joined and ate a bowl. Jack came up to her and tugged onto the long sleeve of her blue blouse.

"Morning Jack," she said, crouching to his eye level.

The little boy wore a black coat because of the fresh morning and a white shirt. His little boots shone with the morning dew.

"Wanna go fishin' with me?" he asked, little eyes searching her face almost frantically.

"Why not your parents?" she returned, smiling.

He touched his lumpy little hand to her cheek. "Daddy has one hand, remember?"

She laughed. "And your mom?"

"Mama don't like fishin'."

She smiled, fond of the little boy's cleverness. "Alright, but I don't have a rod, Jack."

"That's okay," he answered, pinching her chin as if examining her. "I have one."

"So do I."

Arya snapped her eyes up over Jack's head. Arthur stood with his thumbs under his belt buckle, a shy smile on his face. The grey drizzle seemed to drip from everywhere on him. His hat glistened; his boots shined.

"Hi." This to her.

"Hi," she replied, still crouched before the little boy, who was swinging his shoulders back and forth dramatically.

"Okay, can we go now?" he asked in that little boyish voice.

Arthur chuckled, dropping his burning gaze down to the boy. "Alright, little man," he laughed. "Run along now and get your rod."

"Yes, uncle Arthur." Then the little boy ran with his little legs. Arya watched him go, smiling to herself.

Arya rose to her feet, looking from Arthur to the fire and back. Something stirred in her belly, being in close proximity to him again.

"Where – " she started.

"I'm – "

They stared at each other. Arthur's mouth rose in the corner, creasing the soft skin above the start of his stubble. Then he sighed, "I'm sorry."

She licked her lips, going from foot to foot. "Where have you been?" she asked.

"Around."

"That's not an answer," she returned in a soft voice.

He sighed heavily, looking around nervously. The water droplets flew from the rim of his hat. "I had to get away for a while."

She nodded. "You stayed out of trouble?"

The look he gave her sent butterflies washing across her belly. Right then, she was taken back to that moment in the Valentine hotel, when they'd been spying on the investors. When he was pushed up against her in the crammed space between the wall and the stairs. When she could see every speckle on his face, every beauty mark, and the wash of reddened skin on his nose.

"Yes." And he smiled so effortlessly that it made the young woman smile back as well.

Arya followed Arthur on her horse, the man having taken the little boy on his saddle. Jack wanted to ride fast, so they sprinted down the small path to the river bend. He laughed and giggled, enjoying the waving motion of Arthur's mount. Even Arya was smiling to herself, listening to the little lad spurring on the horse.

The morning had fully risen by the time Arthur stopped the horses by the riverside. Arya looked around, crisp cool air puffing from her lips. The mountains stood like guardians, stark and sturdy against the greying sky. Mist and clouds still hovered at the tips of the mountains, but the water bend was quiet and still.

Rocks crunched under the young woman's boots as she made her way to Jack, crouching next to him as he set his little line.

"I'm usually very good at this," he mumbled to himself, soft eyebrows pulled into a frown. With all the mindful might of a young boy, he tried to figure out the problem that was his line. He declined anyone's help, but rather quickly figured it out.

"Here, Jack," Arthur said, giving the boy a smelly piece of cheese to use as bait. Arya scooted back onto a log and put her hands between her knees to keep them warm, watching as Arthur instructed the boy on fishing.

"You don't fish, Arya?" asked Jack.

"I do," she answered. "I just don't have a rod."

"That's a shame," Arthur drawled, looking out towards his line. "We get the biggest of 'em here." His broad shoulders were outlined by the shimmering river, glistering around him like a soft halo.

Arya had to admit she'd missed him. Not because he made her skin feel as if on fire. Not because he touched her in ways she'd never been before.

Because his presence was comforting. Just as much as they'd disliked each other all those months ago on top of the snowy mountain, now she couldn't lie and say she didn't like having him around.

Sitting at the fire for a month without him had felt heavy. Even though she'd been surrounded by a laughing Sean, a quirky Karen, and liquor, there had been something missing. She was still simmering with their last conversation on that grey afternoon in the slope of a mountain outside the oil fields. And yet right now, watching the small greying light reflect off the water, with Jack carefully reeling in, she could tuck her anger safely between her ribs.

