New York, 1985
"Welcome to the Museum of American History's special exhibit on the American Frontier," the cheery brunette greeted the family, "My name is Janet and I will be your guide today. I see you have people of all ages in your group!"
"Yes, it's Grandpa Jim's birthday and the grandkids wanted to bring him here," said a middle-aged man pushing a wheelchair containing a very old man.
"He has Alzheimer's, but he loves everything to do with the wild west," added one of the women.
"Oh! Well, happy birthday, Grandpa Jim!" Janet spoke loudly and slowly to the old man who didn't acknowledge her. "We have some very special exhibits in store for you. Let's get started!"
Janet spoke animatedly about each of the exhibits, covering the beginnings of the frontier, the wagon trains and emigration to the west, conflicts and treaties with the various native tribes, effects of the Civil War. The old man didn't react to any of them, but his family were busy asking questions and getting closer looks of the artifacts.
"And here we have our outlaws," Janet led them into the second last room, "We all know them, and we all love them and hate them, but without them, this whole exhibit would not exist."
Janet told stories about each of the gangs and gunslingers of yesteryear. Billy the Kid, Butch Cassidy's Wild Bunch, the Jack Hall Gang, Landon Ricketts, Black Belle, the Dalton Gang.
"And finally, here we have the Van Der Linde Gang," Janet gestured to a large display behind glass. The old man perked up.
"Ah, this is the one he wants to see," said the old man's son, "He's had an obsession with Dutch van der Linde and his gang."
"Well we have the largest collection of artifacts from the Van Der Linde Gang!" Janet said excitedly, "We even have filmed interviews from former members. Like here, Mary-Beth Gaskill, also known by Leslie Dupont, gave an interview not long before her death in 1957." She pointed to a picture of a young Mary-Beth which was next to a picture of her older self.
The old man squinted at the pictures. He remembered her. It was so long ago. She was nice.
"Oh, look at this picture, one of them even had a baby!" one of the younger girls pointed out.
"That was Abigail Marston, wife of John Marston pictured here," Janet pointed, "And this is their son, Jack."
The old man perked up again. Marston. He hadn't heard that name in a very long time.
"What happened to them?" asked the girl.
"Well, John and Abigail tried to make a living for themselves on a ranch with Jack. But John was apparently accosted into hunting down his former gang members by the Bureau of Investigation and found himself returning to the life of a criminal. Details are still sketchy about what really happened, but it ended with John being killed at his ranch. Abigail and Jack went on for a few years until she died, then Jack went his own way.
"The last documented whereabouts of Jack Marston was when he was drafted into the US Army in early 1918 and sent to France where he went missing in action."
The war. He had forgotten. He didn't want to go. He had vowed never to kill again. So he ran.
"Probably killed, poor kid," one of the men said, "One of the many unidentified soldiers."
"Aw, that's so sad," one of the younger girls said.
"Unfortunately one of the realities of war," Janet sighed.
"So how did the gang disband?"
"Internal rifts, according to a few of the surviving members," Janet said, "Simon Pearson, pictured here, was the gang's cook. He said Dutch van der Linde was led astray by a relatively new member, Micah Bell, who already had a reputation of his own."
Micah. Damn that name. After all these years it still made him internally rage.
"It was a big gang, couldn't anyone have talked sense into him?"
"Dutch's right-hand man, Hosea Matthews, pictured here along with Dutch and also a younger Arthur Morgan, did try to keep things under control. Dutch used to listen to Hosea, but began dismissing him and others as not keeping the faith or disbelieving in him. Hosea was killed during a failed bank robbery a few months before the gang disbanded."
"Ooo, Arthur's a dish," one of the younger girls whispered loudly.
Janet smiled. "Arthur Morgan is a fascinating story himself. There are records of his criminal doings, but also of goodwill and charity. It particularly escalated after he met his wife, Grace." She pointed to a portrait of a man and woman, slightly blurred as they were smiling at each other. "This photo is a particular rarity seeing as people didn't usually smile back then. But it is one of my favourites."
"Aw, look at how in love they are," one of the women gushed.
"Ha, we weren't even official when that was taken." The old man heard another woman's voice somewhere behind him. It sounded familiar.
"So his wife turned him around, huh?"
"Well, not entirely. He still participated in a few big heists shortly before his death."
"Ah, law got him, huh?"
"Actually, that's where things get iffy. The surviving gang members said that Grace had been killed by Micah and Arthur confronted Micah, despite being sick with tuberculosis."
"Christ, what a terrible way to go."
"Indeed. Arthur and Grace were buried together. Their grave was found some time ago while they were building a new highway. It was excavated, but the bodies were long gone. They hadn't been buried in coffins and their remains were consumed by the earth. The gravestone was removed and we have it on display over here." Janet led the group further down to a stone grave marker. "The words have been worn by time, but it reads, 'Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness. Arthur Morgan and his beloved wife Grace.'"
