"Having fun on your adventures, Mr. Morgan?" Miss Grimshaw greeted him as he returned to camp.
"Always, Miss Grimshaw, but nothing like coming home," he dismounted and started to untack Smokey.
"Well, I hope you're doing some work out there too," she sniffed.
"Of course, you know I am," he said as he removed the saddle.
"Good, it's bad enough I have to keep telling the others to pull their weight around here," she stalked away, "we could be well away if more of you would do more!"
Arthur shook his head and led Smokey to graze with the other horses, then went to help himself to some of Pearson's stew. It was nice being back, but he felt like something was missing. He looked around to see most of the gang there. Only a few were gone. Sean was running with a moonshiner rival of the Braithwaites, Javier and John were looking into a robbery tip, and Lenny was in town. When he finished eating, he checked his cot and wagon to find all of his photographs and things still there.
He spent the rest of the evening feeling strangely uneasy and tried to get it out of his head. He joined Uncle and the others by the fire with a few bottles of beer, but even then he couldn't enjoy himself. Maybe he just needed some sleep.
The following morning, he didn't feel much better, especially when Micah called him over.
"Blessed are the peacemakers, Morgan, for they... well, however that goes," Micah said as Arthur approached Dutch's tent.
"Is that so?" Arthur rolled his eyes, "I'm not sure that line of thought serves you or me very well."
"Well that's because, cowpoke, you are a man of profoundly limited intelligence," said Micah, "While you and the old man and Dutch have been running around digging us ever deeper into shit, old Mr. Pearson might have gone and lightened the load a little." Micah called for Pearson and Dutch.
"Gentlemen," Dutch greeted them.
"Tell them, fat man," said Micah.
"It's peace, Dutch, the O'Driscolls, I mean, I think there's a way," Pearson started.
"What on earth are you talking about?" asked Dutch.
"Get the words out properly, fat man," Micah patted Pearson's shoulder in a very unassuring way.
"I met a couple of the O'Driscoll boys on the road into town, things were about to get ugly, but you know how I am in a fight? Like a cornered tiger," Pearson pulled out his knife dramatically as Dutch, Micah, and Arthur looked unimpressed. "Heh, anyway, we got to talking and they suggested a parley to end things like gentlemen."
"Gentlemen?" Dutch scoffed, "Colm O'Driscoll? Have you lost your minds?"
"You're always telling us, Dutch, do what has to be done," said Micah, "but don't fight wars that ain't worth fighting."
"They want a parley?" Hosea interrupted, "It's a trap."
Hosea was right. It was a trap. Whole thing was a set up to kidnap me, then lure all of the rest of us so we could get arrested and Colm could disappear away, us somehow carrying off his sin along with our own to the gallows.
I escaped, but it weren't Dutch or any of them who came for me...
Arthur cauterized the gunshot wound in his shoulder then snuck out of the cellar. Colm had gone and the remaining O'Driscolls were getting drunk and not paying much attention. Dusk had fallen which made it easier for him to get to his horse. At least Smokey was okay. He struggled to get on and rode out of the camp, avoiding the roads for a while in case there were guards.
"Come on, boy, get me home," Arthur said weakly to his horse, trying desperately to stay in the saddle. His horse could only walk as if afraid of making his rider fall. He coughed violently, every movement making the wound in his shoulder throb with pain. Nothing was in focus, he only hoped they were going the right way.
After what felt like hours he no longer had the strength to stay mounted and fell to the ground. He lay there looking up at the night sky, blacking in and out of conscious. His horse nuzzled his face. He heard the sound of hoofbeats quickly approaching and braced himself, hoping the O'Driscolls hadn't found him.
"Arthur!"
He weakly laughed in relief. "Grace..." He then saw her face over him, blurry at first then becoming more clear.
"Shit," she swore as she saw his injuries.
"Help me," he pleaded, grabbing her arm.
"What happened to you?" she asked, gently cupping his cheek to look at his beaten up face.
"O... Driscolls," he coughed.
He saw her jaw tense up and her eyes darken, then she nodded. "Okay." She stood and he tried to stop her. "Okay," she said to herself as she pulled her arm gently from his grasp.
"Grace, please," he groaned. A moment later she reappeared with a lantern and her red medical pouch.
"It'll be okay, Arthur," she said quietly. She carefully unbuttoned his shirt and peeled it away from his bloody chest. She lifted her lantern and leaned in for a better look, gingerly touching the wound. "How did you take care of this?"
