Though a few gray clouds hung here and there in the sky over Valentine, the sun shone clear and warm. It was the combination that came with occasional rain, the same combination that produced the tinny smell of wet earth all around, and the layer of mud and other things caking Arthur's boots.
Livestock town indeed, he inwardly grumbled.
Catching the sight of the back of Marston's head where he stood leaning against a couple wooden crates, Arthur sauntered over. "So!" he started in with an air of lightness. "Feelin' better?" He walked around to see his sulking face. "How's the scar?"
John glanced at the sound of his voice, but his gaze never made it all the way to him. He simply maintained his solemn, annoyed leer off into the distance. "I heal pretty fast."
"Lucky you." And he was lucky, make no mistake. But family and near-death experiences was where Arthur would be sure to draw the line for him; there was no room for puttering around, forcing others to shoulder the load. It was past time for him to take pride in ensuring his family was well cared-for—himself.
With a swing of his arm, he looked at him and added flatly, "So you just…lazin' about, or...you got any leads?"
John gave his head a single shake. "I got sumpn'," he assured him with an emphatic nod. Straightening off the crates, he tipped his chin forward, and Arthur followed the gesture to see a few sheep grazing in their pen. "You see them?"
"Sure," he drawled. The image flashed in his mind of John with a long, hooked staff, perching on a boulder and playing a pan flute. The wheezy chuckle that arose from him then couldn't possibly have been restrained. "What, you see yourself as a shepherd now?"
John shot him a look and turned. "Maybe." Walking off, he added, "Come on."
"Well, where exactly are we goin'?" He brought his thumb and first finger between his lips and whistled for his horse.
"Collect sumpn'," John quietly called back. "Help us get some sheep."
"Ehhh…" Arthur grumbled as he begrudgingly complied. Only to find out if whatever it was, was really worth anything. "You know that attempt to seem all..." he waved his hand, "enigmatic and interestin'? That might work for Dutch, but for you?" He grabbed his horse's reins and mumbled emphatically, "It just makes you look stupid."
"Come along," John walked ahead. "You'll see."
Arthur eyed him as he led his horse onward. That was why he was keeping the plan to himself. He was enjoying having a leg up and ordering him around. Pretending to be the elder of the two.
"That train job was a start, but we need more money," John continued. "'Til we can get back to Blackwater to collect."
Arthur scoffed. "I'm here to tell ya—we try to collect that money any time soon?" Without trying, his timbre shifted to a mirthless one. "It'll come with a noose."
"I was worried you'd say that. Dutch says that we—"
"Dutch says a lot," Arthur cut in with a squirrelly tone. "That's his gift—sayin' things."
"Ah yeah?" John looked over at him. "What do you mean by that?"
"I was the prize pony once," Arthur said low and quiet. "Now I'm the workhorse. Listen: Dutch is..."
Arthur glanced John's direction to find him hanging on his words with an inquisitive twist to his brows. He couldn't about put a mutinous notion in his mind, or appear himself to be undermining. And it wasn't his intention. He just wanted John to think for himself. That was all. "But..." But how to do it without seeming to drag Dutch like their boots were dragging through this godforsaken mud? It was a fine line to balance. "But, well..." he sighed with a tip of his head and a deep half-smirk, finally giving up on involving Dutch by name in this discussion at all.
"You was at that thing in Blackwater," he finally said quietly, his gravelly voice like smoke through his throat. It was the most recent, most vivid thing in their lives to demonstrate his point. Whose fault it was, he wouldn't be the one to say. Not now, at least. "An' we already seen Pinkertons here."
"New century's comin'," he continued, trying for a light, easy pitch. He wanted John to think of it like the pages of a book he'd never read before: each turn filled with new strings of words, fresh possibility. Better yet, a journal—so he could write a whole new story. His own. One different from those that'd come before, one different even from how his life thus far seemed to want it to finish out. One that saw his whole family safe. The way they were being edged out by greater civilization didn't have to mean the end of life. "This life, this way? Well…we're the last, I reckon. And we ain't long for it."
"Then…that's the way it goes, I guess."