The scrunch of rocks under boots made Arya's head snap to her left, where the tree line receded and where the road was just a ways above. Two men dressed in long coats and top hats were walking down the small incline. The one on the right had a long rifle slung over his shoulder like a prize. Arya's stomach twisted violently when she saw the second man had a golden badge over the red undershirt.

She stood, left hand on the knife at her thigh, heart racing like a horse. The skinny man with the badge frowned sarcastically, putting his hand out as if to stop her. "No need for that, madam," he drawled.

Arthur pivoted, letting the fishing rod clatter to the rocky shore. His eyes found Arya first, lips parted. When she jutted her chin to the boy, who was still trying to catch a fish, Arthur darted towards him. He stood in front of Jack, his broad shoulders completely shielding him from the intruders.

"Can I help you, gentlemen?" Arthur asked, a tone of menace in his voice. Jack turned, leaving his rod to the current, and put one tiny hand onto Arthur's waist. "It's okay, boy," Arthur soothed, not taking his eyes off the law officers. "Stay behind me."

"Who are they?" Jack asked timidly.

"Glad you asked, boy!" the skinny officer chirped. They stopped a few feet from Arya, where she could see just how bad his skin was, and just how broad and buff the other officer was under his long coat. "I'm Agent Milton," he introduced himself, pointing with a gloved hand to his golden badge glistening on his breast. "And my associate here, Ross."

"Pinkertons," Arthur grumbled under his breath.

Arya's eyes kept close view of the rifle slung over Ross's shoulder. Her fingers inched closer and closer to the knife, but with her limited range, she doubted she had any chance to make it.

The sound of the river trickled in the back of her ears, over the roaring of her blood and the thundering of her heart.

"Fancy a fish, Mr. Morgan?" Milton went on, a smile on his face.

"What you want?" asked the gunslinger, his voice low and threatening.

A pause followed in which Milton watched Arthur from under his brows, surveying the threat. Ross kept twitching, his eyes jerking from Arya to Arthur and back.

"He yours?" asked Milton, jutting his chin to the boy hiding behind Arthur. "With your lady?" This time, Milton gave a tight but sharp smile to Arya. She sneered back.

"And how is that your business?" Arthur threw back, hands in fists. She could see the white of his knuckles and the veins protruding from the flesh of his forearms.

Milton sighed, then looked at Ross and chuckled. "There's a five thousand dollar fine for your head alone, Arthur Morgan." He said the name as if it was a joke, as if it could demean the cowboy in any way.

"Five thousand dollars?" Arthur drawled slowly. "For me?" Arya could see the wheels working in his head. How could he possibly get out of this alive and free? His eyes kept jerking from the gun to Arya's hand, which was now wrapped around the hilt of her knife.

She tapped her fingers onto the hilt for him, signalling that if he needed her, she'd go down swinging.

"Can I turn myself in?" Arthur husked, leaning forward.

Milton did not seem to like that answer. He crossed his arms, turning to his friend with a meaningful look. Ross let the rifle fall into his hands slowly, before tucking it into his shoulder and pointing it at Arthur. Arya's heart thrashed behind her ribs as she ripped her knife from its holster, holding it before her in a white-knuckled grip.

Milton put up a hand again and gave her a soft but sarcastic smile. "Oh, you must be…" Milton began, searching in his vest pocket until he retrieved a folded yellow paper. He took his time unfolding it, savoring the tension rattling the air. The river trickled. The wind whistled. Milton smiled at Arthur before turning the paper towards Arya.

Her face was drawn awkwardly, yet almost precisely.

"Mrs. Emily Brown?" Milton asked in a feigned tone. "We had one of the ladies you graciously left alive draw a picture of you. Yet I doubt that's your real name. Are you two even really married?"

"I said," Arthur bellowed, catching Milton's attention, "what do you want?"

Milton quickly folded up the paper and put it into his coat pocket. He put his hands behind his back and strolled down the rest of the incline to face Arthur. Arya took a step, knife at her waist ready to strike, but the shooting end of the rifle came inches from her eyes. She looked up the barrel, up into the dark stormy eyes of Ross.

