Chapter 37; The Devil's Gonna Make Me a Free Man - John
John rode away from the mess of the wagon train, grateful to avoid the storm that seemed to be threatening. How had they wound up in such a monumental mess? It wasn't that being on the run was anything new. They'd pulled heists and had to lay low in the past.
But those jobs had been cleaner, John reminded himself. A little rustling. A small bank in a small town. Nothing too flashy. That girl though… they had no choice. No choice. How had it come to that? One minute he was standing on a dock in the fine sunshine and then… they were trapped. Like animals.
Why had he not thought to watch for men in suits? Goddammit. There had been plenty on those docks, sure. It was Arthur showing up, maybe. John had pressed himself against the ticketing station, out of sight and then he watched. Arthur Morgan had unloaded luggage from a cart like a damn porter before going to stand before a pretty and docile little brunette. Smiling like a fool and oblivious to the gang that needed him.
The doc did not trust the gang and they all knew it. She told it true when they would look at her or speak to her, in the way she would freeze up a moment like a doe. Still. Quiet. Willing them to not see her. Itching to bolt.
Dutch said it was her wealth that made her disagreeable. That she was a slave to her pretty things. Failed aristocracy from Europe come to rape America. It weren't a surprise that she felt entitled to Arthur. She knew no other way.
Why did Arthur not see it? He had been so alert to it before. How could he not see it? At least Abigail was loyal to the gang. To Dutch. Dutch. Dutch who grabbed that girl by the hair. Her hair like fire. Kohl running down her cheeks. Dutch's voice leeched of any warmth.
His hunger pulled John out of his thoughts. He looked across the golden grassy plains and spotted the little specks of tawny-brown and white dotting the horizon. Pronghorns, standing on a low hill, grazing in the warmth of the afternoon sun. John angled his horse and tried to approach from downwind, little by little. At a hundred yards he drew the rifle from the scabbard, slowly. The metal scraped against leather and the horse snorted.
The pronghorns picked up their heads, all at once, and looked at him with those all-encompassing eyes. John froze. He waited, a long moment, holding his breath. Downwind. They wouldn't smell him. They couldn't-
Then they moved. Like some great living beast, they decided as one that he brought death. The herd sprang away, rushing over the hill and leaving John as empty and hungry, and disturbed, as he had been before.
The foreign range and the rattle snakes and his stupid spooked horse did not help matters. He wasted the sunlight searching for another opportunity, all while trying to keep sight of the river. The sky faded from blue to orange and trees turned black and gnarled as shadows stretched. In desperation, John resolved to shoot the next critter that broke from the brush. An unlucky little jackrabbit.
It would have to do.
John found the gang a little upriver from where he left them, just around the bend from the crossing. Hidden from view, they were trying to set things to rights.
Folk were dead on their feet from the business with the river. The wagons, their gear, still sodden. The horses were hobbled together, eating soaked oats. John dismounted from his stolen gelding and also hobbled it. He did not bother to unsaddle him yet, anxious to get the embarrassment of dinner over.
By sheer bad luck, John came across Abigail and Jack first.
"I'm hungry, Mama," Jack whined, his voice small and heart wrenching.
"I know, Jack," Abigail said, her voice drained of patience. "Your daddy'll come with some meat and then Mr. Pearson…"
He considered backing away and going around from a different side. Anything to avoid this.
"John!" Abigail called, and he flinched at the joy in her voice. "Yer back!"
John sighed. "Yeah," he admitted.
Her bright gaze fell to the rabbit in his hand. The colour drained from her face and her smile faltered. John cleared his throat. "This was, uh, all I could find."
Abigail hesitated a moment.
More quietly he added, "Please don't nag at me, Abigail."
She straightened at that and John thought maybe she would get her back up about it but Abigail just sniffed and lifted her chin. "It's better than an empty belly," she decided graciously.
John nodded. "Yeah. It is. I, uh, better get this to Pearson."
She nodded and he moved on, but he still heard her trying to placate the boy.
"Shhh, it's okay, Jack," Abigail said. "See? What did I tell ya. Yer father came through and Mr. Pearson'll whip up a little stew. We'll be alright." She stroked his hair all the while, keeping him bundled at her side. Then, with more conviction, she repeated. "We'll be all right."
That was worse than the nagging.