"Kind of pretentious, isn't it?" That woman's voice again.
"I guess it was fitting at the time," a man's voice replied to her.
Uncle Arthur.
The old man turned to see where the voices were coming from, but his own family were blocking the view.
"What is it, Dad?" his son leaned down to him, "Did you want to see something back here?" He pushed the wheelchair back to the picture display. "Tell you what, you can spend time here and we'll continue with the guide for the rest of the room. We're just over here, okay?" He locked the wheelchair in place.
The old man looked up at the pictures. He knew their faces, but couldn't remember names. He stopped at the picture of the couple. Who were they again?
"Whatever happened to the other picture?" A woman with black hair appeared beside him, looking at the same picture.
"Don't know. Lost, I suppose." She was joined by a middle-aged man.
"Shame. Though I think I like this one better."
"It was a good day."
"Uncle Arthur?" the old man asked quietly. The man turned towards him with a slight smile.
"Hello, Jack," the woman greeted him with a smile.
"Miss Grace?"
"That's right, how are you?"
"But... you're dead," he pointed towards the gravestone.
"Yes, it does seem that way, doesn't it?" Grace said, "Can we come visit you later? We can talk then."
Jack nodded, unsure if he should believe what he was seeing.
"Good, we'll see you then," Grace reached down and squeezed his hand quickly before walking away. Arthur patted him on the shoulder lightly and followed her.
Jack looked back at the picture. They didn't look a day older than the last time he saw them. How?
"He is not!"
"I bet he is! It makes so much sense!" the younger girl argued.
"Grandpa Jim is NOT Jack Marston and that's the end of it!" his son insisted.
"No, listen, there is no record of Grandpa Jim before the first world war, right? And there's a record of him returning to Canada from France after the war. Jack Marston went missing in France, then suddenly there's a Jim Milton returning from France?"
"There are a lot of people who have no documentation back then. It's not like today."
"Not to mention Grandpa Jim and Jack Marston were born in the same year. I bet if we compared a picture of him when he was younger he might look like John Marston. AND John Marston used to go by Jim Milton."
"Well, let us know how that goes."
The old man's son tucked him into his bed. "Did you have fun today, Dad?"
The old man nodded. Jack Marston? The name sounded familiar. But his name was Jim, not Jack. Or was it Jack, not Jim?
"Good, we'll be back tomorrow for another visit, okay? You had a long day, get some rest."
"Oo, wait, I got him this," the younger girl took a thick book out of her shopping bag. "It's a replica of Arthur Morgan's journal, I thought he'd like to read it."
"You know he doesn't read anymore."
"Well, he can look at the pictures. Or maybe we can read it to him." She approached the bed. "Here, Grandpa, I'm going to put this over here so you can look at it." She set the book down on the nightstand and kissed him on the cheek. "See you tomorrow!"
The rest of the family bid him goodbye and left. Strange. Who were they? He glanced over at the book. 'Journal of an Outlaw', the title read, with a photo of that man. Oh, Arthur Morgan, Uncle Arthur.
There was a knock on the door and a woman entered.
"Hello again, Jack, can we come in?" she asked. He nodded. She looked familiar. A man followed her in.
"Uncle Arthur."
"See, I told you he'd remember you," the woman smiled back at the man.
"But does he remember you?"
"Do you know who I am, Jack?" the woman asked him gently.
"No."
"It's okay, you didn't know me for very long anyway," she sat down on the bed, "I'm Grace."
"Miss Grace."
"That's right! Maybe you do remember. It has been a while."
"How?"
"Goodness, I wish I could explain easily," Grace took his hand in hers. "It's a long story."
"About as long as this," Arthur picked up the book from the nightstand, "Jesus, they actually published this nonsense?"
"Printed journals are quite popular," said Grace, "I should've picked up a copy myself. Too bad no one found my journal. The things I wrote about you in there."
"Good things, I hope."
"Not always."
"Hah, same," Arthur sat in a chair and cleared his throat before reading out loud. "'Met that Grace woman again. Startled the bejeezus out of me. One day I might end up shooting her, but whether it's an accident is left to be seen.'"
"Sounds about right," Grace laughed, "Thank you for not shooting me."
"You were shot," Jack spoke up, "You were shot. Dead."
Grace looked at him for a moment. "Yes. I was. But you lived."
"I think we should start from the beginning," Arthur leaned forward, closing the book in his lap.
"My beginning, or yours?"
"Mine. We don't have that much time."
"Sounds good," Grace squeezed Jack's hand again and nodded.
"So there we were, on the run again, and the monster of all blizzards rolled in..." Arthur started.