Sister Caldéron sat patiently as Arthur Morgan wrote out his will.
He already knew what Hosea, John and Dutch should get so he swiftly wrote them down without thinking much about what those items meant, both to him and them. His best bandoleer would go to Javier, his boots would go to Lenny along with his razor and mirror. His horse would go to Charles along with his bow. Arthur couldn't help but drift off in memory of that time in the snow, Charles with his hand still wrapped from his injury, teaching him to hunt...
Uncle would get the stash of Guarma rum and Fire Whisky, Bill well, Bill could have whatever coat fit him best. His tan leather jacket would go to Jack. Too big for him now but someday...
Arthur took a slow steady breath as he realized he'd never see Jack fit into it.
He pulled off his hat and ruffled his hair hastily, trying to sort out his scrambled thoughts.
He knew he was doing the right thing, he didn't have any regrets or second thoughts, (about that at least) but it didn't make what he was about to do any easier.
He shoved aside the building melancholy and jotted down a few more names and a few more possessions. A part of him was bitter he didn't have enough for everyone. But an even bigger part of him wondered why they would even want his junk. Still, dolling it out between everyone seemed better than leaving the camp with a pile of his things to deal with. At the very least they could sell it.
He sighed heavily setting the pen down.
"I'm finished." he said.
"Are you sure?" Sister Caldéron asked gently. "It looks like you wrote down your material possessions but haven't explained why you have chosen to do what you are."
"And why should I explain that?" he said somewhat testily.
"Because you are doing it for them, don't you think they have a right to know why?" Her words were gentle and Arthur was beginning to think he'd chosen the wrong person to help him.
"You're not trying to talk me out of this are you sister?"
"Of course I am." she said calmly "but ultimately, it is your decision."
He nodded looking down at the pen. "I've never been very good with words. Don't know what to write." he admitted.
"Write what you want them to know. What you wish you could say to them. Fix the bridges that have been burned to ease the plague of regret later on. If you are doing this for them, then say you love them."
Arthur nodded picking up the pen again.
Charles and Lenny watched in the shadows as a white stagecoach rolled up to the doctor's office. It's driver hopped down and began tending to the horses. Checking straps and various buckles, giving the occasional pat to each of the four large Draft horses. When he was done he fastidiously brushed at a smudge of dirt that tainted the cuff of his long blue coat marking him as Saint-Denis police.
Lenny took a long drag from the cigarette, his eyes sliding to Charles who glared at the door of the doctor's office.
Koch's demonstration had been going on for the past hour. You needed tickets to attend. So, Charles and Lenny waited outside, waited for the moment when the "good" doctor would make his exit.
Finally the doors creaked open and a well-dressed man in a grey coat walked out, escorted by four more blue-coated officers.
Shit.
Lenny looked at Charles in alarm but the man just shook his head calmly.
They would only get one chance at this and it had to go perfectly.
Koch made his way confidently to the white stagecoach. His deep laugh, somehow, thick with a German accent.
He entered the coach and three officers mounted nearby horses and the fourth joined the driver on the stagecoach.
Charles signaled for Lenny to fall back to Taima and Maggie but remained where he was. Tracking the movement of the coach as it rolled along the cobblestone streets towards the hotel Koch would be staying at.
Lenny worried at his lip as he climbed up on Maggy. Pulling Taima behind him he trotted off to meet up with Charles, as they had planned.
Charles was several blocks away, near the church, when Lenny saw him again. He was still trailing the coach unnoticed. Lenny breathed a sigh of relief as he tampered down his growing anxiety and struggled to appear nonchalant.
The stagecoach had stopped.
Tho Lenny couldn't see it, but he knew a wheel had fallen off someone's cart and the ensuing traffic jam was causing a delay. He knew this because he had been the one to cause it.
He casually looked around at the somewhat busy street. The traffic could either aide them in their escape or ensure their capture. It was all down to Charles's plan and sheer luck.
He fidgeted in the saddle nervously, the stagecoach was still not moving.
It was on his third subtle glance around when he saw Arthur. He was standing up from a park bench handing something to a nun. She nodded to him and then Arthur pulled out what looked like a gold bar. At first the nun shook her head but Arthur gently took her hand and placed it in her palm. She looked close to crying.
A loud shout from Charles pulled his attention back to the heist and with dawning horror, he realized he had missed the signal. Gunshots flew in Charles's direction as he yanked one officer off the stagecoach and decked the other with a solid right hook.
Lenny yelped as he changed forward catching the three officers off-guard and the stagecoach jumped a curb. Whistles called for backup and a woman screamed as he veered right and dashed between two horses and narrowly missed a tree.
Charles steered the stagecoach down a grassy path, racing the horses out of town. Bullets blasted the wood, splintering it into shards around him. One of the horse shrieked horribly as it was shot, stumbling before it managed to find it's stride again.
Lenny reloaded his repeater, covering their escape.
Bullets whizzed past his head as more officers pursued them.
A horse and rider caught Lenny by surprise as it darted out in front of the stagecoach. He didn't have time to turn before the rifle was raised, aiming, point blank for Charles-
A gunshot sounded and the man's chest bloomed in a spray of blood. Lenny whipped around in time to see Arthur Morgan gun down three more, clearing their path out of Saint-Denis.