"Gunpowder and candle flame."
"Jesus," she set down the lantern, "When were you shot?"
"I don't know, must've been a couple of days, maybe more, or maybe less," he said weakly, "O'Driscolls took me. Just got away."
"And you just cauterized it tonight?"
He nodded.
"Okay. Just a moment." She stood again to go to her horse who was grazing nearby. Grace returned with a bottle of whiskey. "Here, drink." She helped him sit up a bit so he could drink some of it, then lay him back down. "This is going to hurt. A lot."
Arthur nodded and braced himself for whatever pain was coming. She pressed one hand gently on his chest then poured some of the whiskey over the wound. He yelled out, causing the horses to startle. The wound burned with a stabbing pain, not unlike when he had cauterized it himself earlier. A few moments later, the pain subsided and he relaxed to catch his breath.
"Are you okay?" she asked. He nodded. "It's not over yet. Part of the bullet is still in there and I have to take it out. Here." She helped him to sit up so he could drink more of the whiskey. "I'll do this as quick as I can, but I still have to be careful not to do any more damage. It will hurt, but hopefully it won't end up gangrenous."
"Just do it," he demanded. She took a deep breath then leaned in close to the wound with a small pair of tweezers. He gritted his teeth and tried to move too much from the pain. But he knew he was going to be okay. So long as she was here with him, he was going to be okay. Finally she pulled out a small, flattened piece of metal and held it up by the lantern.
"You lucky son of a bitch," she said, setting the tweezers and bullet fragment aside, "I think it came close to your subclavian artery, and only nicked the bone. Now I just need to clean and disinfect it. It's going to hurt some more, but it's almost over." She poured some of the whiskey over the wound and then gently wiped a piece of cotton covered in the green disinfectant jelly inside it. She then wiped it around the wound and sat back. "Well, I think you'll live," she smiled down at him, "Your shoulder's going to be hurting for a while, but hopefully there won't be any lasting damage."
He could barely smile back as she wiped her hands clean then put a bandage over the wound. He couldn't believe how lucky he was, not just with being able to escape from the O'Driscoll camp in the state he was in, but having Grace find him. He didn't know if she had been following him, but he didn't care. She was here now. But why hadn't Dutch and them come for him? They were supposed to meet at the crossroads, so why didn't they look for him when he didn't show up? Did they know Colm had set them up? Surely they were going to rescue him before Colm handed him over to the Pinkertons.
"There you go," she said quietly, "Now, let's get you back on your horse," she helped him sit up. He felt so dizzy and he grasped her hand. "Can you stand?"
"I just... wanna lie down some more."
"Well, you certainly can't just stay here. It'll be better if we get you back," she pulled her hand from his and stood. He closed his eyes and lay back again, just wanting to rest and go to sleep. Maybe if he slept, this will all be over. Maybe it'll turn out it was just a nightmare.
"Come on," he heard Grace say, but she didn't seem to be talking to him. He then felt himself being pushed upright. "Okay, let's get you on your horse."
"I can't..."
"Yes you can," she said sternly. She moved him sideways against something, which he realised was his own horse lying on his side. She helped him get positioned in the saddle then kept him steady as she got his horse to stand. "Can you ride on your own?"
"I..." he started to black out again, slumping forward.
"Right, move back." He did so, barely. She climbed into the saddle in front of him and he wrapped his arms around her, leaning against her back. He didn't have the strength to stay upright. "Hold on, we'll get you home."
Arthur drifted in and out of consciousness as they rode in the darkness. But he knew he was safe. He was comforted by her presence, her warmth, and by her touch.
He felt his horse slow to a jog and then to a walk as he realised they had reached the path into camp. She halted and dismounted carefully.
"This is where I leave you," she said.
"No, don't go," he weakly reached for her.
"It's okay, Arthur," she took his hand and kissed it, "You're home now." She urged his horse down the path and stayed behind.
Arthur didn't say anything, he was in too much pain. When he reached the clearing, he didn't have the strength to remain on his horse anymore and fell to the ground. He could hear shouting and saw the blurred faces of the others above him. But none of them were the one he wanted to see.
Dutch had Swanson and Pearson help Arthur to his cot, then told Miss Grimshaw to sit with him. As she did so, Dutch walked away, muttering to himself.
"It's okay, Mr. Morgan, you're home," she took Arthur's hand, then frowned slightly, "What happened here?" she pointed at the bandage below his left shoulder.
