Arthur and the others reached Moonstone with no agents or local law trailing them. It all seemed so easy that Arthur was starting to believe Milton had told the truth about sending a bunch of his men to stake out Blackwater. If so, what was the fate of the folk who had chosen to follow Dutch as blindly as he once had?
He tried not to let it get to him since their group had made it out without casualties. It was the most he'd hoped for when they'd left for Van Horn, and he sure wasn't about to take their luck for granted.
Soon as they started riding up the trail of the camp, Abigail hopped down from the horse and ran to her son. She knelt down and folded Jack into her arms, muffling his exclamation of, "Momma!"
The sight of their reunion made everything worth it. It didn't matter if the gang had split for good or that years-long friendships had splintered in an afternoon. They'd done at least one thing right in getting a mother back to her son.
"Everything went well, I presume?" Charlotte asked him as he brushed down Buck. She looked around the group, checking that they were all accounted for.
"As well as it could, I suppose," he said as if there hadn't been no danger. It weren't the first time he'd been in a fight with a gun aimed at his face, but it was the first time he'd nearly lost. "How'd it go here?"
"Nothing too eventful, much to Karen's disappointment. A few curious coyotes came up close to camp, but we managed to shoo them off before they caused any mischief."
"Good."
Her eyes drifted to his coat and she spotted the blood splattered there. Her mouth dropped open. "Arthur, are you hurt?"
"No. It's Milton's blood."
There was brief shock that took over her expression before it settled into acceptance. "Alright. Do you have a change of clothes?"
"I got another coat in my saddlebag."
She held out her hand. "Let me take this one in the meantime to wash it."
He didn't see the point in arguing so he did as she asked and shrugged it off.
"You should sit down for a bit, Arthur," Charlotte suggested as she took his coat and strode away.
She was right about that too, but before he did anything else, he had to finish what he started when he'd split the gang from Dutch.
He called to the others, "Alright, the lot of you. We ain't got time to linger. Milton's dead, but that doesn't mean he don't got men on the prowl who are just as persistent. Head out while you still got sun to lead your way."
Everyone looked around and he saw the same understanding in their eyes as he felt. It was time for their farewells, maybe the last ones they ever said to each other.
Sadie was the only one who didn't want to make a big fuss. She hadn't dismounted yet, and turned Bob around. She acknowledged all of them with a simple, hearty salute. "I'll see you folks around."
Arthur had a lot to thank her for, but he could only join the others in waving as Sadie's horse kicked up dust. He silently wished her well and hoped they crossed paths in the future.
Karen was the opposite of Sadie. She went to all of them one by one and hugged, squeezing tight. "Y'all don't be strangers. Leave a letter at the post office in a few weeks, won't cha?"
"Sure," Arthur agreed obligingly.
"Of course we will," Abigail said for both her and John.
"Don't find yourself high and mighty neither, Char," Karen said as she leaned back from her hug with Charlotte. "I expect to hear from you too."
Charlotte smiled. "But of course, Miss Jones."
Karen rustled Jack's hair. "You remember what I taught you about using a rifle."
Abigail shot her a sharp look. "You did not show Jack how to use a gun."
Karen winked and sauntered to Old Belle, not saying another word.
Lenny offered his hand to shake. "It's been a pleasure working with you, Arthur."
"Same with you," he replied, and meant it. "Much as a disaster the last few months turned out to be."
Lenny lifted a shoulder. "I learned a lot."
"Yeah, well, don't follow all my advice," Arthur told him, only half-joking. "What you thinkin' of doin'?"
"Think I might try my hand working cons similar to the ones Hosea liked to cook up."
"You got the head for it," Arthur said agreeably, yet he advised, "but lie low for a little while."
Lenny studied him a moment. "You gonna make it, Arthur?"
It was a crushing question for him to answer, but fair enough. "Time will tell."
"Hey, Summers," Karen called from atop her gray Nokota. "I know we should all split up, but how about we ride together some?"
Lenny led his horse Maggie over. "I don't know if I should take you up on that, Jones."
"And why not?"
"Because everywhere you go, you get into trouble."
"Well, yeah," she answered easily, "but the fun kind."
"I don't know..."
"Don't act like you don't like trouble now and again."
"Fine, I'll go with you, Karen," Lenny relented as he mounted his young Mustang. "Long as you promise you'll get me out of trouble when it happens."
She released a wide, cheeky grin. "Stay on my good side and you don't got to worry."
The two of them kept on with their light banter as they trotted out of camp. Arthur wasn't sure when they'd got so chummy, but he was glad they had each other.
"Do you think it's safe enough to leave in the morning instead, John?" asked Abigail before Arthur could start his goodbyes with them.
"I don't know. Why?"
She hugged Jack, who looked as if he were about to fall asleep on his feet. "Jack's had a hard couple of days. He could use a night to rest before we start a long journey on a horse."
John looked to him and Arthur shrugged. "Well, there ain't too many of us and we ain't too close to Van Horn. I reckon if one of us takes a watch tonight, it'd be safe enough."
John nodded. "I'll do it."
Abigail took Jack to one of the tents that hadn't been packed away to put him to bed. John drew a rifle from his saddle and walked to the end of the camp's pathway. As for Arthur, he wasn't tired, despite the craziness of the day, but neither did he know what to do with himself.
It was just him and Charlotte left and she asked, "Would you care for some dinner, Arthur?"
"Sure."
The sun was setting, reds and oranges streaking across a blue cloudless sky. Arthur threw a few branches on the campfire and settled on the log across from it. Charlotte presented him with roasted meat on a stick. If he had to guess, he'd say by how thin the meat was, it was rabbit.
She tidied her skirt and sat next to him. "I'm hoping it has a much better flavor than my earliest attempts."
"Could use some seasoning," he answered without reservation before realizing he should have been more tactful in expressing his judgment.
"Oh?" Charlotte turned slightly. "What would you suggest?"
He hesitated a moment, not knowing how sensitive she would be to his criticism. But her eyes weren't narrowed or twitching with anger. She seemed genuinely curious and she'd taken his advice well before.