John made his way passed the other women. They were hanging clothes and blankets on the low shrubs. The Doc was doing the same, Arthur's old trunk open in front of her. She had dug out the clothing from the bottom, where water had seeped in. His meager collection of keepsakes and mementos set aside in a tidy organized grouping.
John continued to the gutted mess of the chuckwagon. Its contents also strewn about. Pearson moved among the scattered provisions, trying to take stock. Or just making a greater mess in an effort to look busy. Then John saw the hulking forms of Arthur Morgan and Charles Smith preparing the small fire pits to cook the meat they were now desperate for. Low so as to hide the flames and small to keep the smoke down. Arthur worked at the fuel with the gang's only axe.
"This is a disaster," the cook lamented. "The flour, destroyed. The corn meal, destroyed. The apples,-"
"Let me guess," Arthur grumbled, mid-swing. He split the log and then looked to Pearson and gestured dramatically. "Destroyed?"
"Gone!" Pearson corrected. He waved wildly toward the cursed river. "Floated down stream! Along with the damn carrots."
"A pity you didn't float away with it," Arthur said.
Pearson huffed. "You think this is funny, Mr. Morgan?"
Arthur wiped his brow. "No," he said grimly. "Not a damn thing funny about any of this."
"I still don't rightly know what happened on that boat," Charles said.
"I saw it," Arthur said bitterly. He took another swing. "Javier tried to explain it to me some. Dutch too. But… it still don't make much sense to me."
Charles paused a moment to consider the older enforcer. "Let's hear it, then."
"Dutch an' Micah keep goin' on about bad luck," Arthur started, shaking his head. "But… seems to me you fellers were set up."
"You think so?" Pearson asked.
Arthur looked to Charles and gestured toward him with the head of the axe. "Them bounty hunters pickin' you boys off in that ally? And Sean? Christ, they even sniffed around me at the laundry. Knew everythin' 'bout me an' Emma besides."
Charles looked down at his hands a moment. "I'm sorry. It isn't right that both of you got dragged into this."
Morgan rolled his shoulder. "Naw. I didn't mean it like that, Charles. It's just… After all them stage robberies. What the hell did you boys think would happen? Bad luck." Arthur spat. "Bad ideas more like. And then Dutch, cornered like he was… Well...that was a nasty piece of work."
"The girl," Charles concluded.
"An innocent girl," Arthur stressed. "I know you ain't been with us long, Charles, but… that? Killin' a girl in cold blood? It ain't how we're supposed to do things."
"Jesus," Pearson said quietly. "That doesn't sound like Dutch."
"I'd 've never thought so, neither," Arthur said. "But here we are. And fer what?"
Living free, Dutch kept saying. The girl on the dock was about survival. John cleared his throat and they all looked at him.
Arthur frowned. "You forget the buck on yer horse?"
John tossed the jackrabbit on Pearson's workspace. The three men looked at the small portion. A single rabbit for twenty-two mouths.
"This it?" Pearson asked incredulously.
John sighed. "Yeah. That's it."
Arthur chuckled mirthlessly. "Sendin' a boy to do a man's job."
It cut, same as it always did and John hated that he cared. He glared at Arthur. "You think I don't know this ain't enough?" he demanded. "I don't know the area!"
Morgan stepped forward, looking half-ready to spit more venom.
"I can head out early tomorrow," Charles said quickly. "Might find something during the day."
Arthur looked to Charles and nodded. "Yeah. I'll give ya a hand."
Of course, John thought bitterly. On it went. The strange alchemy of love and loyalty and competition that only brothers can know. In the end there was only room for one favored son.
"Well, thanks anyway, Mr. Marston," Pearson said cheerfully. He was already butchering the rabbit. "At least it's something in the pot. Hold us until the real catch is hauled in."
John did not know what was worse. Arthur's clear disgust or Pearson's easy optimism.
It took nearly two hours for the damn stew to be ready. Dutch went up for his portion first. Pearson spooned a serving of the thin stew, more a soup, really and Dutch did not look much impressed.
"This it?" he asked in a low tone.
Pearson nodded.
Dutch looked over to John.
"I tried," John offered. "My leg, and this country…"
Dutch was silent for a moment. Then he said, "I understand, son."
The earners went next as they always did. Micah, Javier, Bill… they bellied up quick. John followed, hungry from the day out in the saddle.
"What the hell is this?" Micah demanded.
"There's nothin' to be done about it," Dutch declared unequivocally. "Eat up! Tomorrow is another day."
