Escaping into the Grizzlies to get away from Micah probably wasn't the best idea. It was fairly obvious the way he had mounted Sundancer and trotted off, trying to avoid anyone who could notice the bruises on his body. He cursed as he realized his summer clothes gave too many of them away and rolled down his shirt sleeves. He could've sworn he felt eyes on him as he galloped down the road.
Now, the snow crunched beneath Arthur's boots as he made his way back towards Valentine. In one hand he held a lantern to help him see through the darkness; in the other, the reins of a gorgeous white mare he fought tooth and nail to break in. Her temperament didn't make taming any better. The Arabian was so skittish that Arthur accidentally sent it bolting when he first tried to approach it.
He reckoned he'd been here for a couple of days, if not more, when his stomach grumbled. Arthur planned to keep going, but his legs started burning with every step he took, making him wince. He was quite a ways from his horse, he realized, as the Turkoman didn't respond to his whistles. Damn.
Admitting defeat, he stopped to put the lantern on his gun belt before taking a bread roll out of his satchel, sinking his teeth into it. The bread was already hard, the dough bland and chewy, but it was still food. The horse nickered as they trudged on, and he glanced at her. He could tell she was hungry judging by the thin frame, which made his stomach turn.
"It's alright, girl," Arthur cooed, reaching over to pat the animal, running his fingers through her mane. The mare closed her eyes, shaking her head ever so slightly in response as if to say 'No, it ain't okay, you fool.'' Arthur sighed, turning his attention back toward the drawn out trail. He whistled again, even though he knew they were still far. All he was doing was wasting energy.
It was common for Arthur to end up far from his horse, whether he was on the run from the law or hunting deep into forests or swamps. But God, he hated the Grizzlies. Nothing but cold, ice, and death. It was absolutely miserable. He mounted the Arabian, gripping the reins in his freezing hands. He beckoned the horse forward with a soft "Giddyup," and a gentle spurring, feeling them begin to move through the clumps of snow, down the mountain, and through the trees.
He was thankful his coat was warm enough, even though the wind stung his cheeks and nose, dusting them a rosy pink. The clopping of hooves put Arthur at ease, and he soon let one arm slack and rest at his side, his eyes trailing the barren land, his mind drifting with the wind.
He heard Hosea in his ear, saw him asking why he'd even go back up to the Grizzlies.
A scowl was poorly hidden on his face, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. " You could freeze to death up there in that hell."
"You worry too much, Hosea," Arthur replied with a laugh, much to the man's disapproval as his eyes burrowed into the brunette's soul. "Nothing's gonna happen."
"I have reason to." For a moment, the older man's eyes flitted to Arthur's neck, where a fresh bruise was, though he pretended not to notice. Whether it was for Arthur's sake or his own sanity was unclear. "Just be careful."
Pulling himself out of the thought, he slowed at the sight of Charles, who waved upon seeing him. Arthur's heart leapt as he resisted grinning, silently cursing himself.
"Whatchu doin' here?"
The other man shrugged, and Arthur could've sworn he saw a smile tugging at his lips.
"That's a nice horse," Charles muttered, scanning the mare before meeting Arthur's eyes. The contact made Arthur shiver, made him avert his own gaze. Made words block his throat. Not in a good way, though. It made him think of Micah, how he sweet talked the gunslinger before insulting and striking him into reluctant submission. Think, Morgan.
A dry chuckle eventually passed his lips. "Yeah, she's a… she's a feisty one. Found 'er by Lake Isabella." He shifted his weight on the mount and paused before getting off, hitching her on a nearby trunk.
Charles hummed, seemingly oblivious to Arthur's hesitation. He walked over to her and ran his fingers along her neck, her ears flattening a little in satisfaction. Arthur bit his tongue and watched, seeing the rising sun frame the two in golden light, yet missed him, casting him in shadow.
It was poetic, really. Arthur wasn't seen as anything but a lowlife killer. A robber. He wasn't good, he wasn't a saint. He wasn't the man he thought he would be. Even then, he tried to be good, he really tried. He damn near broke his back helping the gang, hunting and bringing the meat to Pearson for stew and pelts for the camp, dumped all his money into the box and left almost nothing for himself. He upgraded the camp and made them so much happier, and what did he get for his efforts? Dutch constantly in his ear, telling him that they needed more money, that they needed one more big score, that he needed to have some goddamn faith.
"Have you thought of a name?" Charles turned his head to Arthur, his long hair flowing along his shoulders. The gunslinger took note of the darkness in his eyes, his already pink cheeks heating up. His mind was festering with broken, dark thoughts as his eyes dropped to the ground. Next to John, Charles was the one good person to ever be in his life, and he could see the inner turmoil and pain that brewed, caught the moment his guard slipped and emotions protruded from his stony expression. Perhaps he misread it, but in the blinding cold it all looked the same. Arthur promised himself that he would protect Charles with everything he had.