Arthur's brows shoved together at that, and he tried to inconspicuously turn his head to get a look at him. But John was swinging his arms, strolling down the town's thoroughfare, as if he hadn't heard what'd just come out of his own mouth. The purveyor of his own fate, and no one else's.
Arthur tried to think back to himself at twenty-six. Had he been so resigned to the sharp snap of the outlaw's end? Maybe he always had been, but perhaps his definitions of actual living had changed over the years. "For me, yes."
John sounded more like a martyr than he remembered ever feeling himself at his age. Then again, he had always known the end to be part of the life. Had taken measures to keep his loved ones away from that untimely end. He just didn't know what more he could possibly say to get through John's skull to his brain: he had a family; he wasn't on his own; things were different for him; his own life was worth something.
Arthur knew his end. Knew the accumulations of his life would snap back—fierce, and fast, and hard. But John—he was far enough behind that…things could still simply be different for him. If he only saw; if he tried.
"All right," John sighed as they rounded the town's main street corner.
"So where're we goin'?"
"Just need to pick up somethin'," he said rather coyly. "There's a hitchin' post over there. Tether the horse, and I'll meet you 'cross the street."
"Ehh…I already don't like how this is goin'..." Arthur squinted an eye and shook his head. But he did just as he'd been urged, meeting John at the boardwalk after tethering his horse. "The gun store?"
"Yep," John said from where he stood cavalierly leaning against the boards of the building. "Can you, uh…head in, pick up a sniper rifle? I'll explain later."
Arthur rolled his eyes as he strolled inside. And after a few minutes, he was heading back outdoors with a new sighted rifle slung across his shoulder.
"Y' good?" John asked from across the street when Arthur stepped out into the light onto the boardwalk.
"Sure."
"Let's go."
They mounted their horses and set out at an even pace, nothing but the pound of hooves hitting mud filling the air between them for a few moments.
"Why couldn't you have done that?" Arthur finally asked gruffly.
"Done what?"
"Bought that gun!"
"Ah, I had a run-in with that fella earlier," he said nonchalantly, his voice like syrup. "We ain't on the best of terms."
"You had a run-in? I've had a run-in with half that town!" Of course, he wasn't convinced John would've done a thing differently if he'd known as he knew now that he'd been sticking his neck out just as much as John would've, if not more.
"Calm down..." John curled his lip.
And for just a moment, to Arthur, it was like they were fourteen and twenty-four again. All pride and ill-fitting breeches and ready holsters. Snide remarks and shoves to the shoulder. Wrestling and short falls. Claws and kicks to the throat. Good-natured pranks gone too far and awful close calls. Genuine concern and apologies. Brief, short-lived attempts at good will. Spitting curses and hurling dirty, haughty looks. Derision boiling over into disdain. Even closer calls. And finally coming up empty, when no one claimed a win, and no one was right. Not really.
Arthur lifted his brows and let his eyelids drift half-mast with a little sigh through his nose and a half-smirk. He'd thought they'd both long grown out of it. But maybe neither of them had quite yet, in their own ways.
Despite the threat to favor Dutch had clearly positioned John as, from the first moment, Arthur had tried. Oh, he had tried. Tried to extend hands of peace, and be a brother. With John, trying was never quite enough.
"It's done now, ain't it?" John spat.
"Why're you bein' so cagey about all this?" Arthur could snarl just as well. "Always playin' some goddamn game…"
"Me? I ain't the one takin' Jack on fishin' trips!"
Arthur's brows rose, and he looked at him. He could envision John watching him and Jack return with their fishing poles, or Abigail confessing it, or Jack simply sharing the excitement of his day with his father. And John inwardly festering, apparently. If it weren't so serious, his voluntary betrayal of his own enlivened jealousy might be hilarious.
Well. If he was gonna bring it up… "No! You ain't! If you say the boy ain't yours, what's the difference?!" he shouted and threw his open hand to the side, his brows momentarily furrowing. He couldn't—wouldn't abide both John's leaping to defend the ambiguity of his relationship to Jack, and his bemoaning someone else actually trying to nurture a relationship with the child. John simply couldn't have it both goddamn ways. "You'll probably only run off again…" he lankily drawled, almost as if to himself. Someone might as well show the boy some kindness and warmth.