"With the rabbit, I'd keep it simple," he started slowly. "Thyme's easy enough to come by. We could take a few steps in the woods here and be tripping over it. Oregano would bring out the flavor more, but probably would be wasted on meat this thin. Mint's a good herb too, but better on chicken than anything else. Or a thicker meat like pork..." Arthur trailed off. "Sorry. Don't mean to ramble."
"On the contrary," Charlotte answered, now leaning forward. "I find it fascinating."
"You do?" he asked doubtfully.
"Yes. I always knew there was a craft to cooking meals and I'm beginning to realize how much I underappreciated the chefs back home." She focused on him again and cast him a smile. "You're as much of an expert."
"Well," he cleared his throat, somewhat embarrassed. "Wouldn't go that far." He lifted what he had left on his stick, "In any case, this is good."
"You mean that?"
"'Course."
"I appreciate your honesty, Arthur." She sounded relieved, as if his opinion mattered to her. "As you know, this sort of thing isn't my forte. But I've been trying my hardest to acclimate to a new lifestyle."
"Yeah, you've come a long way."
Charlotte frowned around at the camp that was no more, her gaze lingering on Abigail's tent. "My time here has opened my eyes to a great many societal injustices I hadn't been aware of. It's disgraceful the deplorable acts those in power commit against the less fortunate."
Arthur chuckled a little. "Careful, you're startin' to sound as lawless as the rest of us."
She smiled in return. "Perhaps you've converted me."
She might think so, but Arthur couldn't picture her going as far as pick-pocketing folk, holding up anyone or conning a dime out of nobody. She wasn't suited for that sort of life. Her heart was too soft and he hoped to keep it that way.
Arthur finished his meal and reflected, "In the end, we weren't revolutionaries like Dutch always said we was. For awhile, we targeted those that deserved it, but somewhere along the line we slid into robbin' too many folks less fortunate than us."
"Hmm."
He lifted his brow. "Ain't no denying it. We ain't nothin' more than bank robbers, thieves and conmen."
"I didn't deny anything, but I do believe you are more than that. All of you."
"All?" he challenged.
"Most," she conceded. "I've listened to Sadie's story, to Molly's, Mary-Beth's, Mr. Trelawny's...they all spoke of this gang in the same manner: you're a family."
"We were. Once."
"Recent events do seem to have pushed you apart," she acknowledged. "but, as I've observed, all of you lost your way at one point, yet you've come together to form a special bond." She rested a hand on his arm. "There are good people here, Arthur, including yourself."
"She's right, Arthur." From the outside of the tent, Abigail had been listening. She approached, saying, "John told me what happened with Dutch. That you and him pushed to come save me. You're family to me and always will be."
"'Course," he said simply.
She stopped next to him and rested a hand on his shoulder. "I did want to thank you, Arthur."
He nodded shortly. "It was no trouble, Abigail."
Abigail hugged herself, her attention drifting towards the sunset and expression set with purpose. "Some day I hope to leave this sort of living in the past, to let it die as a memory."
"Don't we all."
Abigail shook herself a little and said, "Excuse me, you two. I've got to speak to John."
"Go easy on him," Arthur told her as she walked away. "He did help."
"Barely," she mumbled before she was out of earshot.
Charlotte told him confidently, "You'll find your way, Arthur."
He knew this country well enough to make it, but what about her? She was smart, sure, but it didn't mean no would try taking advantage of her if she chose to stay out here.
He hesitated, but drew up the courage to ask her, "You got any idea where you want to go tomorrow?"
She blew out a breath. "I suppose, none of my efforts to persevere out here truly mattered in the end. I'll have to return to Chicago after all."
He said ruefully, "Seems things is about to change for all of us."
She gifted him a small smile. "Yes. But that doesn't mean it has to be a bad thing. It wouldn't be hard to...I don't know...get lost somewhere and start anew."
Arthur heard the suggestion for what it was. It was too specific to not be something she'd been thinking on already. He smiled some, liking the idea. "Get lost, huh?"
He watched a blush flower her cheeks. "I only mean, it wouldn't be difficult, if one so wishes."
And did she wish that? Would she be interested in sticking with him? Fear of rejection held his tongue from asking. He had nothing to his name except a bounty in two states. What would a woman like her want with a man of so little?
He wanted to start over, to pick the right choices and do the right things, but he wasn't sure it was possible. All his past killing, robbing and misdeeds blackened any kind of future.
She rested her hand on his arm. "Please tell me what's on your mind, Arthur."
"Charlotte, would you..." His mouth was dry. It was stupid. He'd faced worse foes than nerves.
"Arthur," Hosea's scolded, all too clear in his head, "Stop thinking and just live how you can for as long as you can."
Rarely had he been accused of thinking too much, but he'd lately fallen into brooding. It was the result of seeing his life through different eyes.
"Yes, Arthur?" Charlotte prompted him.
Arthur took in a breath and let out all his worries tumble free. "You want the truth, and I'll give it to you. You want us to leave here and start a clean life, but that ain't a guarantee. More likely, I'll ruin your life as surely as anyone else who's gotten close to me. If it ain't other folk around me puttin' you in danger, it'll be my death ruining any prospects for you."
"Oh, my. Well. That's quite the heavy burden you've been keeping to yourself." She took a moment to ponder his words. "As far as the people around you...while not all, there are quite a few that are pleasant company."
"They ain't who I mean and you know it." His hands clenched. "I got enemies, and that's without mentioning the law that would see me hanged at the first opportunity. Whoever don't want me dead will know me for a wanted man."
"It seems to me, we're already living in a similar manner and you've managed to rise against any that adversity."
"That ain't all. It won't last."
Confusion creased her brow. "I'm afraid I don't follow."
"This," Arthur grabbed up one of her hands, "is a fairy tale. It's too late to make anything of it and that's all there is to it."
Her expression cleared. "Arthur, I understand your fear, but I'm willing to take you any way I can, for as long as this life gifts us. I'm not afraid to face any obstacles that may come our way."
Even if he couldn't reconcile the man she seemed to think him, Charlotte's response left him awash with relief and almost disbelief. It was a stark contrast to his frank talk with Mary, when he'd laid bare his mind and heart. She'd said it was too late for them and the disgust in her eyes told him more than she had said.