Everyone else fell in line after that. The portions were meager. A few bits of meat, some potatoes and a sliver of an onion, but no one else complained. They found seats around the fires. Across the flames, Arthur sat with the Doc. She leaned toward him like he was the source of heat instead of the fire and sipped at the broth in her bowl. Beside them, Abigail sat with Jack. She gave her portion to the boy.
John opted to sit with Uncle and Bill.
They ate in silence, staring at the fire. Most folk were too tired to talk. Dutch finished first. He set his bowl aside and stood. He walked toward the center, close to the fires and looked over his demoralized people and cleared his throat.
"Now, I know today was a tough one…" Dutch began. "You all worked real hard. I am proud of each and every one of you. We lost some supplies, sure, but it ain't nothing we can't overcome."
"Damn right, Boss," Micah said.
John looked at all the faces around the fire. All were turned to Dutch, eager for any reason to hope. All except Arthur. Where once he would have been standing next to Dutch, faithful as a hound now Arthur's head was bowed toward Emelia. Listening to her poisonous whispers. John watched as they traded bowls. Emelia mouthed a thank you and brought the bowl to her lips.
"So stay strong! We will come out of this," Dutch promised. "If we stick together. So you all get a good night's sleep and come mornin' we are going to continue stayin' ahead of our enemies and we are going to find more food."
The gang dispersed after that. Some went on to final chores. Most found their bedrolls. John picked through the strewn crates, finding the whiskey. Most of the bottles had shattered, but not all. John took a sip. Reveled in the burning down his throat that seemed to dull the ache in his bad leg. He went back to the fire where Bill, Micah and Charles were still sitting.
"Pretty funny," Micah ventured after a long swig. "Morgan's return and all this bad luck."
John looked at the oily gunslinger's eager expression. "How's that?" he asked.
"Oh… nothing, I guess. Except how he shows up at precisely the right time for our little job. With Pinkertons and bounty hunters and police. Funny indeed."
Bill frowned. "Naw."
"That's nonsense," John declared. "His woman was traveling with the dead girl." He offered the bottle to Charles but the dark native shook his head. He poked at the fire, keeping his own thoughts.
"Well…he has been actin' a little strange," Bill ventured, reaching for the whiskey. "Don't he know what he's doin' to morale around here? With all his bitchin' an' moanin' about that girl."
"Damn right," Micah said. "We did only what needed to be done. And that Doc of his… she's a pretty bit of poison."
"Cryin' all the time and sick like she's got the plague ain't pretty."
"All that hardly matters, Bill," Micah declared, chuckling. "A woman is always good fer one thing. Ain't that right, Marston?"
"And what's that?" Bill asked.
"Fer holsterin'," Micah said, snorting with laughter.
"Yeah," Bill chuckled, a little too eagerly. "Holsterin'. That's a good one."
Micah snickered. "And the little lady keeps Morgan's gun well oiled."
"Yeah," Bill added, laughing. Then Bill stopped, gifted with a sudden sad thought born perhaps of too much whiskey. "I… I wish had someone to keep me oiled."
"Yes indeed," Micah said in a sobered voice. An attempt to sound like Dutch maybe. "Little wonder he's so turned around. How far might a man go to keep such a woman happy?"
Charles shook his head but kept his silence. John wondered for the first time what they said about Abigail when he weren't around. He did not want to know. But it was then, all the talk about Arthur maybe, that John suddenly remembered his horse.
"Aw shit," John said, getting to his feet.
Bill squinted at him. "What? Somethin' we said?"
"No. I forgot to unsaddle the damn horse."
John stalked over to the animals. The white patches on the few coats gleamed in the moonlight, shuffling about like specters. Only the two white Arabians seemed like fully formed horses. John tried to find his dun gelding.
"Marston," Arthur drawled gruffly, and John closed his eyes in silent frustration. "I knew you was useless but I never woulda pegged ya fer cruel. Before."
John opened his eyes and as his vision adjusted to the dark he could see Arthur working at the nameless horse with a brush. The animal already unsaddled. Even in a crisis, Morgan left no stone unturned where their score was concerned.
"What is your problem?"
"Just that yer never where you should be," Arthur said. He dropped the brush in one of the empty feed buckets.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"One lousy rabbit? Arthur asked. He chuckled spitfully as he pulled out a slip of paper and some tobacco from his satchel. "What the hell were you doin' all day?"
