Disclaimer: I don't own Red Dead Redemption

Arthur didn't know why he felt the urge to turn his horse back around; away from Saint Denis and back the way they'd already been, towards Valentine. Hell, who was he trying to kid, of course he kinda knew. Apart from the obvious wish to escape civilisation, he enjoyed the company more than he should – and he felt more at peace than he could allow himself. She never pushed for conversation or expected answers, even if she had questions. It was a nice change of pace.

But most of all... he felt like he owed her. Next to his horse, she had probably saved his life. To be honest, he actually felt kinda bad giving her a false name.

But that was well and over now.

''What's crawled up your ass, pretty boy?'' Micah sly voice sounded from beside him.

''None of your damn business,'' Arthur replied. That man was on the brink of a good beating. If it weren't for the prospect of money, he would never set foot out of camp with him at all.

''You've been gone a lot, Morgan,'' Micah continued. ''Where've you been?''

''None of your business.''

''Oh, but it is our business, Morgan, if you're off doin' stuff you ain't supposed to.''

''I've brought in more money than you have, so shut your mouth,'' Arthur snapped. ''Let's just get this over with.''

The more time he spent with Micah, the more he told himself that he shouldn't have agreed to this coach robbery at all. He couldn't stand the man. Who knows what he would have done if Bill weren't there with him.

''You know, we could almost leave now,'' Micah continued. ''If we chopped half the dead wood.''

''We ain't doing that,'' Arthur replied shortly. His horse whinnied when he pushed his heels against her sides a little to roughly. ''I'm sorry girl,'' he said lowly. Micah had ways of crawling under his skin like few others.

''You tell me,'' Micah said, ''why the hell do we need a gaggle of girls who won't even fuck you if you put a gun to their head?

''I'm sure you've tried,'' Bill said.

''Is it too much to ask considering they get a piece of every damn dollar I bring in?''

''Everyone does their share,'' Arthur said. ''I don't see you lifting a finger around camp. Besides, if you go check the ledger like I have, you might find your name not scribbled down as often as others.'' Arthur begrudgingly recalled the amount of times he had written his own name down. He felt like he did so much, and still, they were so far off the path when it came to money. ''Unless you can't read?''

''So Swanson does his share?'' Micah asked, ignoring the comment. ''Molly? Come on.'' Arthur knew what he was getting at, but refused to admit that there was even the slightest bit of truth to any word Micah let slip through his mouth. No way he'd be getting that satisfaction.

''That's different,'' he replied, cringing inwardly at his choice of words, even though he couldn't find any better ones.

''See, this is what I mean. I've always liked Abigail, though, that's my kind of girl. Sullied, but strong.''

Arthur bit down on his tongue to keep himself from throwing a punch Micah's way. ''Well, I don't get the sense the feeling is mutual.''

Micah snorted. ''You just don't understand women, Morgan.'' Arthur wasn't sure of how many women had been subjugated to Micah involuntarily, but he pitied them. If there were any who'd done it willingly that didn't reside at a brothel, Arthur questioned their sanity. Even if Arthur didn't think too highly of himself in moral regards, Micah Bell was most definitely the scum of the earth.

Arthur didn't like using dynamite. It was too damn loud.

He stepped over the dead drafts and cursed himself for pulling the trigger to late. At least they'd gone fast. Quick as he could, he grabbed everything he could from the wreck they'd caused and then got back on horseback.

After deciding to split up from the others, he took a longer way back to Shady Bell. He had some thinking to do – and thinking was something he did best alone.

They were far from open country, and somehow they were just pushed further and further east. Towards civilisation. It itched in his skin, being this close to the city. He could almost feel the walls pressing inwards, surrounding them, locking them in. It didn't even really help travelling as remotely as they possibly could; because no matter how much fresh air, no matter how open a field – somehow he still found himself short of breath, like there was a rope around his neck, tightening with every exhale he made.

Saint Denis was never quiet. That's the city for you, Arthur thought. People everywhere. Wayward chickens, strays. Carts, wagons, trains. The houses towered over you, several stories high. When he urged his horse forward along the street, the buildings felt like they were closing in on him. No, Arthur didn't like the city.

The everlasting presence of the law was another thing always nagging in the back of his mind, his eyes ever-conscious of blue cloth among the masses. He'd had a few – and a few too many – run ins with strangers who swore they'd seen his face somewhere, that he was familiar somehow. God knows, the police force probably made their prospects memorise his wanted poster.

He made sure to keep his hat tilted over his face whenever he passed through. He got sent out on a few errands here and there, and he would never admit to it out loud; but his heart was in his ears as soon as he passed the bridge over the river. His hope of steering clear shattered early on.

Not only was the the city big and full of folks, but it was full of strange folks. One guy, strange fellow, offered good money for flowers. For flowers! Arthur couldn't understand it for his life, but it paid well.

He was walking up the stairs to the tailors. Why'd people have to lounge about in the middle of the stairs? There was a perfectly good park right above them. Arthur took a deep breath and made his way past the women and men in fancy clothes he'd probably soil just by touching them.

The bell rang when he opened the door. There was already someone at the counter, but it wasn't Trelawny, so he waited close by the door, impatiently flicking his fingers.

''I'm sorry sir, I just can't extend you credit any more,'' the clerk said.

''Surely there's still a little room?'' the man by the counter asked, not sounding the least bit distressed.

''As I've told you, sir...''

''Did you get the name right? O'Neill, two l's, not one. Finn O'Neill.''

Arthur's ears perked up at the name.

''I'm sorry sir, there's nothing I can do.''

O'Neill tried several times more, and while he did, Arthur took a closer look at the man. There was no mistaking it. The name. Red head. A couple of big words leaving his mouth that Arthur couldn't even guess their meaning.

The man didn't waver until the clerk threatened to call for the law. A sour look flashed on O'Neill's face before he covered it up with a big smile, tipping his hat towards Arthur on the way out. ''How do you do.''

''Hey!'' Arthur followed him out the shop. At the sound of his voice, O'Neill increased his pace. Arthur managed to catch up with him at the bottom of the stairs. ''Finn O'Neill?''

''You must have me confused with someone else, my good sir,'' O'Neill replied.

''I'm supposed to give you a message,'' Arthur began. ''From-''

''I'm good for the money, I've told you people a hundred times. I'm ready to settle any day now, just waiting for the last shipment to come through.''

Only a few minutes with this man and he was already driving Arthur crazy. ''I ain't here for-''

''Bye now!'' O'Neill shouted and jumped onto a trolley that Arthur hadn't even seen coming.

''Jesus,'' Arthur muttered.

He shook his head and headed back towards the tailor's. That man seemed every bit of idiot as Miss O'Neill had said.