Hosea felt numb.
Arthur was dead.
His son, his boy, was gone. They'd never see him again. Never watch him swagger into camp, fighting down a grin as he wore one of those ridiculous hats he collected just to annoy them. Never see him ride into town on a new horse, working hard to get it to trust him.
He should have been there. Arthur had died right before his shift, maybe he would have been able to do something. Would have been able to stop him from dying, or at least been there with him. A man should never outlive his son, but he would never forgive himself for not being there when he passed.
And Dutch was hurting, too. It wasn't just him. It was the whole gang—their whole family. Arthur had been there since the beginning, had welcomed all but Dutch and Hosea into the gang. To many of them, he was an uncle, a brother. He'd been there for as long as any of them could remember, was the foundation of the gang. No one could ever imagine him not being there.
And then he was gone.
"Hosea?" a hand settled on his shoulder, and he looked up to meet Dutch's gaze, the man's eyes bloodshot and glazed over. "Why don't we share my tent tonight?" he offered. It wasn't such a strange thing, they used to share a tent, sometimes even a bed or bedroll, often back in the beginning.
Hosea stared at him, feeling a flicker of anger in his stomach, spreading and chasing away some of the numbness, until all he could feel was that utter rage.
"This is your fault," he growled, and he clearly took Dutch by surprise, the man's eyes widening, hand going to his heart, gasping loudly.
"Hosea, what—?"
"If it weren't for you, Arthur would still be alive!" He should have felt guilty, considering the way Dutch's eyes welled, but he was so angry, "You knew, you knew, he'd never have left without telling you! He said he'd meet back up with you, and he didn't! We wanted to look for him, but you wouldn't let us! It's your damn fault!"
"Hosea," Dutch's voice cracked, gave out, and he cleared his throat, struggling to start again, "I didn't know, Micah said he'd gone wandering! I thought he was fine!"
'Micah.' The rage burned hotter. "Micah be damned!" he roared, and the aforementioned man jumped where he'd been sitting by the campfire, turning to glare over his shoulder. "Why would you listen to him?! You know better, Dutch! If it weren't for you, if it weren't for Micah, Arthur'd still be alive right now!"
It wasn't just Dutch who got the brunt of Hosea's pain, but Sean, too.
It hadn't taken long for Hosea to go after the man, more than he usually did. Sean had been the one on shift when Arthur had died, and Hosea knew Sean, and the boy was horrible about loafing during his shifts.
Sean hadn't been there.
The boy had come to him crying, admitting it. He'd gone out for a piss, and gotten distracted, talking to Javier, and before he knew it his shift was almost over and he'd been rushing back to be there for shift change, and he hadn't been in the tent long enough before Hosea was in there to get a good look at Arthur, to realize something was wrongwrongwrong, to realize that he was unnaturally still, that his face had taken on that horrible pallor.
And Hosea had torn into him. Had done all but strike him, and Charles had stepped in when he'd seen Sean's crying turn into a struggle to breathe. None of them had ever seen Hosea so upset before, veins bulging in his forehead, turning a horrible shade of red, and they'd worried for his health in that moment, that he'd been so worked up he might simply drop dead.
Sean hadn't spoken a word since, had taken to riding out and working himself to the bone, doing any work he could find, trying to make up for Arthur's absence (and how unfair was it that they only realized how much he did when he was dead?), bringing back as much money and food as he could. And when he was in camp, he spent all his time doing chores, sloppily chopping wood, hauling hay for the horses and feeding the hens, until he was forced to lay down when he looked two seconds from keeling over himself.
Even with Sean, though, the gang was struggling. People were hurting, and fighting. Getting sloppy. Those who weren't used to it were having to go out and work in ways they hadn't before, putting themselves at risk of injury or getting caught, the gang rapidly running low on funds and supplies. The girls were having to go into town, more and more, and Dutch's rule about keeping their heads low in Rhodes had long been broken.
Without Arthur, the gang was floundering.