"Shot," Arthur said quietly. He just wanted to sleep now. He was so tired.
"Who took care of you?"
"Grace," he whispered before passing out.
A few days later, while Miss Grimshaw was changing the bandage on Arthur's shoulder wound, Bill and Micah raced into camp.
"Dutch!" Bill yelled as he half-fell off his horse in a hurry to get to Dutch. Everyone stopped what they were doing and gathered closer to hear what they had to say.
"What is it?" Dutch demanded.
"We found some O'Driscoll camps completely massacred," he said.
"Looked like someone went on a slaughtering spree," said Micah. "Damn fine work, I have to admit."
"Was Colm among them?" asked Dutch.
"No, don't look like it," said Bill. "The bodies were all hacked to hell. Don't even look like any were shot."
"And it weren't any of you?" Dutch looked around. Everyone shook their heads. "Huh, gotta wonder who else has it in for the O'Driscolls to go to that much trouble. Keep your heads up, all of you. Whoever they are, we want to stay on their good side."
"Well, at least that's less of those bastards to deal with for now," Miss Grimshaw said as she walked out of Arthur's tent.
"How's the, uh, that?" Bill came up and pointed at Arthur's shoulder with a small, dirty axe.
"Oh, just fine, not at all like I been shot," Arthur said sarcastically.
"Very funny," Bill held out the axe, "Thought you'd like a souvenir from whoever killed those O'Driscolls. This was lodged in one of their faces."
"Jesus, Bill, you couldn't clean it?" Arthur took the axe by its handle, now realising the blade was dirtied with blood and bits of hair. Bill shrugged and wandered off. Arthur slowly made his way to the river to wash it. He still felt very weak, but was improving. Miss Grimshaw had complimented Grace's medical work, but never inquired further about who Grace was. Arthur couldn't help but be glad she wasn't asking too many questions.
He crouched by the water and cleaned off the axe. As he did, he realised he had seen this same axe before. He'd used it himself, but to cut tree branches, not O'Driscolls.
"No," he said to himself, "No, it can't be."
He turned the axe around in his hand, trying to confirm his suspicions, stopping when he looked at the knob of the handle.
"Goddammit, no," he swore when he saw the engraved intitals.
G.B.
It took nearly two weeks for Arthur to recover from his injuries. His shoulder was stiff, but he could still use it. He was itching to get out of camp, tired of Pearson's constant apologising and tired of Miss Grimshaw flipping between mothering him and insisting he get out and do something. But he needed to find Grace, to make sure she was okay. More slaughtered O'Driscoll camps were found, but none, as Arthur would find out, contained any bodies of women nor of Colm O'Driscoll.
He wasn't even sure where to start looking for her. She could be up in the mountains, or she could be at her own cabin, or she could be anywhere. But he was going to find her, no matter how long it would take. He announced that he would be gone a while and rode out.
It felt good to be out of camp and his horse seemed to agree. He headed northeast, past Rhodes, and let Smokey have a good gallop on the road along the river. He found himself heading towards the swamps, but knew Grace wouldn't be there. She hated the swamps, she had told him as such. He slowed his horse to a walk to let him rest and tried to work out where he would look first.
"Hey there!" a man trotted up next to him, "Mind some company for a bit? Been out here for ages, not a single soul wants to talk."
"Can't imagine why," Arthur said.
"People these days can't handle a friendly face, I say," the man said, "I'm Walsh, by the way, Horace Walsh."
"Okay."
"Huh, guess you aren't a friendly type either," Horace said, disappointed, "Sorry to bother you."
"Wait, you can stay, it's just... I ain't much of a talker," Arthur said.
"Oh! Well, thank you! Mr...?"
"Morgan."
"Mr. Morgan, I appreciate it," Horace was relieved, "I'm on my way to Saint Denis, but forgot to turn back there and decided, well, let's take a scenic route!"
"Is that so?"
"Yes, and this ol' girl doesn't mind," he patted his palomino on the neck, "Anywhere in particular you're going?"
"Not really."
"Ah." Horace paused. "You look like you could use a good, stiff drink. Might I suggest a little place in Saint Denis? Doyle's Tavern. It's no Bastille Saloon, but the owner there will take care of you."
"Sure, thanks."
"If you ever find yourself further north at a place called Van Horn, keep going," Horace shook his head, "Lots of no-gooders there. Met a feller yesterday, said he was nearly stabbed by a woman covered in blood there. No one even blinked an eye! And all he was trying to do was help her, poor thing."
