CHAPTER TWO – Lies

"You know," Albert panted, as he hurriedly disassembled his camera and tripod, "I really did get some amazing pictures, thanks to you and somehow I haven't quite broken my neck."

Making sure he stood between Albert and the edge of the cliff, Arthur smiled, the sunshine warm on his face, the expansive vista stretching out behind him. However buffoonish and frustrating Albert Mason could be, the man's warm sincerity mixed with his ironic self-deprecations made it impossible to be mad at him. "You take care."

"And you too sir," Albert replied, picking up the last of his equipment, "Sorry for all the trouble."

Arthur waved the apology aside. Truth be told, the opportunities to help the armature photographer stumble his way across the country had been one of the few pleasures he'd had these past months. If Mason meant it about going home, Arthur knew he was going to miss him. Albert Mason had a purity about him, big dreams and a kind soul. Being around him let Arthur catch an elusive glimpse of a life he'd long ago dismissed as just fairy tales and dreams rolling off Dutch's tongue. He'd once believed in a "better world" but now it was only these rare occasions, when he got the chance to help good folk like Mason that the light of that world flickered through the darkness of reality.

Letting out a last harried sigh, Albert Mason turned his back on Arthur, the eagles and the vast vista and strode away. Arthur himself turned to look out at the view. It really was a beautiful world - when it was empty of people that is. The wind rippled through his hair and smelled sweet with the mixed scents of recent rain and wildflowers. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. Yes, sometimes it could be a better world, sometimes he could get away with pretending he didn't have blood on his hands and a burden on his back.

He coughed some - a nagging ailment that was taking forever to go away, doubtlessly thanks to that moldy house and the damn swamps they were camping in these days. Arthur loathed the idea of returning there. With every passing day he watched his world getting swept closer and closer to an inevitable doom. Dutch's delusions and paranoia continued to mount, along with an insistence that he could still see clearly enough to find a way out of it all. Hosea had all but given up trying to talk sense back into him. It was as useless as slamming your head into a wall, and expecting the wall to say, "pardon me" and move out of your way. The only person Dutch seemed to listen to at all was Micah, who was whispering lies and flattery, praying upon Dutch's ego and insecurities, hastening them all towards their doom. To what end, Arthur did not know. He knew he didn't trust Micah further than he could throw him, but he couldn't figure Micah's motives. After all, they were all on this boat together, weren't they?

Clearing his throat, Arthur turned and whistled for Nimbus. There was still plenty of light left in the day and no reason to hurry back. Here on the cliffs, the wind gusted hard, whipping his buckskin jacket about him and Arthur put a hand up to his worn hat, making sure it wouldn't get blown off and over the edge. Overhead the high wispy clouds sped along and there was a neigh as their namesake galloped up beside him. Pure white and quick as the wind, the little Arabian bobbed her head impatiently, balking from the cliff edge.

"You're alright Girl," Arthur said encouragingly, approaching her from the left and patting her neck. For whatever reason the horse seemed to hate being around Mr. Mason and even after the silly man was gone, she was antsy and irritated. "There, there," Arthur comforted, slipping a hand into one of the saddle bags and retrieving an oatcake to feed his equine friend. "It's a silly ol' world," he confided, as she munched contentedly, "Mason probably thinks I'm a knight in god-damned shining armor, heh! But helping him… it's just selfish lies I act out rather than speak a'loud. Just trying to pretend I'm not … well, deserving of all the vitriol an' violence the world's been serving up these days." Arthur coughed and then smiled with a kind of fond irony, running a hand through Nimbus's mane, carefully working out the tangles. "Lies. Lies and dreams. It's what I was raised on. What I've lived my whole life. A "better world" Dutch called it." He shook his head. "It don't exist, but it's still everything I am."

Giving Nimbus a last assuring pat on the neck, Arthur grabbed the saddle horn and heaved himself up into the saddle. "It's alright," he said. He always felt a slight need to apologize to the little horse. He was, after all, a very big man; not really the sort meant to ride upon delicate clouds. "Let's go!" A soft squeeze of his heels and they were off, springing gracefully to speed, smooth as water over round stones.

Arthur didn't give much thought to his direction, just steered Nimbus down from the hills and turned her head toward open county, appreciating the feeling of freedom and power in riding a good horse over fine country. These days his saddle felt more like home than the camp.

As he crossed the plains, he saw a herd of deer grazing a distance off, down by the riverbanks. "Woah! Easy now." He slowed Nimbus from a smooth gallop to a gentle trot and then stopped her just off the road. "Think I'll try a little hunt'n," he told her, unbuckling his rifle from its place on the saddle. "Should be sure to bring back something for the rest of camp after all this time away."

Nimbus ignored him, stretching her neck down toward some grass and shifting sideways away from him, as if to say. "Well go on then! You get your food and leave me to mine." And so, he did. Swinging the gun over his shoulder, Arthur snuck down toward the river, making sure to stay down wind of his prey and keeping a keen eye on his surroundings.

Arthur took his time on the hunt, tracking a beauty of a buck along the banks, until the perfect opportunity to sink a bullet right between its eyes presented itself. By the time he'd whistled Nimbus back to his side and secured the buck behind the saddle, the afternoon shadows were getting long. And yet still, he felt no hurry to get back to camp. "It's okay girl," he said more from habit than because the little horse was any kind of anxious. Nonetheless, it'd been a long day and he'd spend most of the night being Mr. Lemieux's thug again, only to have to ride hard and fast out of the city in the early hours of the morning, law on his tail. Nimbus had left them all in the dust, but it'd been a long hard run and a long day afterwards. So, rather than mount up and ask even more from his horse, Arthur simply took the reins and began walking, leading her south at a leisurely pace.