"The time weren't right for deer-"
"Hogs?"
"Saw none."
Arthur licked the paper and rolled the smoke. "And I guess what with yer head in the clouds you ain't seen no pronghorn neither."
"Of course I saw 'em! I ain't blind."
Morgan lit the cigarette and breathed deep. "So what's yer excuse then?"
"Spend all afternoon on my belly? With this leg?"
Arthur sighed. "Goddammit, John."
"I screwed up, alright?"
"Screwed up?" The older man shook his head irritably. "That is all you boys have been doin'. I ain't gonna be 'round much longer to clean up after you."
John stared at him, blinking. "Yer still thinkin' of leavin'? Just 'cause things are a little rough?"
"A little rough?" Arthur chuffed. "Seems to me you got Dutch's gift fer understatement. After what I saw on them docks-"
"Not this again."
"And why the hell not? Look at this goddamn mess!"
"Some trees flourish, others die. Some cattle grow strong, others are taken by wolves. Some men are born rich enough and dumb enough to enjoy their lives."
"You sound like Dutch."
"Point is ain't nothing fair. You know that!"
"No," Arthur grumbled. "Life ain't fair. But… this. What we're doin'? I reckon I was sold a false bill of goods."
"What are you talking about?"
"All Dutch's bluster about helpin' folk and makin' the world kinder, gentler? Weren't nothin' gentle 'bout what happened to Heidi."
"That… I don't know what they were thinkin'," John conceded lamely.
"And fer what? Greed? This ain't no way to make things better," Arthur reasoned. "And we ain't so free as I thought. Always runnin'. From the law, sure. But from responsibility too. That ain't freedom."
John bristled, uncertain if Arthur was again griping about his leaving for a year. "What do you know? You're leavin'!"
Arthur shook his head. "You just don't get it. Maybe this hasn't cost you enough yet."
"Cost? What are you goin' on about? Dutch asks for nothing but loyalty."
Arthur snorted at that. "All that ever mattered to me was loyalty," he said. "It was all I knew. All I ever believed in... but not anymore John."
John frowned, wanting to know what cost Arthur referred to but there was sudden shouting from the fires and both men paused in their arguing to listen more keenly.
"Stop it!" a woman cried. "Please! It… it's really not worth it!"
Arthur did not spare John a glance. He broke into a run and John followed his lead.
"Oh, look," Micah leered. "Did I make the red-skin go all savage?"
They came upon the lowfires just in time to find Charles rushing Micah. Doc was there, eyes wide, trying desperately to pull them apart. Bill sat on the sidelines, laughing, the whiskey bottle still in hand.
Arthur bolted forward, pulling the silly girl out of harm's way and placing himself squarely between her and two angry gang members. Finally roused into action, Bill moved to separate them, focusing on Charles. Bill shoved him hard, sending him stumbling backward. Charles' foot caught a split log and rolled, dumping him toward the fire and his hand planted into the embers. They all heard the singeing sound of burning flesh and smelled the awful smell.
"Charles!" Doc gasped.
He quickly rolled himself from the fire but the damage had been done. "Damn it," he hissed, his voice tight with pain. "That was stupid."
Emelia flowed around Arthur, slipping by him and he let her go to Charles' side. "Mr. Smith," she said, laying a hand on his broad shoulder. "Oh, I am so, so, sorry!"
"You happy now?" Arthur snarled, whirling on Bill. He shoved the oaf backwards.
Bill staggered. "He should've just stayed out of it!" he protested. "Had nothin' to do with him!"
Arthur shoved Bill again, harder, sending him to the dirt. Micah gekkered like a fox at the edge of the light, clearly to blame and yet unscathed.
"What did you do?" Arthur demanded, turning on blond gunslinger.
"Whoa, easy, cowpoke!"
Arthur shook his head, in no mood for Micah's smug, insidious nonsense. "Yer always stirrin' up shit!"
The gang, now roused from their sleep, began to form a loose line around the fight.
"Mr. Pearson?" Emelia called. "Could you fetch me water? Please?"
"Uh, sure, Doc."
Dutch came out of his tent then, buttoning his shirt. "Will someone tell me what this is all about?"
"Everyone's goin' crazy!" Bill shouted.
"You're the ones acting like fools," Charles said between his teeth.
Micah chuckled. "I was just foolin' around. Ain't my fault Charles and the, uh, little lady here can't take a joke."
