Valentine, March 1899
Arthurs's hand crunched under the cartilage. Each punch landed, one after the other as each one brought more satisfaction to him.
Long had he forgotten about the cold, the mud, the rain, the screams and cheers of those around him. All he felt was the sheer biting anger of the damn fool beneath him as he could no longer tell whether it was Tommy's face getting softer or his hand.
It was not in his nature to stop, not now nor ever regardless of the crowd that formed around him or the bars that it would put him behind. Arthur had too much pride to care about any of that. If the bastard wanted to prove a point, then so be it.
There was a small voice in the back of his head that told him to stop, that told him that he could hit the man - any man - a hundred times and it would never placate him. At that moment, the seconds dripped past slowly and nothing else mattered other than beating the moron further and further until the point had been made.
He could feel his knuckles cracking, blood oozing from the cracks between them. He knew that he should have stopped long before he did but there was something about the man that drew him on. Something about him that reminded him of himself.
Tommy screamed again, a high-pitched sound that cut through the air like a knife. His eyes rolled back into his head, revealing the whites. Arthur didn't let up. In fact, he picked up the pace, letting out a guttural grunt with every punch. The crowd cheered louder at the sight of such a brutal display of violence.
Arthur lost track of time, only knowing that the fight went on for what seemed an eternity.
Like an untethered animal, he grunted, the outlaw's hand grew numb but still had as much force behind it as it did with the first punch.
The blows were relentless.
As the last one landed, Tommy fell silent. Arthur leaned over the prone body, feeling the sweat dripping down his brow. Grabbing the sodden collar, Arthur lifted him partially off the ground, enough to send the last final, bloodied blow as he threw his shoulder back as much as it would allow him.
'Stop! Stop! Please!'
Another face pushed himself between the two, as Arthur hesitated just for the slightest of seconds.
'Please, I beg you!' the man said. His beige shirt was wet through from the rain and Arthur snarled at him, not yet done with his duty.
'Come, sir,' the moustached face said, his eyes filled with concern, empathy, something that was just enough to bring Arthur out of his haze.
It was then that the cold hit him. The wet, cold mud that was painted across his face, the mulch that was in his boots and seeping between his toes.
His clothes were drenched, soaked through, clinging to his skin. He shook uncontrollably as the crowd watched, unsure of what they had just witnessed.
Arthur looked down at the unconscious form below him, realizing how close he had come to killing someone.
The man begged and pleaded, his arms held up to Arthur meekly.
'You won the fight already, surely that's enough?' He said, his tone pleading and weak.
Arthur panted, his chest numb and stinging for the exertion and then the still ache crept into his hand. A raw and biting pain that only came with a price worth paying on someone who thought they had the damn gall to think Arthur would make a fair fight of things. At least that was the way he saw it.
Throwing the proprietor to the sullen earth, Arthur's focus shifted to the fool who thought that playing the good samaritan would come of any resolution. His eyes narrowed, as he spat on the bloodied and beaten man on the ground.
'What business is it of yours?' Arthur snarled, the wind catching his jacket slightly as a shiver ran over his bones.
Pushing him out the way, Arthur was done with the scene. Done with it all. The whiskey and anger still held his mind and he sludged his way through the mud. A part of him thought of taking his revolver out of its holster. Shooting them all down.
Damn them, Arthur thought as his mind snatched at reason. He could kill them all, take a horse and sleep just as soundly as he did the night before.
Forcing his way through the crowd, Arthur stumbled, the slick of the mud and alcohol combined did not make for good bedfellows. Twisting his shoulders, he found his way to the closest set of steps and eyes turned to him and mumbled whilst the bodies formed a circle around Tommy who remained still and silent in the forsaken mud.
Arthur stepped onto the wooden porch, taking his hat off and wiping his face with the back of his sleeve.
'Making new friends again I see, Arthur,' the Englishman called, as irritating as a puffin.
Accompanied by Dutch, Arthur felt a sudden twinge in his back, another sign of his age and foolhardiness as the men in almost matching three piece suits approached him.