Raised voices carried from the end of the trail, interrupting their moment of peace. Abigail and John were going at it, the harsh tones unmistakable, but Arthur couldn't understand what they were fighting about already. He was sick of their bickering. Couldn't they for one day just be grateful they had each other and damn the rest of it?
"What the hell are you two arguing about now?" he hollered, completely fed up with their endless disagreement.
Abigail stomped over. John abandoned his post to trail behind her. "Arthur, maybe you can talk some sense into his thick head."
"What is it?" he asked warily. He was sorely regretting saying a damn thing and getting sidetracked from his conversation with Charlotte.
"We don't need to do it," John interrupted. "We got those jewels."
Abigail shot back, "Can't sell them to no one around here."
"I got a few dollars."
"That ain't gonna get us far."
Arthur rubbed his temple. "Do what?"
"There's money hidden back at Beaver Hollow."
"What?"
Charlotte sat up straight and asked, "You're speaking of that locked chest, aren't you?"
Abigail nodded. "Dutch kept all our earnings down in them caves."
Arthur lifted his head, surprised. "He kept it that close?"
John said with disgust, "I guess Dutch was getting sloppier than we thought."
Abigail insisted, "There's no way he got it out when the Pinkertons attacked."
"But you say this chest is locked?" Arthur asked. "Ain't no way we're lugging that up the caves."
"You won't have to." As if she'd been waiting for him to make that point, Abigail flipped a necklace out from the top of her dress. Only, it wasn't a necklace, but a key tied on a string. One could assume the very key to their money chest.
"When did you have time to steal that?" he said, impressed with her thievery twice in one day.
Abigail admitted, "During the Pinkerton raid. While y'all were shooting each other, I grabbed this."
"Isn't going back there quite risky?" Charlotte asked with worry. "You all have the chance to run right now. Why would you consider throwing that away?"
Arthur wanted to agree with Charlotte, as she sounded like the only voice of reason among thieves, but she also didn't understand the desperate times that were ahead if they didn't go back. That money, just sitting there, turning into moth's meal, was a temptation too far, especially when they were in need of it.
With the key, it wouldn't take much to get to it. This was their money for the taking. Once they had it, they could split it and starting a new life would be that much easier. He'd have one less worry about setting out with Charlotte.
Since he already convinced himself, Arthur stood and volunteered, "I'll go."
Charlotte stood also and frowned at him. "Arthur, I don't think this is wise."
"Probably not, but it's the one chance we got."
Abigail noticed Charlotte's distress and her face pinched with guilt. "Arthur, I didn't mean—"
"I know, but it's true. Ya'll need money."
"We got them jewels," John pointed out again.
"Nah. Abigail's right. Those won't get you nowhere until you can find a fence who's never heard the name Braithwaite."
John said with determination, "Then I'll go with you, Arthur."
"John," Abigail protested in alarm.
He turned to her. "You can't expect Arthur to go back by himself, Abigail."
By the stubborn look of her, she had expected it. Arthur couldn't blame her, really. They'd finally got their family all together and John was chasing money again. But Arthur hadn't had a chance to rest so he wasn't going to deny the help.
Arthur tried to reassure the women. "Once we get to Beaver Hollow, it should only take us a few minutes to recover the money. I reckon, John and I can get back in an hour or two, with the ride to and from."
"I don't know..." Abigail said skeptically, now not entirely on board with the plan. John pulled her aside to convince her.
Arthur faced Charlotte, who was standing beside him with her head bowed. He started to give her the same warning he'd given her a few hours ago. "If we take too long..."
She lifted her eyes then and his words caught in his throat. She said, "I'll wait for you, Arthur."
He swallowed. He could spend the rest of his days getting lost in her eyes. And if he decided to back out now, maybe he could. But that money would make all the difference.
He weren't expecting trouble, but all the same he continued, "In case it all goes sideways and we don't get back, you three clear off from here. Abigail will need some convincing, but get Jack and yourselves out. Don't look back."
"We'll take care if we must," she replied softly. He noticed she didn't commit to saying she'd do as he asked. He decided to let it pass.
Arthur wanted to convey all these ideas he'd had in his head before John and Abigail had interrupted them. He wanted to reassure her he was ready to try something new, that getting this money wasn't about greed. He couldn't promise her there still wouldn't be hardship ahead, but if they got that money, it would ease the burden.
It was too late for him to get into another heartfelt discussion with Charlotte if they wanted to be quick about retrieving their money. There were things he wanted to say, things that sounded clear in his head, but he knew he would fumble if he tried to voice it. So, he wouldn't say anything, least not with words.
Arthur leaned in to bestow Charlotte a modest kiss, similar to the one she'd provided him weeks ago when he'd visited her in Willard's Rest. Before he'd gotten her tangled up with him, and before this idea crossed his mind that he wanted her tangled up.
It should have been simple to mimic, to flutter his lips briefly over her cheek, but here, in this instance, some madness overcame him.
He lowered his head, but instead of her cheek, his mouth moved to her lips. He tasted her startled gasp before she sank into the kiss, sliding her arms around his neck and returning in kind. With Charlotte in his arms, everything made sense. She filled him with courage and confidence and he felt he could do anything.
He pulled back, but not too far, their heads still close together as he watched her eyes open slowly and stare back at him.
"Arthur?" she whispered, her breath mingling with his.
"Yeah?"
She requested of him, "Come back safely, won't you?"
Arthur closed his eyes and took in a deep breath, allowing her into his senses, barriers down. She smelled of the forest around them, of soap from his coat she'd taken to clean, of the meal she'd had ready when he'd come back, of a lavender scent that seemed to be of her own. "I'll do my best, ma'am."
Arthur reluctantly released her and joined John at the horses. His friend had an uncalled for ear-to-ear grin plastered on his face.
"Shut up, Marston," he snapped as he looped Buck's reins over his head and turned him around.
"I didn't say nothing."
"You didn't have to say anything. I can see you smirkin' in the dark."
"Sure you can." John asked, serious all the sudden, "How much you think Dutch set aside?"
