"Go to your family. Get the hell outta here and be a goddamn man."

- Arthur

a couple years later

As Arthur stood in the darkness at the edge of camp, he felt the chill of the double barrel and its weight in his hands. He kept himself attune and alert, taking in all the sounds around him: the crunch of dirt beneath his boots as he shifted his weight, the symphony of crickets and hoots of owls, the bay of coyotes in the distance.

He was keenly aware that each time he took this duty over the past year, he'd been guarding more than usual. A baby in camp was plenty reason to keep himself sharp. No matter whose he was.

And he knew Jack wasn't his. When she'd first shared the news with Susan, who had then told the rest of them, it had been several months since he'd lain with Abigail the one time. And a handful of months since she'd managed to take up fairly exclusively with Marston, everyone knew.

Marston. Without even realizing it, he gritted his teeth at his name in his head. And he shook the thought away.

The point was, for some reason he felt some kind of draw to the two of them, woman and child, some kind of responsibility or kinship. He was the kid's uncle, after all. Some kind of comradery. They weren't the only ones who'd been left behind.

And since they didn't know if the boy's absent father would ever return or if he was even alive, Arthur had willingly stepped in and picked up the torch of caring for them. Though he'd been sheepish about it at first, it had been almost natural. She'd needed someone to rely on, depend on for things. Things beyond herself, in such circumstances. And though no one knew it but himself, Dutch, and Hosea, he wasn't a stranger to caring for a woman and infant.

Every time he'd held Jack to his chest and smelled his sweet, earthy newborn scent. Every time he'd seen the heavy look of fatigue mingled with love for her son in her eyes. He'd had to swallow down a lot of pain and remorse, like he did every day. But even more so with it thrust up into his face like that. And it was collecting somewhere in his gut. Another cruel strike of fate.

He couldn't come to grips with what Marston had done to them. Couldn't understand it, even with his own past. There were no excuses, no explanations. What he wouldn't give to have what he had. And he hated him for it. For his having it. Not just for what he'd done.

And after everything he himself had done for him. Would do for him. It was simply too much.

Over the last year, he and Abigail had become something like friends. A bond forged through being bereft by choice. Both left by someone who was supposed to be family.

At the thought, his insides went rigid, and he had to dig into his pocket for a cigarette. Because maybe he deserved it. Maybe he was only just now getting a small taste of what he'd done to Eliza and Isaac.

He left the cigarette between his lips and quickly struck a match, relishing the brief addition of the new sound around him before lighting it, shaking the match, and tossing it away.

He'd begun to wonder recently if even with their great age difference he should've married Abigail. Especially after having had her. Before she'd nabbed Marston. He himself would've been a poor stand-in for a good man, but at least he would've kept her away from him. Kept all this from happening. And it would've been maybe his last chance at it. Marriage. Children.

The thing was, there was no replacing the marriage he longed for. The child he missed.

He was suddenly filled with that familiar heavy, heavy feeling in his chest, his throat, his eyes. And he almost wished he had something better than a cigarette on him, if not for the fact that he was on duty.

Just then he felt, more than heard, something off in the brush and trees before him. No sooner had he thought it, than he made ready, his shotgun aimed in its direction.

"One more move, and I paint that tree with your guts."

The rustling ceased and was replaced by an uneasy stillness.

"'Course. 'Course it's you. Just had to be you standin' guard."

The orange ember from Arthur's cigarette was the only source of light between them, but he didn't need to squint to know who it was. "Marston."

It was a name that cut through his throat like a jagged blade.

All John could see was the sneer on his mouth by the light of his cigarette. He took a step forward, and Arthur held his gun fast on him.

"Quit…quit playin' around, Arthur," he said, making a show of cupping his hands and breathing into them, hoping he could see the gesture through the darkness. "It's cold out tonight."

"You must be jokin'."

He'd bit it out, and the sound of it was all John needed to be sure of which direction this would go. He sighed. "Look, I… I done wrong. I see that now."

"You see nothin'," he growled. "You ain't seen your little one shiver in the arms of his mama, in your own arms. Ain't seen her eyes when she thinks about havin' to raise him without his daddy. Ain't struggled to get 'em fed. Heard him cry. Seen him smile. Call her name and take his first steps."

"And I feel awful about all that—"

"Awful ain't enough."

John's eyes were adjusting, and he could only guess Arthur's were too. He could make out more of the familiar face before him—scars, furrows, fury and all.

"You got no idea what I've given for this gang," Arthur forced out through gritted teeth. "For this family. No idea."

At that, John's brows came together, and he peered at him.

"I been here the whole time. Never left. Not once. Why should you get to leave with no consequences. What I given up means nothin' if you don't get any."

John couldn't quite put the pieces together, but this was more of Arthur's hand than he'd ever revealed at one time. He usually kept his thoughts quite close to the vest.

"For all we knew, you could be dead, Marston. But here you stand, provin' you chose it," he drawled. "You didn't just turn your back on your woman and kid, naw."

His brow was in a harder line than John had ever seen it.

"You turned your back on all of us." Arthur took another step, further blocking his way. "I might be damned already, but I'll bet good, filthy, earthly money on it 'fore I see you welcomed back."

They stood there a few more seconds. The men, and the gun.

John's eyes darting from the shotgun to the look in Arthur's. His head telling the organ in his chest to stop thumping so hard, so loud. That Arthur wouldn't. Couldn't.

"Outta the way, Arthur," he finally brushed past him, making sure to line his tone with dismissiveness. "I had about enough a' this. Rather talk to Dutch himself." And he knew that would add an extra inch to the blade between them.

He heard Arthur's footsteps behind him as he headed straight for Dutch's tent. But he almost jumped when he looked up from his feet to see the man was already standing there.

"John! That you?" he said.

He nodded, and tried to make his voice bolder than he felt. "It's me, Dutch."

Dutch started to grin, then looked around and took a couple staggered, hurried steps. "Wake everybody up. I want everyone to see this," he said quietly. He ran to Abigail's tent and woke her, then ran to Hosea's and had him wake everyone else. By the time the rest of the gang was standing and groggily looking on, Dutch was smiling wide.

"Look at him! Healthy as a bull," he said. After a long pause, he added, "We were worried about you, John."

John cleared his throat. "I'm real…real sorry…for what I done, Dutch. I know it was wrong. I'm here to make it right."

"You already have, son," Dutch rested a hand on his shoulder. "You already have. My prodigal son," he lifted an arm and turned to the group, "has returned!" The words were theatrical, his airy voice full of emotion. He turned back to John and patted his shoulder. "Let's get you fed and warm and…back into the arms of your woman and child."

As Dutch walked off to get him something to eat, John caught sight of Arthur where he stood at the edge of the dwindling group. His eyes were steely and cold, his jaw clenched and set on a razor edge.

When it was finally just the two of them standing there, the older by a decade turned and started to walk off towards his tent.

"Arthur," John called, causing him to stop, his back still turned. He swallowed, grateful he couldn't see the lump in his throat bob. "I'm your brother."

He watched Arthur's chin turn to the side at the words before he continued on his way.