"I'd give that a rest if I were you, Miss," Milton said absentmindedly. And when he came close enough to Arthur as he liked, he said, "I want Dutch Van Der Linde."

Arthur's eyes were not on Milton. The burning blue gaze was on Arya, at where the rifle rested inches from her hairline. Hands in fists, fuming, trying hard not to break anyone's neck, he returned his glare to Milton.

"Bring in Dutch Van Der Linde, and you have my word you won't swing," Milton proposed, leisurely swinging his shoulders front to back.

"Oh, I ain't gonna swing, agent Milton," Arthur said threateningly. "Because I haven't done anythin' wrong, aside from not play the games to your rules."

Milton's head dropped as he listened, then he stood straight and sighed. "Spare me the philosophy lesson," he drawled. "I've already heard it." Then he smiled slowly. "From Mac Callander."

Arthur was taken aback for a second, eyes going up to Arya then back to the agent before him. "Mac Callander?" he growled.

Milton tilted his head. "He was pretty shot up when I got to him," he admitted with a sigh. "So really, it was more of a mercy killing. Slow and merciful."

Arthur's chin met his chest, the man breathing hard, focusing on not committing the worst of all crimes. Murdering an agent of the law, that is.

Arya wanted to go to him then, the way the air seemed to ripple away from him. She darted her eyes down to Jack, still safe behind the big man. Then she looked at Ross, brown eyes boring into hers relentlessly.

Then Arthur pushed Milton with the full force of his anger, sending the skinny man stumbling back. Ross turned his head, giving Arya the time to disarm him. She dropped the knife and grabbed the end of the weapon. Quick as bullet, she flicked her wrist on the barrel of the rifle, grabbing the length of it, and wrenching it out of Ross's hands in a matter of seconds.

She stood before him, aiming at his face, while he stood breathless, empty handed.

"You enjoy being a rich man's toy, do you?" Arthur bellowed.

Arya didn't look. She kept her hard ink drop stare on the burly man before her, instructing him to move backwards with the jut of her chin. Ross put his hands up slowly, chin up, his ego evident in the coloring of his cheeks.

"I enjoy society," Milton replied, regaining his posture. "Flaws and all. You people venerate savagery and you will die savagely. All of you!"

"Oh, were all gonna die, agent," Arthur answered back.

"Some of us sooner than others," Milton replied darkly. "Good day, Mr. Morgan." Then he turned on his heel, ready to leave, when he spotted the situation before him.

Milton turned from Ross to Arthur, then to the young woman pointing a rifle at an officer of the law. "You put that thing down, or I take you in right away, Miss," Milton growled menacingly. She turned her gaze to him, letting the tension rise, before dropping the gun. Then she emptied the bullets into her palm and threw them all into the river. Ross watched it all from under his brows, black eyes on her, anger fuming from him like a raging fire.

Throwing the rifle at Ross, the young woman said, "Good day, gentlemen." Then just to add emphasis to her carelessness, she bowed a bit, careful to keep her smirk directed to Ross.

The men walked back to their horses, and off they were in a harsh sprint, spilling up dirt on their way.

Arthur turned to Jack, grabbing the boy by the shoulders. "You alright, boy?" he asked, breathless.

"Y-yeah," Jack stammered.

Arthur dragged the boy by the sleeve to Arya. "And you?" Arthur asked, raking his eyes from head to toe, searching for any kind of injury.

Arya shrugged, picking up her knife with a sigh. "We're in deep fucking trouble, Arthur."

"I know," he drawled. "Let's just get back to camp." He touched her shoulder as she walked up, sending sparks down her arm and straight to her ribs. There was worry in his tone, in the way he kept looking at her even when they were on their horses. How his eyes kept finding hers, searching her face.

Back at camp, Arya carried a sleeping Jack back to his mother, to whom she had to tell about their encounter with the law. Abigail put Jack down for a nap, then patted her swelling belly anxiously.