"I don't know, but it's sure to be enough to get the hell out of the state."
"Sounds good enough to me," John said and he set Old Boy off into a gallop.
To himself, Arthur thought, and maybe when it was all said and done, all of this would still mean something.
XXXXXXXXX
The clouds darkened overhead as they drew nearer to Beaver Hollow, indicating another storm would surely be rolling through in the next hour or so. All the more reason for them to get this done quick. There was also a fog rising, creeping through the trees and dropping on the path in front of them.
Arthur wasn't much for superstition, but in this instance he felt the ominous discomfort the further they got from those they cared for and the closer they got to Beaver Hollow.
At one point, he asked, "Does it seem a little too quiet out here?"
John turned his neck, a confused look on his face. "No. Why? You having second thoughts or something?"
"No," Arthur answered, all the while wishing he could turn tail and get the hell out of the area.
"Like you said, it won't take us long to grab that money," John assured. "In and out, easy money."
"In and out," Arthur repeated. He didn't like how eerily similar to Dutch that sounded, always with the reassurances.
"Besides, at this point, if I go back empty-handed, I won't hear the end of it from Abigail."
Avoiding Abigail's wrath was almost worth the endeavor.
"Let's go up the west side," Arthur said, shaking off his uneasiness and pointing at the side of the hill he, Charlotte and Charles had escaped only a few days ago. "There's a ladder that runs straight down."
With any luck, they wouldn't have to go through their decimated camp and be reminded of the grief that had befallen them there. Hosea dying, Susan killed and the chasm that had widened between the group before their ultimate break at Moonstone.
He and John dismounted near the bottom of the hill, but off the trail. They didn't hitch their horses in case they needed to make a quick getaway. It wouldn't surprise Arthur if Milton had left an agent or two behind to try and catch them.
At the top of the hill, he and John hunted around until they found the cutout in the ground for the entrance. John went first, climbing down the ladder. Arthur followed and, as soon as they were in the damp air of the cave, his lungs started to irritate him. After only a few steps in the cave, he coughed a few times before he got a hold of himself.
John stopped and asked, "You alright?"
"Let's just get this done and get out of here."
They reached the bottom of the cave, the likes of which resembled a graveyard of the Murfrees' creation. A human-sized cage stood on one end and strewn about the cave floor were personals. Shredded clothing, hats, blankets and random documents littered the floor.
John noticed his agitation at the sight of things and commented, "Haven't you been down here before?"
"Ain't had the pleasure." The only time he'd been here was when they'd been running for their lives from the Pinkertons. He hadn't the time to give it a once over.
John shook his head, rueful. "Just be glad you didn't see the shit those ingrates were doing to people. They're hardly human."
Arthur had heard John, Bill and Lenny had secured the camp at Beaver Hollow when Arthur had been busy at Willard's Rest. "Sounds awful."
They followed Abigail's instructions on where to find Dutch's chest, but soon as they reached the broken wagon and had a look around, it was clear as day there weren't nothing to find.
Bleakly, Arthur said, "It's gone."
John was in more denial than him. He peered hard into the darkness. "Maybe there's another wagon down here we missed."
Arthur knelt in the dirt and pointed. "Look how them crates are disturbed, and the lines in the dirt. No doubt about it, it's been taken."
"Who could have taken it?"
"Who else? Milton must have found it." Now Arthur wondered if it was being kept somewhere in Van Horn and they'd missed it. But more likely, it'd already been sent off on a ship and all the spoils of their jobs was gone.
"What a goddamn waste of time!" John snapped.
He was rightfully angry, as this was supposed to change their lives, but all Arthur felt was let down. "Yeah."
"Now what are we gonna do?"
"I don't know."
"Goddamnit!" John's frustration got the best of him and he kicked one of the crates, sending it smashing across the cave's floor. "We need that money, Arthur."
"Don't I know it, but calm down. Ain't no reason to throw a tantrum over it. Doesn't change nothin'."
"I can't believe that money's gone," he groused. "All those jobs we did, all that hard earned cash we contributed, what a waste."
"Maybe."
"What's that mean? How is it not?"
Arthur stood and told him, "It's time to make it our own way from now on. Ain't no deeper than that. We gotta leave the old ways and go straight, for good. After all, Milton's gone. That's one last bastard chasing us. It's time to..." Arthur coughed and tried to clear his throat. He sucked in a gulping breath.
"Arthur?"
He grabbed the edge of the wagon's bed for balance, seeing the black creeping up on his vision. Shit. Not now.
Suddenly, John clutched his shoulder and it encouraged Arthur to cling to consciousness. "Hold on."
John kept hold of his shoulder and led him up the steep cavern floor to the opening. Arthur coughed nearly the whole way.
Eventually, they passed the cave's mouth, the outside only slightly brighter than the dark depths they'd left behind. John left his side to lift a chair from the ground and Arthur collapsed into it. That fit had left him with a sharp grating in his lungs.
John stepped back and averted his gaze, to give him his dignity, Arthur supposed. Not that he had much left. John was clearly uncomfortable, but Arthur had come to terms with this, with death.
"I've made a lot of mistakes, John, but being here, helping you and Abigail and Jack? That ain't one of them."
John said, "You've always had my back."
"Well. "Arthur chuckled a little and it somehow eased the soreness in his throat and a weight in his mind. "Maybe not always, but I'll do whatever it takes from here to see you three away safe."
They both fell into silence a moment. Then, John offered, "You should come with us, Arthur. No reason not to."
"There's a reason."
He lifted a knowing brow. "Charlotte?"
Arthur laughed shortly. "That ain't what I was about to say, but, yeah, I suppose it's the truth. You can see the state I'm in though. Even you could probably win a round against me these days."
"Yeah..." John answered, quiet.
"I'd only hold you three up." The last goddamn thing he wanted was to be a burden on anyone, friends or stranger. It was the main reason he'd been so hesitant in asking Charlotte if she would to join him.
"You good?" John asked, ready to leave.
Arthur stood and sucked in a rattling breath. "Much as I'll ever be."
"Let's get back."
