New York, 1985
The old man looked up at the large banner on the museum wall. Exploring the Wild West. The words were bordered by images of horses and wagons and Indians and cowboys. When he closed his eyes, he could almost smell the campfire and hear the jaunty songs.
"Welcome to the Museum of American History's special exhibit on the Wild West!" a perky voice interrupted. The old man opened his eyes and saw a middle-aged woman with enormous glasses smiling brightly. "You must be the Miltons! My name is Janet and I will be your guide through the exhibit today!"
"Yes, we have four generations of Miltons here," a man spoke from behind the old man, "This is Grandpa Jim, it's his 90th birthday today."
"Oh, well happy birthday, Grandpa Jim!" Janet bent over and spoke to the old man in the wheelchair loudly and slowly.
"Unfortunately, he has Alzheimer's but he loves everything to do with the old west," a woman said. The old man looked around. Who were these people? He didn't recognise them.
"It was my idea!" a young blonde girl took the old man's hand. Oh, he knew her. He would know Abby anywhere. "I read that people with Alzheimer's respond better to things from their childhood, and he would've been alive at the end of the wild west era."
"You are very smart!" Janet said. "Well, let's get going, shall we? After the tour, you are free to enjoy the rest of our fine museum!"
The old man looked up at Abby who beamed down at him. "Maybe you can remember something from back then, Grandpa." She squeezed his hand as they followed Janet to the exhibition halls.
"Now, don't get too excited," another man spoke up, "He was only a toddler then."
"Or so we figure," a woman said. "Apparently Jim's family moved around a lot so he doesn't have an official birth certificate," she explained to Janet.
"Oh, so good thing he remembered his own birthday before... well," Janet stopped, "Anyway, here we are! Our exhibit begins just after the War of 1812."
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, the 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.
When they stopped by a replica of a covered wagon, he could feel the bumpy roads. There was no suspension on wagons back then. It was fun, but Uncle always complained.
Uncle? Uncle who? Heh, Uncle Lumbago, as Ma used to call him sometimes.
They moved on to another room.
"And here we have our outlaws," Janet gestured, "We all love to hate them, but without them this exhibit may not exist. We have the largest collection of artifacts from the most infamous gangs and gunslingers, like Butch Cassidy's Wild Bunch, the O'Driscolls, the Jack Hall Gang, Black Belle, Landon Rickets, and the Dutch Van Der Linde Gang."
The old man perked up.
"Ah, this is the one he wants to see," the man behind him said, "He's had a life-long obsession with the Van Der Linde gang."
"Well you are in luck because in this exhibit, we have something extra special!" Janet led them to a glass display. "We not only have different artifacts and items from Dutch Van Der Linde and his gang, but also filmed interviews with former members! We will get to those in a moment." She gestured to a wall of pictures. "These were all the members. Unfortunately, we don't have photographs of everyone, but luckily one of the members, Arthur Morgan, kept a detailed journal with drawings." She pointed to a picture of a man standing stoically. "This photograph was taken by noted wildlife photographer, Albert Mason. He had written in his memoirs that Arthur had assisted with getting some of his shots."
Uncle Arthur. He remembered him. He was very nice.
"Ooo, Arthur's a dish," one of the younger girls whispered loudly to her sister and they giggled.
Janet smiled. "Arthur Morgan is a fascinating story himself. Obviously there are records of his criminal doings, but also records of his goodwill and charity. It particularly escalated after he met his wife, Grace." She pointed to a nearby 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, the law got him?"
"Actually, that's where things get iffy. Some surviving gang members said that Grace had been killed by the Pinkertons, while others said she was killed by another gang member, Micah Bell."
Micah. Damn that name. After all these years it still made him internally rage.
"Arthur died not too long after confronting Micah when he succumbed to tuberculosis."
"Christ, what a terrible way to go."
"Indeed. Arthur and Grace were buried together. The old wooden grave was discovered some years ago when they were building a new highway. The area was excavated, but the bodies were long gone. It's presumed they were not buried within coffins and their bodies were consumed by the earth. We have a replica of the grave marker over here, since the original is far too fragile to display." She led them down to the end of the display to a wooden marker. "The original words were quite worn down, but we have been able to decipher them. 'Arthur Morgan and his beloved wife, Grace. Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness'."