Arthur felt his heart lodge up in his throat. It couldn't be her, could it?
"Well, I believe this road will take me to Saint Denis," Horace stopped at a fork in the road, "You're welcome to join me, Mr. Morgan, unless you're heading somewhere else."
"Thanks, but I got other business to attend to."
"Alright then, thank you for the company, Mr. Morgan! Hope we meet again!" Horace waved as he trotted away.
Arthur took out a map of the area Swanson had given to him a while ago to find Van Horn. It was further north along the coast, and looked like he might make it there by nightfall. He memorised the route up and urged his horse into a gentle lope.
He was about halfway there when he realised Grace had mentioned Van Horn. That treasure map with the snake formation was near there, but she tried to avoid the area because of that Murfree Brood, or whoever they were. So this bloodied woman probably wasn't her. But what if it was? He had to be sure.
By the time he arrived in Van Horn, night had already fallen. He knew it wasn't going to be a very friendly place when a man sitting by the side of the road swore at him as he rode by. He stopped in front of the saloon just as a man stumbled out and immediately vomited. Arthur opted not to hitch Smokey, instead letting him be able to get away if he needed to.
He headed into the saloon and there she was. Grace seemed to covered in dried blood, her long hair was dirty and falling out of her messy braid, and she was clearly drunk while arguing with a man at the bar.
"Go eat horse shit!" she yelled.
"Hey now, that ain't how a lady's supposed to talk, " the man replied back.
"I ain't no lady," she tried to push at him but missed.
"Why don't you come rest up in my room," said the man, reaching for her.
"I'll cut your balls off!" Grace took out her knife and slashed it at him as he jumped out of the way.
"Miss, please put the knife away, I don't want to have to tell you again!" the bartender shouted.
"Get fucked!" she yelled, turning on him.
"Okay, I think you've had enough," Arthur said, finally intervening.
"Who're you?" she turned to him, "Oh, I know you."
"This your wife?" the first man pointed at her.
"I ain't nobody's wife! You can't have him!" Grace yelled, brandishing her knife at him.
"That's enough from you," Arthur grabbed the knife out of her hand.
"Wait, where did it go?" Grace looked at her empty hand. "YOU STOLE IT!" she yelled at the bartender who looked confused.
"He didn't take nothin'," said Arthur.
"STOP STEALING FROM ME!" she went to slap Arthur, but he grabbed her hand and threw her over his shoulder.
"Come along, sweetheart," he patted her rear, "Let's leave these fine people be."
"Control your wife, mister," the man said, "Needs to be taught a lesson."
"Oh, I'm sure," Arthur rolled his eyes as he carried Grace out of the saloon.
"Put me down!" she yelled, hitting his back.
Arthur ignored her, carried her down the road, then dumped her in a water trough. She shrieked when she hit the cold water. "You done?" He leaned over her. She glared and splashed water at him. He stood back, looking down at his wet front and sighed. "You stay there, I'll be right back." She screamed at him as he walked over to the depot and requested a room and a bath. When he returned, Tuula was next to the trough and Grace was pulling herself out using the stirrups.
"The hell is wrong with you?" she slurred when she spotted him.
"Me? What's wrong with you? Covered in blood and trying to pick fights in bars?"
"You mind your business!" she stumbled against her horse.
"Let's get you cleaned up," he took her arm and started to lead her back towards the depot. "You got extra clothes with your horse?"
"They won't fit you," she snickered. Arthur rolled his eyes and pulled her up the stairs.
"Here, go wash all that blood off," he pushed her into the bath room, "I'll get you clean clothes to change into."
"This how you treat your wife?" she fell into a chair beside the bath.
"I thought you ain't nobody's wife," he asked, amused.
"Maybe you're nobody's wife."
"I'll be back with clean clothes then you can start washing." He closed the door, shaking his head. This was his punishment for those times he got drunk in Valentine, wasn't it? He offered her horse a carrot then searched her saddlebags for a change of clothes. When he returned to the bath room, she was vomiting into a bucket.
"Ugh, kill me," she groaned.
"Nah, don't think I will," he set her clothes on the chair and crouched beside her. "Think you can manage to wash yourself without drowning?"
She groaned again.
"Well, I ain't helping. I'll wait out here." He left the room, shutting the door, and leaned on the wall outside. After a few minutes, he heard a small splash of water. So long as he could hear the water moving about, he knew she was fine. Soon he heard the chair shift and a few thumps. He knocked on the door and opened it a crack. "You alright?"