Dutch looked his usual displeased self, as Arthur already felt the scolding that was no doubt coming his way.
'Look who we found sniffing around,' Dutch gestured to Trelawney as he walked towards Arthur.
With an eccentric bow, Arthur nodded, expecting nothing less. His patience was already worn thin and the last thing he wanted to do was to speak with anyone. Especially someone who always seemed to be fluent in sarcastic poetry.
'Josiah Trelawney. Well, well…' Arthur noted, with a sigh, although unable to keep a chuckle to himself. Whether it was from the adrenaline that had worn off, the bourbon or the sight of Trelawney in general, he wasn't quite sure. 'I thought you'd gone to New York?' he questioned, trying to find a comfortable space to sit.
Ignoring the comment, Josiah looked around as the town slowly returned to its usual pace, hardly unfamiliar with late afternoon brawls.
The Englishman reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out a handkerchief like some kind of stage show peddling magician as he flicked it open and held it to his nose, taking in a heavy breath and folding it back up just as neatly as it had appeared.
'And miss all the glamour? You must be joking,' he quipped as Arthur struggled forward towards the two men, a slow dulling pain forming in his jaw.
'How are you?' Arthur drawled, wiping the mud from his lips and the earth tasted heavy and gritty on his tongue.
'Well, quite well indeed! I went to Blackwater looking for you gentlemen…' Trelawney propped his elbow onto the wooden spindle, suddenly regretting it as he pulled back acting as though it was made from fire. Inspecting his elbow for no doubt any fleck of dirt that had besmirched his dandy wool. 'You're not very popular there it seems.'
Grumbling, Arthur didn't know what hurt him the most, his knee, his back, knuckles or his jaw. It seemed everywhere was a constant annoyance these days. Catching Dutch's eyes, he saw the slightest of cautionary looks he expected. Not that it made him feel any better, knowing he would see the familiar look sooner rather than later.
'Ah!' Josiah proclaimed, his voice echoing like copper pans being struck on a hangover. Arthur wanted to be done with the day. 'Javier and Charles!'
The men ambled over, rubbing their jaws and noses in equal fashion, looking like a bunch of hounds that had been beaten by their masters.
'And Bill!' Josiah continued, 'looking as well as can be. Gentleman, always a pleasure,' the English fool took another bow, looking more fitting for the opera than some shit hole town.
Arthur mulled over his swelling knuckles, growing impatient and tired. Dutch meanwhile scraped some of the mud from his boot on the step, looking around the group of miscreants.
'You're right,' their leader said, 'we ain't too popular in Blackwater.' His face was hard and verging on pissed off, as usual.
'We left a lot of money there,' Arthur reminded them, still bitter that all their hard work was for nothing.
Blackwater had cost them a great deal more than it should have. To say it was a disaster was an understatement. No money, three dead not including civilians, a town on lockdown and their heads on wanted posters within a hundred miles of that place. Blackwater be damned.
'And young Sean, it seems,' Josiah chimed in, his top hat not moving an inch.
'Sean? You found him?' Dutch asked, looking puzzled, his thick eyebrows furrowing.
'Yes, I have,' the Englishman smirked, his dark moustache twitching in delight. 'He's being held by some bounty hunters - trying to see how much money the government will pay them. I know he's in Blackwater, but there's talk of them moving.'
'Well, if we step foot in Blackwater,' Arthur groaned, his jaw bruising by the second as he spat some more mud from his mouth, 'well, then we're dead men for sure.' He stood, with some difficulty as his chilly and aching body felt as though it had aged another ten years in the past half hour.
'There'll be Pinkertons all over the place, but if he's alive we gotta try,' Dutch said firmly.
Arthur nodded along with the other men, as Josiah looked around with a queer look on his face.
'It's you they want, Dutch,' he said, his voice lower and lacking his usual eccentricities.