They both whistled for their horses. While they had a moment, Arthur walked through the camp, observing all the destruction. He half-expected to see Susan and Hosea laying where they fell. But no. Neither one was here. The wagons were littered with holes from the attack, the canopies torn. Cards, poker chips and a spilled pack of cigarettes were rolled in the dirt. The rest looked as if it had been ransacked. Milton took all that could be useful information to them, or wandering scavengers had. This place was the last of the Van der Linde gang, as grave-like as the caves below. Without opposition, those Murfrees would be back to reclaim their territory in the coming days.
Arthur suggested to John, "Why don't you see if them bags Abigail had packed are still in your tent?"
"That's not a bad idea," John answered agreeably. "Then I'd have something to bring back."
While John rummaged through his tent, Arthur moved idly to his wagon to see what of his he could salvage. He sat heavily on his cot, something he'd done countless times before, but knew for a certainty this would be the last. He looked around at the things that used to mean something to him.
Boadicea's horseshoe remained firmly nailed in the side of his wagon. The picture of his pup Copper had him smiling. It was a miracle the dog had sat still long enough to get a decent shot of him.
The photograph of him, Dutch and Hosea from years ago was torn from a bullet ripping through it. The picture of his father had somehow been spared the same fate. In truth, Arthur didn't even know why he'd kept it; the bastard weren't deserving of no reminiscing from him. Maybe it'd been to punish himself, as a reminder of where he'd come from.
Lastly, the small jar he kept with a flower from out west remained intact and upright on his table. He'd collected it in honor of his mother, having nothing else to preserve his memories of her.
Arthur looked around at these items, at these artifacts of his life. Once upon a time, they'd all meant something real. Now, they were only reminders of a man who had repetitively lost everything he'd managed to gain in life. Could he break that cycle?
In the end, Arthur decided not to take anything with him. He'd survived through it all. He could start anew, like John and his family. Maybe he could come to terms fully with being better since Charlotte would be by his side.
Buck and Old Boy came trotting up the center of camp and Arthur turned his back on his wagon and went to his horse. Arthur put his hand on the horn of the saddle, his foot in a stirrup, but before he could push up, bullets started ripping through the air and the dirt beside him.
"What the hell!"
Buck reared, knocking Arthur onto his back and the wind right out of his lungs. He sat up, only to witness Buck and Old Boy getting fatally hit by more gunfire meant for him. Arthur watched in helpless shock as the horses fell in front of his eyes.
A wave of devastation swept through him, and he stumbled and dropped to his knees beside Buck. He stared at the wounds. This...this was nothing his friend could come back from. These wounds were fatal. It was so much worse than how he'd lost Boadicea.
John had taken cover and yelled, "Come on, Arthur!"
Arthur heard John but he didn't move. He pressed a hand to Buck's neck. Buck had been shot so many times he mercifully wouldn't suffer long. Buck's breathing was already labored and slowing.
Buck whinnied and Arthur spoke softly to his loyal steed, "Easy, easy. Whoa." Buck calmed, blew out a last huff and closed his eyes. Arthur bowed his head. "Thank you, old friend."
"Arthur!" John yelled again. He'd taken cover, holding his arm. He must have been hit too. Arthur surged to his feet, ready to join him in killing the villains who'd done this. The thickness of the fog hid from Arthur the emerging figure until he was tackled.
As he hit the ground again, Micah stood over him with a leer. "I got ya now, Black Lung!"
"You rat!" Arthur cursed between gasped breaths.
Arthur fought to push Micah off of him. He swung a fist, grazing Micah's jaw. Micah fell back and Arthur shoved him the rest of the way.
"What are you doin' here? You're supposed to be in Blackwater."
Micah had regained his feet too quickly. "Didn't go to plan down there. Milton had people waiting. Far as I know, Dutch was taken in. Same with Escuella and Williamson."
"And you left them there?" If Arthur knew Dutch, which admittedly had been less and less lately, he wasn't going in quietly. He weren't the sort to roll over, especially not for the law. "Coward!"
"No," Micah said through gritted teeth. "I'm a survivor. A survivor. That's all there is, Black Lung. Living and dying. And you're dying."
Arthur looked to John, who was caught up with his own skirmish. He and Micah's friend Joe were shooting at each other. Joe was in the trees and John pinned behind a crate.
"I see you had the same idea as us, coming back here for Dutch's cash box. I knew you wanted the money as much as anyone."
Arthur returned his attention to Micah. "It ain't for me."
He scoffed. "Marston? You're pathetic, friend, and that money should be mine."
"We ain't friends. We never was."
Micah sneered. "Where's that money, Morgan? Dutch has to have it somewhere."
"It's already gone," Arthur informed him truthfully. "I imagine Milton took it, but he's dead so who knows where it is now. It's lost."
"You're lying!"
Arthur's fists clenched as he eyed the bastard right in front of him. Whose fault was all the rest of this mess? Dutch had made his choice, and Arthur his, but he hadn't lost all love for the man who'd helped raise him. And Micah leaving Dutch and his friends to fend for themselves burned him.
Micah had pushed Dutch in the wrong direction since he'd joined up. He'd insulted Arthur and everyone else, involved him in shooting up Strawberry for no good reason, led him into a trap where Colm nearly killed him, convinced Dutch to rob the Lemoyne Bank when he and Hosea already had a plan with Charlotte, and murdered Susan.
Worst of all, he'd been reporting to Pinkertons. It was one thing to piss him off and get between him and Dutch, back-stabbing traitors he couldn't tolerate.
Too long Micah had been allowed to get away with his wrong-doings. Today was the day for his reckoning.
"Okay." Arthur rolled his shoulders, loosening up, and lifted his fists. "Micah, you and I got some unfinished business."
"Oh, Black Lung," Micah chuckled, and cracked his neck. "You don't know how much I've longed to do this."
Thunder broke across the sky, opening up the clouds and releasing a downpour. It was almost a signal for them to begin. Micah dashed towards him, immediately clutching Arthur's collar with his hand, the other hitting his gut. He broke Micah's grip and then started his own assault.
One moment Micah had the upper hand, pummeling wildly, the next Arthur would break free and respond the same.