How can you protect a man from himself?
"Arthur."
Arthur didn't hear Charles. He simply stared, as if caught in a trance. He wished he could keep the man safe, not that he needed it. Charles was a hell of a gun, showing that he didn't need protecting. Yet Arthur wanted to ask what was wrong. He never got to it, and even though everyone was pulling him in every which way, Micah stopped him. Micah wanted to take him to rob a coach or train or house. Micah wanted the gunslinger to stick to his side 24/7. Micah wanted to ride with him, and he just wanted to ride with Charles. His friend.
Fortunately–or not?–Charles' voice shattered any thoughts and wishes built up in his mind. "You okay?"
"Huh?" Arthur blinked tears away–how did that happen?– and ran his hands down his face at the confusion on the darker man's features. Arthur didn't dare look at Charles, a choked laugh shaking his shoulders.
"I'm fine. I mean, not really, I-"
"No need to try and explain, Arthur."
The biting tone in the man's voice made Arthur flinch. What had he done wrong? Charles was fine a moment ago…
Just like that, silence fell over the two, Charles tending to the horses and Arthur fighting off horrid memories. Moments turned to minutes, minutes to hours, it seemed, before Arthur gathered the courage to face Charles, who was tending to the Arabian, murmuring words of comfort as he detangled the mane. One phrase in particular stuck with Arthur.
"There you go, princess."
Arthur stepped toward Sundancer as Charles spoke, forcing a smile at the nickname.
"So she's royalty now?" Arthur jested half-heartedly, and the other man glanced at him before shrugging. Despite only being with the gang for a few months, Charles was a natural with horses. More than Arthur, at least. It made him… a bit jealous. He knew he didn't have reason to, but he did.
The onset of a blizzard was becoming likely as the speed of the winds picked up, and Arthur spotted Charles shielding his eyes, moving to unhitch his own mount.
"We should go. And no, don't leave her"– he motioned to Princess, who was now skittish, though they didn't seem to notice–"to me. I already have Taima."
Arthur hesitated before taking his saddle off Sundancer, trudging over to the Arabian and put it on her. Princess snorted and stomped her hooves, neighing in frustration, causing him to take a few steps back in surprise.
"Whoa, easy there! What's wrong, girl?"
Arthur tried to get closer, but the mare didn't let him, turning slightly as if to flee. Her ears were flat against her head, and the gunslinger desperately searched the area behind him to see if someone was trying to bushwhack them, but it was difficult to see through the growing blizzard. The wind was screaming, so it was too loud to hear anyone coming. He hoped–no, prayed –that Charles was searching the other way.
"Do you see anything?" Arthur shouted.
Silence. Arthur's heart leapt into his throat, panic gripping him. A million possibilities rushed through his mind as he scanned the area. His ears, as good as they were, didn't catch the faint clicking of a revolver, but rather the strained voice of Charles.
"Arthur," he wheezed. Arthur immediately whipped around, his eyes seeing an O'Driscoll digging the barrel of a revolver into Charles' temple, an arm locked tightly around his throat.
Arthur attempted to rush toward his friend, his hand itching toward his trusty cattleman. A simple bullet to the head was all that was needed, and he could tell the O'Driscoll was a poor shot by the improper hold on the revolver.
"Don't take another step!" the man barked. "Or I'll blow his brains out!"
"Colm needs some better shootists. We both know that you ain't gonna shoot me." Arthur watched the Irishman's expression waver and took that as a sign to aim between his eyes, finger poised on the trigger, forcing his breath to steady. "However, you can certainly try."
He scanned the area, finding flashes of emerald behind the trees nearby before firing at the captor, watching blood spray from his skull, slumping to the ground at the same time as Charles. The latter struggled to stay standing, and Arthur threw himself between him and the O'Driscolls, shielding Charles from the onslaught of bullets destined to come his way. With each squeeze of the trigger, Arthur's muscles tensed, his once steady hand quivering. He reloaded as quickly as he could, struggling to avoid being hit. His ears were ringing, aching from the constant gunfire. There were so many... there was no way he'd be able to fight all of them off.
Just protect Charles.
He bit his lip once he heard the dreaded click of his revolver and found he had no cartridges left. The only option left was to flee on the horses, but their terrified neighs filled the heavy air, making it impossible to mount without being bucked off.
"God dammit! Charles, we–"
Arthur, desperate to not let either of them die, found that Charles had gone. The indent of snow that held his frame was there along with horse tracks heading deep into the Grizzlies, but he wasn't. He opened his mouth to scream his name above the roaring blizzard and bullets, but a sharp smack against the back of his head with the butt of a rifle prevented words from coming out. The world tilted, the cold snow welcoming his helpless form as black surrounded him.