'Always is,' Dutch remarked with a shrug, nonchalant to yet another bounty on their heads. 'Charles, go find out what you can, carefully. Josiah, take Javier.' Pointing and spouting orders, Dutch turned to Arthur with a look of disapproval. 'Arthur, go get yourself cleaned up. Join them when you're ready.'
'Well, what about me?' Bill whined following Dutch as Arthur left for the hotel.
The exchange continued, Bill acting like a spoiled child as usual whilst Dutch chided him. Arthur tried to hide his hobble woefully, as he found a barrel of rainwater and tried to clean the worst of the mud off of his face and hair.
He made his way over to Saints Hotel on the other side of the street, unsure if he would be welcome. He'd pay them extra if needed, he certainly wasn't about to get on his horse without soaking his joints in a hot bath.
Walking through the door the clerk at the entrance desk looked at him hesitantly. Not that Arthur paid much mind.
'Just need a few hours to clean up,' Arthur said, reaching into his satchel for some dollar bills. The clerk remained silent, fishing a key from underneath the desk.
'Room six, last room on the right, upstairs. We don't want no trouble.' The man said, a slight shake to his voice.
'Yeah, yeah,' Arthur mumbled, scrunching the dollars on the desk. He was hardly in any fit state to cause trouble even if he wanted to. 'Send one of the girls up with some hot water.'
After he found the room, he removed his caked jacket, throwing it over the modesty screen, followed by his boots and socks.
He had no doubt that even down to his union suit, it would be covered in sodden earth. A light tap sounded on the other side of the door.
'Come in,' he called, pulling a cigarette from his bag.
'Your water, sir?' A young girl called, clutching the copper pan at the side with a rag.
'Fill her up,' Arthur commented, waving at the bath dismissively.
After the girl had poured the water and left, Arthur finished his smoke and removed the rest of his clothes.
Stepping into the heated water, he sank down into warmth as the water turned instantly brown. Not caring too much, having washed in dirtier water, Arthur scrubbed at himself, noticing several bruises already forming around his ribs and stomach.
A real fine collection he was starting to build as his knee was still a molten array of dark colours.
After he had got the worst of the mud off, he leant back, closing his eyes and allowing the water to soothe him. He wouldn't be clean but it was a damn sight better than nothing. He lay there for some time, thinking over Blackwater. All the money that was lost, how close it was to them being captured or killed. Now they had to skip after Sean and put themselves in harm's way again.
It seemed that everything was closing in around them, the Pinkertons, the government, bounty hunters. The life of an outlaw was certainly draining. If he could just get enough cash, if they could find a job that would just pay. Well, that's what Blackwater was supposed to be and they barely escaped with a pot to piss in.
At least with Josiah back in the picture, for however long that would be, Arthur was comforted by the fact that they would at least have some interesting jobs on the go. Josiah earned his keep well.
Stepping out of the bath, Arthur grabbed the towel, drying himself off and thankful that it was already a questionable colour of grey. Wrapping it around his waist, he grabbed his clothes and scrubbed them in the water trying to get them as presentable as possible.
Once he had finished, he opened the window, placing his jeans and shirt halfway out of the windowsill, praying it wouldn't rain for a few hours.
He paid for the room so he might as well use it. He crawled into the bed and fell into a dreamless sleep.
The sound of rain against the window woke Arthur from his slumber. He sat up, rubbed the sleep from his eyes and looked around the room.
'Oh, shit,' he muttered under his breath with the feeling that he was out longer than he intended. Looking out the window, the wind whistled between the buildings as the temperate drum of raindrops hit the glass.
The streets were empty as the sun was hidden behind the clouds. Arthur slipped on his boots, tied them tight and made his way downstairs.
The young girl from before was standing outside the front door. She gave him a nod of acknowledgement before returning to her duties.
'I think it will clear soon, Mister,' she said, a nervous tone to her voice.
Arthur smiled at her, giving her a reassuring nod in return as he silently left. He walked towards the main road, keeping an eye on the sky as he did.
His horse was standing patiently beside the hotel, its coat shiny and darkened in colour from the rain. Arthur mounted up, checking his weapons and hat, before heading out of the town.