"Stop it," Dutch snapped. He went over to Charles and see the damage. "How bad is it, Doc?"
Emelia did not look away from the task. "Scarring and contractures. If he's careful, he'll be able to use it in a few weeks."
"How long exactly," Dutch pressed.
"At least three."
Three weeks. Their best hunter and tracker without a hand at a time like this.
"I'm sorry, Dutch," Charles said. He did not flinch as the Doc washed the crap from his burned skin.
Dutch, to his credit, took the extra dose of bad news in stride. "Don't you worry about that, son," he said, magnanimous as ever. Then he turned to Bill. "How the hell did this happen?"
"I… I was just tryin' to break 'em up!" Bill stated defensively.
"By throwin' him into the fire? You narrow-minded fool!"
"I'm sorry, Dutch!"
"It's Charles you should be apologizing to."
Bill looked sullenly at the ground. "I… I'm sorry," he bleated, reluctant and obedient.
Dutch nodded, mollified. He looked back to Charles. "Why were you boys fightin'? At a time like this when our real enemies are out there?"
"This fool is what happened," Hosea snapped, gesturing to Micah. "Downright disrespectful. We ain't good men, sure, but there was a time when we showed a little respect to them that helped us. And Miss Griswold here has helped us."
"I don't think anyone would deny that, Hosea," Dutch replied, reasonable and honeyed.
But Hosea was not finished. He glared at Micah. "And what you said to Charles… You just keep going lower and lower, don't you? Do you want to tell Dutch what you said? Or should I?"
Micah lifted his hands in innocent supplication and paced away from Arthur's reach, chuckling all the while. He kept the fire between them. "It was just a proposition. A couple of jokes, really."
"You sorry sack o' shit," Arthur growled.
"Please," Emelia huffed, angry and embarrassed. "It bears not repeating."
"What did he say?" Arthur demanded, not taking his eyes off Micah. His voice was low and harsh and his fists were clenched, ready for the brawl.
"What's the big deal?" Karen asked flippantly. "So he said somethin' crass. Just who he is. Hell's gift to women."
"Sticks and stones," Grimshaw added.
"Arthur," Emelia called, and the enforcer reluctantly tore his gaze from Micah. "I need my satchel."
"But he—"
"Please, Arthur," she pleaded. "I…I don't want anyone else getting hurt."
"That's right, cowpoke," Micah jeered, all patronizing and demeaning. "Listen to the little missus."
This was it. Arthur turned on Micah with a look of murder in his eyes.
Dutch looked squarely at Micah. "Will you shut up, already?"
"To hell with you, Micah!" Arthur snarled before stalking off.
Micah snickered. "He's awfully wound up."
"I wonder why?" Dutch said. "Damn it, Micah. We don't need this right now."
"Heh, sorry, Boss," Micah said, sniveling little toady that he was. He said the words but there was nothing at all apologetic in his tone. A smirk lurking just beneath his thick blond mustache. "It's just this streak of bad luck… I just… it has me stressed. I'm worried. I care too much."
"It's alright," Dutch soothed, a little too readily. "We're all in this together. Now all of you, get this cleaned up and get yourselves to bed. We ain't got time to be fighting amongst ourselves."
Ourselves. What did that even mean anymore. John watched the gang drift to their beds again in stunned silence. Arthur returned to the fire with the Doc's bags. He set them next to her. He stuck around, same as John. Watched her silently as she cleaned her hands and Charles wound.
"I'm sorry," he finally said quietly. He clasped his gun belt and looked at the dirt a moment. "Both of you. I… I shoulda been here."
Emelia gazed up at him. "You can't be everywhere, Arthur."
"No… I suppose not, darlin'," he said. He sighed. "Just another reminder that it's best you and I go our own way, I guess."
She smiled. "I look forward to it."
"And you, Charles," Arthur said, nodding to the tracker. "You never shoulda had to get involved."
"Yes," Emelia said looking back to her patient. "Thank you, for your concern, Mr. Smith. You are a gentleman."
"Don't worry about it," Charles said in his low, quiet way. A stoic little smile curled his thick lips. Doc wrapped his hand in a white bandage. "The way those two run their mouths it was only a matter of when."
"Maybe," Arthur allowed. "Well. Thanks anyway."
John walked away from the fire. They were in this together, so Dutch kept saying. Why then did it feel like cracks were forming in the very foundation?