"Kind of pretentious, isn't it?" That woman's voice again.
"You're the one who chose it," 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.
"Sorry, Dad, did you want to go back to this part?" His son wheeled him back down to the beginning of the display.
"Oh, look at this picture, one of them even had a baby!" one of the 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. 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 an outlaw. 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 sadly.
"How did the gang disband?"
"Internal rifts, according to a few of the surviving members," Janet said, "Simon Pearson, pictured here in 1921, was the gang's cook and said Dutch van der Linde was led astray by Micah Bell, who had only been with the gang for a few months."
"It was a big gang, couldn't anyone else talk some sense into him?"
"Well, Dutch's right-hand man, Hosea Matthews, pictured here when it was just him, Dutch, and Arthur, did try to keep things under control. Dutch and Hosea used to plot their heists together, but Dutch began to dismiss him and others for not keeping the faith or for disbelieving in him. Hosea was killed during a failed bank robbery a few months before the gang disbanded."
Uncle Hosea. He taught him to read. He remembered everyone was sad when he didn't come back.
"So how do we see the interviews?" one of the men asked.
"Just over here," she led them a series of television displays, "Just press the button for the interview you would like to see. They are each three minutes in length. And oh! I have something even more exciting for you. This is recently discovered film footage of city life in Saint Denis and we have been able to confirm it includes the only moving pictures of any of the gang members while still with the gang."
Janet pressed the button on the first television display. The click and whirr of the internal VCR started up and choppy, black-and-white footage began to play. For the first few moments, there was a passing tram and horse-drawn carts, along with curious bypassers. Then a couple walked into frame, highlighted by a circle. The woman pointed at the camera and seemed to be talking to the man with her before waving enthusiastically and rushing towards it. The man followed with a smile on his face and disappeared off camera. The film continued for a few more seconds before stopping and the VCR immediately began rewinding.
"That was Arthur and Grace Morgan, obviously in happier times," Janet beamed.
"We've had happier times since then, haven't we?" the woman's voice again.
"Sure."
The old man turned to look, but couldn't see anyone else apart from the people he came with.
"What is it, Dad?" his son leaned down to him, "Did you want to see something else 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.
"Oh, uh, lost, I guess," 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 and nodded.
"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 grave marker.
"Yes, it does seem that way, doesn't it?" Grace said, looking down to the grave marker, "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 looked around at the other people but they didn't seem to notice.
"He is not!"
"I bet he is! It makes so much sense!" Abby 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 were a lot of people who had 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 similar to John Marston. AND John Marston used to go by Jim Milton."
"You know what, Abby, why don't we ask Grandpa Jim."
The old man was tucked into his bed by his son then was joined by Abby.
"Hi, Grandpa, did you have fun today?"
"Yes," he smiled. He always liked Abby.
"Is your real name Jack Marston?" she asked.
Jack Marston? The name sounded familiar. But his name was Jim, not Jack. Or was it Jack, not Jim? He furrowed his brow.
"Abby, he's had a long day. Why don't we let him rest and you can visit him later."
"Oh, wait, I got him this," she 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. It even has entries by John Marston after Arthur died."
"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 later!"
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. It opened and a woman poked her head in.
"Hello again, Jack, can we come in?" she asked. Jack? That was his name, wasn't it? He nodded. She looked familiar. She came in the room, followed by a man who shut the door behind him.
"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," his eyes lit up, "Frère Jacques."
"That's right! I sang that song to help you sleep. Maybe you do remember. It has been quite a while."
"But... how?" Jack frowned.
"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, "Too bad my own journals are gone from then. The things I wrote about you in there."
"Good things, I hope."
"Not always," she grinned.
"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, by the way."
"But you were shot," Jack spoke up, "You were shot. I saw it."
Grace looked at him for a moment. "Yes. I was. But you lived."
"Well, where should we begin?" Arthur leaned forward, closing the book in his lap.
"The mountains?" she suggested.
"Sounds good, but we don't have much time."
"I know."
Arthur moved his chair closer to the bed. "So there we were, on the run again, and straight into the monster of all blizzards..."