Arthur had gone straight to Dutch. Arya was about to join into that conversation when she spotted Charles trotting into camp, the man's face pulled into a deep frown. A sense of dread overtook the young woman; tingles spreading from her ears to her toes.

"We need to talk," Charles grumbled as he came strolling her way. His long mane was tangled, his eyes bloodshot, bags under his dark irises.

"You look like shit, Charles," Arya said, following him as he led them to her doctor's tent.

"Observant now, are we?" he growled back, ripping the flap open and gesturing for her to go in. She went in slowly, wiping her sweaty palms on her trousers.

Inside, Arya lit a small lamp and sat on a stool, while Charles all but threw himself onto the cot. Sighing, the young man put a trembling hand to his forehead.

"What's wrong?" Arya asked timidly. "You've been gone a little over a month."

"Yeah," he sighed, his chest heaving. "I've been searching everywhere for that fucking rat."

"Micah?"

"Yeah, like you asked," Charles said, sitting up, eyeing her from under dark brows. "A man like him should be easy to find. I went into every bar, barber shop, hotel, and brothel. I scourged the streets, talked to kids in the sewers, even had to seduce a few prostitutes."

"I'm sure that ain't so bad," Arya sighed condescendingly.

"Point is," Charles reiterated. "I didn't find him."

"What?" Arya stood, brows pulled in tight. "A month in Saint-Denis, and Micah wasn't there?"

"No."

"Then where the fuck was he?"

Charles stood too, putting large palms on her shoulders, as if to settle her. The events of the day compiled with the fact that Micah had definitely lied to Dutch about his whereabouts all seemed to weigh on her at that instant. Her head was a myriad of questions and plans and actions.

"My guess is he's been hanging with our friend, Colm," Charles sighed once he saw Arya wasn't going to have a panic attack. "He probably assumed the attack on us would either kill us all or deplete us, but when he found out we were well alive and thriving, he crawled into a hole to avoid suspicion."

Arya shook her head. "No," she muttered. "That's not it."

Charles crossed his arms and asked in a questioning tone, "And what could it be then?"

"Micah might be a stupid rat," she said, eyes staring blankly ahead, "but he's kind of smart."

"Seriously, A?"

"Yeah." Then Arya smirked at the nickname, picturing her brother instead of Charles for a few seconds. "He knows that if we find Colm or any O'Driscoll, we risk getting his name from their mouths."

"And?" Charles pushed.

Arya's eyes snapped up to Charles with a wicked grin. "We haven't heard word of any O'Driscoll, now, have we?" she asked.

"I've been gone for a month, A, I don't know anything anymore," Charles answered.

"And we haven't heard a thing, a word, or even a gun shot from any O'Driscoll since Micah left." Arya's mind was working wonders just then, turning and wheeling from one possibility to the next. Could it be? "I think Micah got scared we'd figure him out. And now he's cleaning house."

"Killing O'Driscolls?" Charles asked, bewildered.

Arya nodded. "I think our boy is working his way up," she said. "And he's going to get Colm and take his place."

"We need to find him right now," Charles said decidedly. "Before he kills Colm and assumes control. Believe it or not, I rather have Colm in control of the O'Driscolls than Micah. Then they'll call themselves the Bells, and I'm not on board with that."

Arya put a thumb to her mouth. "We can't let Dutch hear about this," she said, seeing Charles nod in agreement with her. "We need to deal with this on our own. We need to find Micah. Quietly."

If they told Dutch, not only would they create a divide in the gang but also a rivalry. Arya, Charles, Arthur, Sadie, John, and Abigail would push for the death of one of Dutch's protegees. On the other hand, Dutch will feel his sense of leadership attacked, questioned, and challenged, and will insist on keeping that sense of superiority in the gang. He'd hence gather his own loyal members – Hosea, Bill, Javier, and others – to keep his position.

They had to keep this quiet.

"We have to leave," Arya said then. "We leave in a week, to avoid suspicion on your part. Can I count on you to inform John and Abigail?"

Charles nodded eagerly. "I'll talk to Sean too," he said. "He can be our eyes and ears in the camp while we're gone."