As he walked and watched the shadows of dusk creeping over the rosy evening light, his mind turned back to the events of last night and those leading up to them. By general principle he resented getting blackmailed, but at least Lemieux had been pleasant about it and it wasn't like Arthur was unaccustomed to being sent out to do people's dirty work. Of course, he'd been waiting the whole time for the axe to fall, for Henri Lemieux to run out of uses for him, or decide the affiliation wasn't worth the risk. Every night he'd answered the mayor's summons he'd half expected to find law or bounty hunters waiting for him. But it hadn't been him Lemieux decided to dispose of. No, not him, but another…

Arthur didn't like how it'd all come to an end last night. Being ordered to murder Jean Marc so casually and matter-of-factly, as if it was nothing for either him or Lemieux to dispatch a man… a man who had clearly once been the mayor's loyal friend and servant. Jean Marc hadn't even said anything to the press yet. Simply disagreeing, voicing his doubts and refusing to follow Lemieux's vision had been enough for Lemieux to toss Jean Marc aside like so much garbage. It gave Arthur chills and he was a savage killer and unrepentant outlaw. That way Lemieux hadn't even bothered to make sure it was done. He'd just assumed Arthur would obey without question, kill in cold blood without a thought.

He hadn't.

Arthur had let Jean Marc live, though he'd hesitated a while, his survival instincts and habit towards obedience, warring with his human sympathy. But in the end, he couldn't… it wasn't… In truth, it wasn't his own code but Dutch's which had stopped him. It wasn't what Dutch would have wanted. Cold blooded murder was different from killing. Dutch had taught him that, and it still mattered to him after all these years.

Also, Arthur hadn't been able to help but see himself in Jean Marc. When the man had pleaded with his boss to stop going down the path he was on, appealed to their friendship, their past, trying to make a man he cared about turn away from darkness, it struck an all too familiar cord. How could Lemieux be so cold and cruel to a friend and faithful servant? Dutch would never be so callused. Even if he couldn't see sense, Dutch would never-ever betray his friends like that… would he?

Arthur shook his head, banishing ideas he was ashamed to even be thinking. Dutch might be insane, but he was also insanely loyal and unlike Lemieux, Dutch wasn't a cold-blooded killer… But that girl on the ferry… NO. Nonsense! Stop even thinking such things, Morgan.

Cursing himself for a fool, Arthur crossed the state line into Lemoyne, just as the sun finally sunk below the western horizon. It was still a good few hours before he'd be able to get back to Shady Bell and the tall shadows of the cypress trees swallowed the landscape and shrouded the road in darkness. "Well, Girl," Arthur drawled, rubbing the short stubble of his beard in consideration. "Should we risk riding through the dark or make camp?"

Nimbus cast him a sideways glance full of apathy and switched her tail to swat at the abundance of insects, before taking the opportunity in the lull of movement to lean down and snatch at the grass.

"Camping it is then," Arthur obliged and led her a little further on to a spot near Eris Field and Ringneck Creek. Once camp was set up, Arthur took the time to properly skin the buck he'd shot and butcher the meat. It'd be good eating once he got it back to Pearson, but he went ahead and cooked a little for himself, letting it sizzle on the grill with a bit of thyme and olive oil. As it cooked, he leaned back on the red dirt and rested his head on his hands, staring up at the blazing stars of the Milky Way and the swaying branches of the cypress trees. A cool breeze caressed his face and beneath him the ground softly enveloped him, radiating back the warmth of the day's sun. A song he'd heard once, some Mountain Hymn Hosea used to hum, trickled through his mind, peaceful and sad. Melancholy… that was the word.

He'd almost drifted off to sleep there, when an impatient huffing interrupted his rest and hot breath hit his face. Arthur opened his eyes, to see Nimbus lipping at his hat, nearly pulling it off his head. "Hey!" Sitting up he snatched back his hat and gave the horse a vicious look.

Nimbus jerked her head back and then bobbed it indignantly, giving him a rebuking neigh.

"Girrrl," Arthur growled back in annoyance, but then glanced over, noticing the meat on the grill was close to burning, "Agh, I see it. I see it!" Scrambling up to crouch by the fire, he used his knife to get the venison and blew on it, cooling it some before eating it directly from the dagger.

Nimbus stood by for a moment or two, before giving another impatient neigh and bumping the back of his head with her nose.

"Watch it, Girl! You trying to get me to cut out my own tongue?"

Nimbus leaned down and lipped at the flap of his satchel.

He pushed her back, "Come on now. You can't be hungry. I seen yeh chomping down on every blade of grass 'tween here and Saint Denis the whole of the damn day!"

Nimbus gave him a shrill whinny of protest.

"Agh fine. I can't really say no to that can I?"

Arthur spent the next several minutes putting together a proper horse meal, based off the recipe Kieran Duffy had taught him. Hay, currents, beats, some cut up apple and burdock root. Once that was done and Nimbus was munching down, giving happy contented nickers between her mouthfuls, Arthur lay down on his bedroll, ready to really get some sleep.

Listening to the night noises and the gurgle of the creek, his mind drifted back to Albert Mason, his disarmingly genuine smile and naive yet pure excitement over nature, his mind full of facts as interesting as they were useless and his humble sense of ironic humor. Arthur realized he was grinning himself, just at the memories. It'd been a good day. Sure, the mayor of Saint Denis and the whole city under him might be after his head, along with the rest of the world. Sure, Dutch was steering them all toward destruction, Hosea had lost hope, Micah was a slimy snake and they'd all made a god damned mess of things, but he'd saved Albert Mason's life and Albert had been happy and believed Arthur was something grand. Whatever happened to him, Mr. Mason was going home safe and happy with his camera and photos. Yes, it was a good day.

And Arthur drifted off to sleep.