He could hear the rattle of raindrops hitting the horse's coat as he rode out of the town, leaving the rain behind. He could see the river, the banks lined with trees and the road winding around the hills. The sun broke through the clouds, sending rays of sunlight dancing across the land.
He knew this place, he had ridden here many times, and the only thing that changed was the clouds above him.
As he rode, he kept his eyes peeled for any sign of the Pinkerton agents, not wanting to risk getting caught out. As he reached the outskirts of the town, he could see that the road had been blocked off by a large pile of logs. It was a good hiding spot.
Riding slowly past the blockade, Arthur could see a group of men gathered around a fire, playing cards and drinking. There were a couple of horses tied up next to them, their reins hanging loosely over the railings and the men jeered amongst themselves.
Arthur slowed his horse to a stop, looking at the men that sat in the clearing. The men looked up at him, dropping into silence with unreadable eyes. One of the men stood, pointing at Arthur.
'What do you want?' Arthur growled before the man could say anything, as he ushered Montague forward, his hand resting on his gun.
The man didn't answer him and instead of turning his horse around and riding away, Arthur held his ground. He couldn't help but feel that these men were after him.
They were probably just drunk and bored and thought it amusing to watch someone ride by. But why else block off the road unless they wanted something? Or maybe it was just a coincidence; there must be dozens of places where people stopped to drink beer.
One of the men pointed at Arthur, laughing loudly with his friends.
With a sneer Arthur kicked his heels lightly to send his mount charging toward the group, forcing the others to jump aside. His horse reared in excitement, kicking out violently, almost knocking one of the men onto his backside.
Arms flailing wildly, Arthur pulled his pistol free from the holster, aiming it straight at the lead man.
'What are you doing?' the leader began shouting as he took aim at Arthur, his hands trembling slightly.
'You wanna play games?' Arthur snarled, cocking his revolver.
'We ain't done nothing wrong…' The man stammered nervously as he stared at the weapon aimed directly at his chest.
'Then move,' Arthur ordered. With that he nudged Montague closer, making the man stumble backwards.
Arthur fired three quick shots into the air. At once every man dropped to his knees as though struck dead.
Arthur turned his horse, kicking the animal into a gallop, sending it racing down the road. Forcing Montague to a full run, Arthur turned his head to look behind him, seeing the men slowly rising on the ground.
He didn't slow down until he was far enough away to feel safe. Once he was certain that he wasn't followed, he turned back to the road ahead, making his way back to camp.
The rain came down in sheets, washing the dust from the roads and filling the air with a fresh scent. Arthur was soaked to the bone, his leather jacket clinging to his body. He had stopped for a break amongst some trees, his horse shivering alongside him.
He pulled a cigar from his pocket, lighting it with his flint and steel. It took a few tries before he managed to get a spark, his fingers clumsy from the cold.
He blew the smoke out of his mouth, watching as it floated away into the sky, leaving a trail of white in its wake. His thoughts drifted back to Blackwater, how close he had come to death.
It was ironic really, he had spent most of his life avoiding the law, only to end up surrounded by it.
Sighing, he pulled another drag from the cigar, blowing the smoke out of his nose.
'That was stupid,' he muttered under his breath. He had allowed himself to be distracted by a few cowards who had taken advantage of his weakness.
But Arthur knew that he could never give up that life. He had grown too fond of it, he enjoyed the thrill of running from the law, the danger of living on the edge.
As though fate had read his the thoughts, the sound of hooves on the ground drew Arthur out of his daydreaming. Turning his head, he saw that the Pinkertons were coming his way. He watched as they rode up, his heart beating fast in his chest. Praying that the trees were dense enough to cover him, he watched the group of men on horseback meander down the road.
He could see the men as they passed the first tree and then the second, and then they were gone. Arthur breathed a sigh of relief as he continued on his way back to camp. Hopefully, it wouldn't be long before he was out of the rain without making another foolish decision.