"I'll talk to Arthur and Sadie," Arya decided. "We will leave in a week. Then Sadie and Arthur a few days after. We will meet up in Emerald Ranch and devise a plan from there."

"Understood," Charles grunted.

Then he left and the tent flaps blew in the soft wind, letting in cool air and a bit of drizzle. Sitting on the cot, the young woman let her heart beat relentlessly against her ribs, her breath heaving in and out in raspy intakes. This was the most stressed she'd been in a long while.

Someone cleared their throat rather awkwardly outside the tent, ripping the girl from her decompressing. "Come in!"

Arthur slowly came in, hat first, head down. When she saw it was him, she stood abruptly, wiping dirt from her shoulders. The gunslinger looked around, inspecting the cot, the stool, and the small table with all her tools.

"Nice place," he huffed.

"Thanks."

"We're leavin' camp tomorrow," he announced, hands on his buckle. "I told Dutch about our encounter with the pinkertons. I'm guessin' that Ross will have it out bad for you after that stunt with his rifle. I'm thinkin' they're plannin' to come here any day now."

Arya's mouth came ajar. "Where are we going?"

"Dutch sent Hosea and John out to look for a new place," the man answered. "South of here."

"I should start packing then," she said absentmindedly, her thoughts swimming. She needed to tell him about the plan. She needed to tell him she never felt stronger for him than she did right now.

"Here," he said, picking up a crate that Arya had used as a sitting instrument. "I'll help."

As they packed, Arya spoke about her thoughts on Micah and the plan she'd initiated with Charles. Everything came spilling out like sauce from a pan, and Arthur was quiet enough to let her talk truthfully. He nodded along, eyeing her thoughtfully, all while folding cloth into a suitcase or packing candle sticks into a crate.

She did not, however, tell him about her feelings still well alive for him.

"Okay," Arthur sighed. Everything was packed beside the cot, which Arthur took a seat on, hand on his mouth. "Don't make Sean your eyes and ears, he's too much of a big mouth. Abigail will be our inside spy instead. I'll leave with Charles in a week, after we've settled at our new camp. You and Sadie will leave two days after."

Arya nodded, but then rolled her eyes. "You couldn't let me have my plan exactly as it was, huh?"

Arthur looked up at her from under the rim of his holed hat. Then a smile spread on his lips like butter in a pan. Slick and slow. "Can't let you have everythin' now, can I?" he teased, getting to his feet. He pulled up his pants slightly, nervously. Scratched the back of his head. Arya's heart began to throb. "Besides, I know Sean better than you. If we make him any kind of spy, he'll spill everythin' as soon as whiskey passes his lips."

Arya snorted. "We still need him on our side."

"Yeah," he sighed, nodding. "But only when and if any fightin' comes. And I'm tellin' you right now, I don't want any of that. Dutch and the gang out there… they're everythin' to me. They mean more than anythin'. I don't want to point a gun at any of 'em from the other side of an argument."

"I know," Arya muttered. "This gang has started to grow on me."

Arthur smiled sweetly. Then he reached out and touched her bicep amiably, as if to reassure her, but the touch of his palm on her skin made fire explode in her chest and cheeks. The red coloring alerted the man to the effect he had on her, and he recoiled, as if burned by a wicked flame.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, avoiding her eyes.

Arya shook her head. "No, don't be."

There was an awkward silence, pregnant with questions none would want or dare to ask. But Arya was a very daring woman. "Do you still…" she whispered, searching the shadows cast by his hat on his face. "Are you still – "

"Yes," Arthur sighed, answering her unasked questions. "I do."

She swallowed thickly, looking at the dirt ground beneath her feet. "Okay."

He took a small step forward, reaching out, maybe to touch her or pull her in, but he stopped himself. His outstretched hand became a fist and he brought it back to his side.

"It's hard not to think about you," she admitted in a soft tone, chin to her chest like a child admitting a fault.

"You have no idea," Arthur answered in a husked voice.

But Arthur would not throw caution out the window. He would not throw reason out with it too. He'd stick to his beliefs, no matter how hard it was, no matter how harshly it hurt him to stay away from her. Being this close, alone, in closed quarters, made it so much harder, as if the world was testing him.