"Yeah."
"Can I come in?"
"Yeah."
He opened the door and looked in to see Grace changed into the brown skirt and tan blouse he had found. Her wet hair was loose and draped over her shoulder. "Well, at least you're not covered in blood anymore." She didn't say anything. "Come on, let's get you to bed." He took her arm and led her to the room, sitting her down on the bed. "There, sleep it off." She didn't move for a moment, then slowly lay down.
"Sorry," she said quietly.
"Don't worry about it," Arthur sat on the floor and leaned against the bed, "Just get some sleep."
When he woke up the next morning, Grace was still asleep. He went outside to have a smoke and feed the horses. He returned to find her awake and sitting on the bed.
"Have a good night?" he asked.
"I don't remember much," she groaned, holding her head in her hands.
"I know that feeling," he sat down next to her. "Never thought I'd see you try to take on an entire bar of people with a knife."
"Oh, christ, did I really do that?"
"Okay, so I only saw you go after one man, but only because he was getting fresh with ya."
"And let me guess, you stepped in to save the day," she said.
"Someone had to save that fella from castration," he said with a smile.
"Hold on, did you say I was your wife last night?"
"Just to get you out of the bar."
"Heh." She looked down and noticed the top few buttons of her blouse were undone. "Wait, we didn't... you know... last night?" she looked at him with wide eyes.
"No."
"Oh, thank god."
"Not with me, anyway."
"WHAT?"
"I'm joking," he ribbed her.
"Jesus, don't do that." She paused then buttoned up her blouse. "How's your shoulder?"
"Good, a bit stiff, but still works. All thanks to you."
"I was lucky to be there."
He looked over at her as she fidgeted with the ends of her hair. "So, a bunch of O'Driscolls were found killed."
"Hm."
"Know anything about that?"
She tensed up, wringing her hands in her lap.
"Grace?"
"I was just... so angry," she said quietly.
"You mean, you really did that?" Arthur's eyes widened.
"When I saw what they did to you..."
"Who helped you?"
"No one. It was only me."
"But-"
"It was at night. They were mostly drunk or asleep."
"Jesus." He stared at her, wondering how on earth this kindhearted woman had accumulated so much rage. Before he could question it further, Grace burst into tears. He embraced her tightly as she sobbed into his chest.
"Sorry," she sniffled a few minutes later and pulled away. She looked down at her hands again which Arthur now noticed had small cuts across them. He gently took her hand to have a better look, but she pulled it away.
"You okay?"
"Yeah."
"So what are you doing all the way out here? Thought you'd stay away from Van Horn?"
"Needed a drink, and most of the other places I went to kicked me out."
"Looks like you had more than just a drink."
Grace smiled slightly. "I suppose I've had a few."
"Well, I don't blame you. Wanna get out of here?"
She nodded and followed Arthur out to their horses. She pet Tuula on the nose as Arthur mounted his horse.
"You have to leave," she said quietly.
"We're leaving now," he frowned.
"No, I mean, you and the rest of them," she looked up at him, "You're getting too far into that feud. If you all don't leave soon, someone is going to die."
"No one is going to die."
"Yet you almost did," she mounted up, "Please, Arthur. Just go."
He stared at her for a moment before speaking again. "Come back with me."
"I can't," she looked down at her hands, "There's money at the pirate ship. Take it and get out. Stay safe." She kicked Tuula into a gallop north out of Van Horn and all Arthur could do was watch her go.
He returned to camp in the evening just in time to join the others with a dish of Pearson's stew. As he ate, Arthur looked around at the others, wondering if Grace was right and whether one of them would die. But how could he convince them all to move on without finishing up with the Grays and the Braithwaites with all that promised gold?
When he finished eating, he took the boat out to the island and headed to the wrecked ship. Nothing looked out of the ordinary, until he spotted the tricorn hat hanging just inside the hull. He removed it to reveal a large pouch which was quite hefty when he picked it up. Looking inside, there was a huge roll of bills. He realised it was more than enough to get all of them out.
But... he couldn't take it. If he did, and they left, would he ever see her again? He couldn't expect her to just follow them around, leaving money whenever they needed it. Could he? Nah, that was ridiculous. Besides, he'd have to explain how he got the money in the first place and no one was going to believe that there was that much money just lying around in a shipwreck.
He replaced the pouch with a sigh and put the hat back over it. He rowed back to camp and waited to see what was next in the Gray-Braithwaite feud.