"Why're you so interested in my life?!" John rolled like distant thunder. "Ain't you got one of your own?"
At the latent, unnamed, rising tension of their conversations finally bubbling over, Arthur gritted his teeth and tipped his chin. Reality was, John should be thankful someone cared about him. Cared enough to try to guide him.
He'd give him advice he'd received himself long ago, that he wished to God, wished with all his being, he'd followed. Only death had awoken understanding in himself; he could only hope John needed less. Hope seemed all he could do.
He'd calmly give him those words, words that turned out to be worth far more than their weight in gold, and let it be for now: "Just do one thing, or another. Not be two people at once, that's all I'm sayin'."
"It ain't that simple," John bit quickly in retort. "You know that as well as anyone."
Something like an invisible fist gripped Arthur's insides. Hosea couldn't possibly have told him, no. Had Dutch?
"Same as with you and that girl—what was her name? Mary?"
Arthur closed his eyes just a moment and let out a sigh from deep in his chest as quietly as he could. There was no better way for John to completely miss the mark and simultaneously point out that he had absolutely no idea what he was talking about.
When it came to his list of life regrets, Mary was one. It was true. But she wasn't at the top. And she wasn't at all where he'd learned this lesson.
"That was different."
"No, it ain't!" John yelled, his airy voice full of adamancy. "Just the same."
Arthur rolled his eyes and let his head sag to the side. "Anyway, for the love of God, will you tell me what you got me doin' here before I turn around and hit the breeze?"
John shifted in his saddle. "There's a herd a' sheep comin' down to auction from Emerald Ranch."
.
Hi, Readers,
I know it's short; I'm sorry. But I've been wanting to write for this scene for a long time, because though there's so little dialogue, it feels charged with tension, misunderstandings, and subcontext to me. I hope you enjoy it.
A very warm, sincere thank-you to Allison, TJ, Ariana, Will, Paige, and the guest reviewers for your kind words! Rather than being impatient with me, it really feels like you're all rooting me on, and I can't say how grateful I am just that you're kind to me.
Allison and TJ, thank you oh so much for looking forward to my updates and for your anticipation! You're so sweet!
Ariana, of course you can pop in on tumblr any time you feel like it. No pressure though, I'm so thankful just to have you here. And to hear that Eliza is an inspiration to you?! That floors me! Thank you, thank you so much for saying that. I was told while writing "Only Fools Hold onto Hope" that she was annoying as a character. So that means leaps and bounds to me. I love her, and I dearly wish she and I could be friends, if that makes any crazy sense at all.
Will, thank you so, so much for saying Arthur & Eliza make an adorable couple! I try to stay as authentic as I can to both characters, which is two totally different tasks, since one is canon and one is my own creation; so that means such a heck of a lot to me. I agree they compliment each other very well in many areas.
Paige—I'm so glad you're here! :) Thank you oh so much for saying the characters feel real to you. That means SO much to me, because I don't have related life experience to apply, and I've been very self-conscious in that area of writing, if that makes sense. So hearing you say that means a lot to me.
Guest reviewers- "goosebumps" and the thought of re-reading? I'm blown away! I have the best readers!
A few of you brought up Eliza in your comment, when the last chapter had little to nothing to do with her. I think you guys must really miss her... 💗💕💞 Don't worry, that's exactly what I'd hoped for.
I have to tell you guys—when I receive your comments, every single time I inwardly gasp and think, "Just a few seconds ago someone in the world was reading my thoughts, and now I'm reading theirs!" I know it may seem so silly, but that's very special and unique to me. This last year has been by far the loneliest of my life, and it means a lot to me to have those few shared moments. Especially since, no one in the world gets to read these thoughts but you guys. :)
And, even if you don't feel compelled to comment, that is totally a-okay. I still see that a handful of folks are reading the chapters, and that does mean so much to me.
Happy Thanksgiving to my American readers! I hope your day is filled with loved ones and love. And if not, please take heart knowing your life is very precious.
- Rosie