Three months ago, Arthur would have had Micah flat on his ass in one or two hits. But now, he was severely weakened. The TB had him struggling to breathe and the sleepless nights made his body heavy with exhaustion.
At one point, Micah threw a wide punch, which missed. Arthur aimed a blow to the eye Micah had covered by his eye patch. Micah recoiled with a yowl, scrambling back and landing against a barrel. From the ground, Micah wiped his mouth and laughed. As he stood and rushed him, Arthur saw a second too late Micah wielding a knife.
Arthur felt it like another punch in his side, but this one punctured his skin. Arthur groaned in pain, trying to shove Micah away. Micah withdrew the knife and tackled him to the ground again.
"You weak fool," Micah spat.
Arthur, breathing heavily, taunted, "You can't...even kill...a dying man."
Micah stood over him, this time his knife blade gleaming in his hand. Lightning flashed, lighting up the edge of the knife, where Arthur's blood now gleamed. Micah grinned with a sadistic look in his eye.
Micah lifted the knife, and with both hands, sought to drive it through Arthur's chest. Arthur quickly gripped Micah's wrist, holding him back, but only just.
Arthur couldn't go on anymore. Couldn't fight any harder than he already was. In a moment, Micah would plunge the knife further and it'd be through his heart. Had it even been worth it for him to keep on this long? A part of him wanted to stop fighting now, to let Micah win.
As Arthur struggled, the rain slowed to a pitter-patter into the grass and the clouds began to clear off. The faint hints of sunrise was breaking over the horizon and, with it, strangely, Reverend Swanson's voice, "Mr. Morgan, you'll get through this."
Not only his, but Sadie's too, "You still got people, Arthur. It ain't the end."
This sure as hell looked like the end to him. Micah had the upperhand, Arthur was wounded and too exhausted to overpower him.
"Any day we can die," Charles had said solemnly. "You have time to make amends."
Had Arthur done enough? Or had he waited too long on the wrong things? On the wrong people? He'd tried to do some good in the time he had left, but he was not deserving of anyone's forgiveness.
Mary-Beth's infectious grin, "Just stay calm and do what you do best."
What he usually did best was ruin everything. He'd never made much for himself, but a name in the paper for most to fear.
"We've all lived bad lives, Mr. Morgan; we all sin." Sister Calderon granted him a gracious smile. "Be grateful that for the first time, you see your life clearly."
"Still got a little fight in you, have you, boy?" Micah taunted, pushing the knife downward so it was resting on his chest.
Charlotte's cheek was against his, the rumble of a waterfall drowning out everything except one voice. "Let's forget the rest of the world a moment."
"You've lost," Micah cut into his memories harshly.
Maybe he had. But not to Micah. He'd wasted too much time with inaction and questioning himself.
A surge of resistance filled his chest. He snapped his eyes open and responded, "In the end, Micah, despite my best efforts to the contrary, it turns out I've won."
For the most part, Arthur had done what he'd set out to do. Even if he didn't survive this fight, he'd done good. Tilly, Pearson, Mary-Beth, Uncle, Reverend, Molly, Josiah. They'd got out safe. The others were strong enough to make it on their own. But John was still here, caught up in another mess with him. Even if he wasn't going to make it, Arthur had to ensure John made it back to his family.
With his last ounce of strength, Arthur pressed against Micah's wrists, widening the gap between the blade's point and his heart. He resisted as long as he could, pushed as far as he could, because he was the last line of defense for John.
A final gunshot popped from across camp and then a dying groan. For a few heartbeats, Arthur feared John had fallen.
Then, John called, "Arthur!"
John had won his battle and was ready to come to his aid, but Arthur had lost all his strength. The darkening edges of his vision was back, framing his murderer. Micah, with wild-eyes and a hate-filled grin, pushed all his weight on his blade.
Arthur felt the knife puncture through his clothing and then the point pierce his skin. He was about to be stabbed through the heart.
Oddly, with the rain stopped, Arthur could hear a quiet whistling in the air, a familiar sort of sound that he couldn't concentrate on enough to identify.
Time slowed and the whizzing in the air grew louder. Micah lowered his face, his breath stinking of tobacco and whiskey. "Hope you're ready for hell."
It was the last threat Micah ever uttered.
One second, Micah was looking down at Arthur, his vicious expression turned victorious, and the next second, the shaft of an arrow struck through Micah's open eye, the point rupturing his sight for good.
Micah, fully lifeless, collapsed. Arthur shoved him off, the weight of the knife's sting instantly lifted. Arthur let Micah fall beside him in a muddy puddle, watching to make sure he wasn't about to stand up again.
Gasping air in, Arthur turned his gaze up the hill, following the direction of the arrow's projected path.
Walking steadily down the hill, there was a man stepping out of the forest. As he got closer, Arthur belatedly recognized his savior.
Charles.
Arthur fell back onto the ground, catching his breath as he lay in the mud. It was done. They'd won. John lived and Arthur hadn't been killed. He closed his eyes. For only a moment, he thought.
Yet long enough for a brief vision to take hold of his unconscious state. Arthur stood in a golden field. Nearby, a buck wandered into view. It paused in its stride and looked to him. Then it turned away and bounded in the opposite direction. Arthur stared, unsure of its meaning.
He didn't have time to puzzle over it as he was being shaken awake and John was calling his name.
"Don't die just yet, cowboy," John said to him, echoing the greeting Arthur had said to him back in Colter.
"I'm fine," Arthur answered, his voice scratchy to his own ears. Charles was above him now rather than a shadow in the forest.
"I'm fine," Arthur repeated again.
Charles silently held out a hand and Arthur clasped it. Charles lifted him up with ease. When he was on his feet again, Arthur checked the knife wound at his side. Somehow, Micah had missed anything vital. He could tell that much. He'd pressed his hand on the wound until Charles handed over some clean linen for him to wrap his torso. He'd like to wrap his bloodied knuckles too, but for now he only wiped them.
Watching him check himself over, John shook his head and commented, "And you always said I'm lucky."
"Thanks for sharin' it for once." So the focus was off him, Arthur asked Charles, "Where'd you come from? Thought you was gonna convince Eagle Flies and his father to get out of the area."
"I was," Charles answered. "But the drilling of the tribe's land has been postponed."
Arthur wiped blood from his lip. "That so?"
"There seems to be some discrepancy between the documents two prospectors provided to Cornwall and the maps the government has." Charles eyed him. "Was this because of something you did? You said you were sending out a letter."
"Could be." Arthur shrugged. "Or it could be a coincidence."
Charles informed him, "Colonel Favours and his men have been relocated for the time being and Captain Monroe was given charge of the area."
Arthur nodded, satisfied. "Good. Rains Fall seems to trust him."
John said, "At least without the army antagonizing the Wapiti, there is no war on the horizon."
"Eagle Flies gonna accept that?" Arthur questioned.
Charles lifted a shoulder. "It won't last forever, but it's a start."
"So, what are you doing back here?"
"You didn't happen to find a chest full of cash, did you?" John asked hopefully.
"No," Charles replied with a lift of his dark brow. "I came back for Hosea. And Miss Grimshaw too, as it turned out."
Charles had more honor for their fallen than any of them. It shamed Arthur now that the thought had never occurred to him to come back to bury their dead. Hosea and Grimshaw deserved so much better than to be thrown into an unmarked grave.
"Where'd you bury them?"
Charles pointed at a hill south of them. "They're together, up there, overlooking the lake."
"Thanks, Charles," Arthur said meaningfully and John nodded. Charles really was the best of them.
"While I was up here, I didn't find any money, but I did find something else." Charles whistled, once short and low, and then again sharp and high-pitched. In response, and as expected, Taima came galloping up the hill to them. But just behind her trotted a black and silver Turkoman Arthur recognized.
Silver Dollar. Hosea's horse.
"If there's another horse around here, maybe we can hitch two of them to one of these wagons."
John was in full agreement of that plan. "Then we'll have at least one thing to show the ladies for our efforts."
They found Baylock tied to a tree up the hillside, his hoof scraping the grass in agitation. He was a good horse, despite his previous owner.
He and John hitched Hosea's docile Silver Dollar and Micah's impatient Baylock to the one wagon in camp that wasn't too shredded to recover.
Arthur checked over the wagon and when he got to the rear back wheel, knew which one this was. This wagon had lost a wheel on their journey down from Colter all them months ago. It should have been their first damn clue that what was to come was only bad luck.
Charles rode beside them on their return journey to Moonstone. Arthur had John take the reins to the wagon while he rested. John filled Charles in over all that had happened with the rest of the gang. Arthur remained quiet. The conversation did nothing to distract him now that he had a moment to think. Arthur silently mourned the death of his horse until they reached Moonstone again.
Abigail and Charlotte were standing together, arms crossed with mirrored worried expressions.
"There they are," said Charlotte with relief.
Abigail wasted no time marching up to the wagon as John pulled it to a stop. "Where the hell have you two been? Did you take that money and have yourselves a drunken night roaming every saloon in the state before coming back here?"
John scowled down at her. "What do you take us for?"
"A couple of goddamned fools."
John had walked right into that one.
John hopped down from the wagon. "We ain't done none of that, Abigail. We just run into some trouble."
"'Course you did! It's the only thing you know how to do."
John led her away from them. "Actually, we got some bad news..."
"Hello, Charles," Charlotte greeted warmly. "How lovely to see you again so soon."
He nodded to her, wordless.
"Abigail and I made a breakfast of sorts. If you're hungry, you're more than welcome to it."
"Thank you, ma'am." Charles left their company for a well-deserved meal.
Charlotte asked him, "I take it your quest wasn't successful then?"
"No." Arthur took his time dismounting from the wagon. Stepping down made the wound in his side stretch and burn. He came around the horses to join Charlotte. "Money was already gone—"
"Arthur!" she exclaimed, a hand over her mouth. "Dear Lord!"
"I look that bad, huh?" he tried to joke, but winced at the bruising when he attempted a smile.
She unexpectedly rested her hands over his jaw, her touch light and her anxious eyes skimmed over his face. She asked softly, "What happened?"
"Micah got the jump on us. Him and Joe."
"But you're alright?"
He'd been stabbed in the side, punched multiple times in the jaw and gut, and had hit the ground more than once, but he told her, "Now I am."
There was a loud smack across the camp. "You risked your life for no reason!"
They looked in the direction of Abigail and John. John rubbed his shoulder, where Abigail must have hit him. He argued, "You're the one who wanted us to go."
"You said it would be easy."
Arthur murmured, "I better settle this before they kill each other."
Arthur and Charlotte joined the other two. "Abigail, we ain't got the money, but we got supplies."
She pointed at the wagon. "In that busted old thing?"
Charles chimed in, "There's enough food provisions to last you."
John said, "And I brought back the bags you packed. We managed to salvage more than we thought we would."
Abigail eyed the wagon and then John for a long moment. She said, more calmly, "I suppose you did."
John took her hands. "I know you think it ain't much, but we've got that reward from the Braithwaite girl. Once we're out of the state, we'll manage."
"In the meantime..." Arthur lifted the flap of his satchel. He handed over all the cash he had. "Take this."
"Arthur—" John tried to protest.
"Take it," Arthur said firmly. "For your family." If he had more, he would give it. But he'd spent the rest on the Downes widow and her son.
"Thank you, Arthur," Abigail said and she wrapped her arms around his neck in a brief squeeze. "This means a lot to us."
Arthur returned the hug and told them, "Now you three better get movin' while the day's bright."
"Yes," Charles agreed. "I've seen a few patrols still roaming the area. It's best if we don't linger."
"Jack," Arthur called to the boy who had been throwing rocks into the pond. Jack came running to him and he caught him in a hug. "You be good and strong for your momma, okay?"
"Okay."
"And keep up you're reading, kid."
"I will."
Abigail told Jack to gather up his things and Charlotte joined her in taking down the tent and packing. Charles wandered off to feed the horses and Arthur was left alone with John.
"Well," John cleared his throat and shifted awkwardly. "I reckon, this is it."
"Sure is." Arthur recognized the uneasiness in John. "You'll make it, Marston. You got it in you."
"You mean, 'cause of dumb luck?"
"No," Arthur said. "I've given you a hard time, but seems lately you got your priorities straight. I reckon you and Abigail will make it fine."
"Thanks, Arthur." He lifted his chin. "What are you gonna do?"
"Hell, I'll be okay, but take that money I gave you and run. For me."
John opened and closed his fists, and then his mouth, like he was gathering his words. Then, he said, "Arthur...you're my brother."
"I know." Arthur rested a hand on John's shoulder and squeezed. "And you're mine. But you gotta go. Be with your family."
John joined Abigail at the wagon, helping her up and then the boy. Arthur watched them. While he trusted Marston, there wasn't anything wrong with another pair of hands.
"Hey, Charles."
Charles, standing nearby, lifted his head.
Arthur walked over to him and asked quietly, "Will you stay with them for awhile? Make sure they get out of New Hanover alright?"
"Sure." He eyed him. "But what about you?"
"I...got some thinking to do."
Charles nodded. "Be well, Arthur."
"I'll surely do my best."
He and Charlotte waved the four of them off. With John, Abigail, and Jack disappearing down the hill, and Charles trailing, Arthur finally felt the heaviest weight lift from his shoulders.
There was once a time Arthur believed John would never tie himself down to anyone. But John had finally come to see the importance of having a family, something even Arthur had once taken for granted. As long as Marston stayed away from trouble, they'd get far. Hopefully, they'd even meet up again someday.
In the middle of his musings, Charlotte's hand slipped into his. "What now, Arthur?"
He asked her, "Do you got any money?"
She smiled easily, as if there weren't difficult days ahead, as if she wasn't worried of what came next. Her calm swept aside all his concerns, and he could nearly believe that everything was going to be okay. "I may have enough for a couple of train tickets."
They rode to Emerald Ranch on the nag Pearson had left behind. They didn't have much to travel with. Arthur had his saddlebags still, having brought them back from Beaver Hollow, and the satchel he always had slung over his shoulder. Charlotte carried a small knapsack with a few provisions.
At Emerald Ranch, Arthur sold the nag to Seamus for near nothing and then he and Charlotte walked to the station. While Charlotte bought their tickets to who knew where, Arthur sank heavily on one of the benches, idly watching the group of men playing dominoes. He was tired, weary of all that had come to pass in the last few hours, the last few days—hell, the last few months. For once, he was taking a minute to breathe.
Even with this small light for a new path, there were too many unknowns that he couldn't celebrate it. On top of that, he couldn't shake the feeling of deep defeat over all that had happened. In the end, how much had he really accomplished? More of his friends had died and he hadn't been able to convince Dutch to see another way or prevent it.
Arthur dozed on the bench until the whining of the train whistle disrupted his fitful sleep. They boarded the train, Charlotte pausing to purchase a newspaper on their way in. Arthur found a spot in the back of the train and took the seat closest to the window.
As the train pulled from Emerald Ranch and headed west over the Heartlands, Arthur still couldn't shake his glumness. They'd got away. They survived all of it, Dutch turning his back, Milton's relentless chase, Micah's back-stabbing, but would it be enough?
They didn't even have the cash to start anywhere. They'd surely be begging in the streets soon enough. And when that didn't work? He'd have to drop straight back into robbing just to eat. You cannot live any other way, Mary's words mocked him even here.
As if she'd heard his inner turmoil, Charlotte laid a hand over his. "We will make do, Arthur."
He tried to smile her way, tried to have her confidence, but he knew what the world was like. It would chew them up and spit them out if they let it. However, Arthur didn't say as much. He held Charlotte's hand and turned away, watching the countryside go by, but mostly hiding his thoughts from being revealed on his face.
Beside him, Charlotte opened her newspaper. "It seems Mr. Lemieux has been ousted in the time since we left Miss O'Shea."
He grunted. He didn't much care for politics.
Charlotte glanced at him and set the newspaper aside. "Perhaps, we should open the good book Mr. Swanson provided."
"He convert you that easily?" Arthur said testily.
"Perhaps, perhaps not. But surely, there's some passage that could lighten our hearts?"
"I'm not much in the mood for preachin'," he grumbled, but he handed it over to her from his satchel anyway, turning to face the window again.
"Now, now," Charlotte chuckled. "There is no need for..."
Arthur frowned when she trailed off. "No need for what?"
He turned to look at her. She was staring at the book, her green eyes wide, her mouth dropped open. He was about to ask her what passage had caused such a reaction since she'd only opened the cover, but it was enough.
Reverend Swanson hadn't gifted Charlotte a normal Bible. It was his special Bible, the one he'd hollowed out the inside for the safe-keeping of his morphine. However, instead of a needle, there lay two neatly pressed stacks of cash.
"What the hell..." Not believing his eyes, Arthur grabbed at the bills, tied together with a label printed LEMOYNE STATE BANK. He ran the stack through his fingers, feeling their legitimacy and still not believing he wasn't seeing things. "That bastard said he'd spent it all."
"The reverend said this book would renew our faith..." Charlotte's gaze rose to meet his. "There's hundreds here."
"Maybe a few thousand," Arthur agreed, in as much shock as her.
She looked to the window and then back at him. "Once we hear from John and Abigail again, we need to send some of this to them."
It was her money originally, so it was her call. "If that's what you want."
"I do," she said firmly. "But as for right now, what would you like to do, Arthur?"
"I say..." He set the dollar bills back in the book and took hold of one of her hands. He offered her own words back to her as a promise, "let's forget the rest of the world for awhile."
"And what does that entail?" Her eyes twinkled. "An adventure of some sort?"
"Maybe...or maybe I'm up for something a little more quiet. Like a house in the woods with neighbors far and long between."
"Oh? That does sound rather quaint, but where shall we settle?"
"This is a big country, ma'am." Arthur cupped her jaw and gently stroked a thumb across her cheek as her green eyes watched him in earnest. "I reckon it won't be hard to get ourselves lost."
Charlotte leaned forward, anticipating his kiss as she murmured, "That sounds just wonderful, Arthur."
