Author's Note: This story continues after Widow's Second Chance and There's No Place Like Rhodes. However, it's not necessary to read or re-read those fics if you don't want to. I will be intertwining the first three chapters here with some scenes from those two stories so you'll be all caught up. Anywho, thanks for reading, and as always, all comments, concrit or otherwise, are welcome.
It had been a few weeks since Charles had parted ways with Arthur, after the raid on Cornwall's factory. Each day that passed convinced him further it had been a battle they should not have participated in. But Dutch had egged on Eagle Flies, feeding his hate and encouraging recklessness in reaction to the army's transgressions. And for what? It had not prevented the tribe from being forced to flee the area, but it had lessened their population by a dozen men, including the chief's son. In the end, as much as Eagle Flies sought it, Charles saw no glory in his death.
Charles had done his best in helping Rains Fall and his people move before the army retaliated. It had been difficult at first for the Wapiti people to push forward. They were already weakened from Colonel Favours' previous aggression against them. But they needed to get past their devastating grief over the deaths of their men lost in battle. It was their only hope of survival.
Even though Charles knew staying with the tribe was the right choice, he couldn't help feeling conflicted over the decision. There was a part of him that had wanted to join Arthur for the inevitable showdown against Dutch. Maybe Charles could have been an additional voice of reason in discouraging the last train robbery Dutch had started talking about before he'd left.
Because it was, in fact, news of the blatant broad daylight train robbery that had pulled Charles back to Beaver Hollow. It was how he learned of the shootout that had happened west of Annesburg and the collapse of the Van der Linde gang.
Once Charles and Rains Fall found a sufficient settlement, Charles left the tribe in order to learn exactly what had happened to the gang. As Charles drew closer to his destination of Beaver Hollow, information came easily of what had occurred.
When Charles stopped in Strawberry, he learned of the gang's first casualty after his absence: Miss Grimshaw's at Beaver Hollow. As he passed through Valentine, he heard about Dutch's escape, some of it more tall tale than truth he was sure. At Emerald Ranch, Charles overheard the rumor of Micah already attempting to recruit men of his own. But what of his friends?
It was in Van Horn that Charles learned of Arthur's death. The Pinkertons had wasted no time in printing Arthur's likeness in the newspaper, detailing his demise at their hand. They had trapped him and gunned him down, but they glorified it as a moral victory.
Seeing Arthur's scowling face plastered on the front of every newspaper, Charles grieved and lost hope of the possibility for anyone else's escape. It was easier for him to accept they had been killed than to live with a feeble hope they'd made it out. How could they? The law had finally caught up, and been too numerous to evade. Still, the government hadn't yet apprehended Dutch Van der Linde himself. So, maybe there was some hope left, but he couldn't count on it.
Presently, Charles surveyed with rising dread what was once the gang's camp at Beaver Hollow, the tale of its destruction easy for anyone to read. The wagons were shredded with bullet holes. Crates and tables were knocked over in haphazard fashion. The gang's personal belongings, including nightgowns, hats, cigars, tonics, books, papers and more, were carelessly strewn across the grass. Dutch's precious phonograph lay in shambles in front of the cave mouth. It was evidence of a chaotic shootout, a hard one fought, and guilt twisted Charles' gut since he hadn't been there to fight alongside his friends.
As Charles walked throughout the camp, he shook his head at the havoc the Pinkertons had caused. Despite the mess they'd left behind, it didn't take him long to discover Miss Grimshaw. Wild animals had already gotten to her, as she lay rotting in the middle of the camp she'd once cared so much about.
While Charles hadn't known her as well as some of the others, she'd given her stamp of approval of him once he'd begun his contributions to the gang. It wasn't right to leave her here like this, in so disrespectful a manner. She deserved a burial, and a marked grave, in the same way they'd managed the other gang members they'd lost.
Once Charles decided Beaver Hollow held no more clues for him, he found a blanket in one of the splintered wagons, stoically wrapped what was left of Grimshaw's body and gently arranged her on Taima. He set off to find a place to bury her. After a ride across the river and gaining some distance away from Beaver Hollow, he eventually settled on a grassy hill off the beaten path that overlooked Elysian Pool.
He took a day and a half digging the hole and finding a burial marker to stake into the mound of Grimshaw's new resting place. Once he accomplished this, Charles moved onto what would be the harder task. He needed to do the same thing, but with Arthur's body. The problem was, he didn't know where that would be. He wasn't certain if the Pinkertons had collected their prize, or if they had left Arthur where he fell, like they had with Miss Grimshaw.
If they had left him, Charles didn't know where Arthur had been killed. In the newspaper story, Pinkertons claimed Arthur had died during the raid on Beaver Hollow. But Charles had looked through the camp and the cave. There was no trace of Arthur's body.
Charles would have been left to believe the Pinkertons had taken Arthur with them as evidence of an infamous outlaw's murder, if not for the rumors in Van Horn that countered that assumption. While in town, he overheard a group of men near the post office gossiping about another shootout that had occurred on the next hill over from Beaver Hollow.
The next morning, Charles went on foot to investigate this claim, and while he still didn't find Arthur's body, he did find the remains of two fallen horses. Being in the middle of the woods, there was less meat left of these bodies. Large cats or wolves had already dragged most of the body away. They could have been anyone's horses—even Pinkertons—but something told Charles one of them belonged to Arthur. Both had been shot halfway up the hill. Had this been Arthur's last stand?
Despite the lead he felt in his heart, Charles spent the day scouring the hillside for any possible leftover clue. He discovered very little, nothing more than flattened grass and a couple of guns stuck between rocks. But nothing that told the story of where Arthur's body could have ended up. It had been too long for even his gift at tracking to uncover anything.
Discouraged and exhausted by the whole ordeal, Charles decided to finish his search for the day. He'd take a break and try again in the morning.
Charles chose to settle in Van Horn for the night, as people there were less likely to ask questions over his presence. Yet he didn't trust the locals so he tied Taima up at a tree just outside of town. Then he made his way to the Old Light Saloon.
Charles wanted to have a drink in peace, but the moment he gave his order to the bartender, he was approached by a man with graying mutton chops, beady eyes and an unsteady gait.
The man faced Charles and leaned an elbow against the bar counter next to him. "Hey. You ain't from around here."
Charles ignored him as he slid a coin on the counter and the bartender passed him his bottle.
"You ain't lookin' for that princess, is you?"
"No," Charles denied, hoping to end the conversation there.
"Had a few fellas through recently askin' about that." The man scratched his uneven beard as he kept on, "Chasin' some reward for some European princess missing for over 15 years now. Damn fools."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Only princesses in Van Horn charge by the hour for a less than royal fuck."
Charles glared at the man so pointedly the drunk finally got the message. He raised hands and backed away. "Fine, mister. Didn't mean to disturb you. We get all sorts down here, but you clearly do not know what I'm talking about."
To discourage anymore drunks from seeking conversation with him, Charles left the bar and moved to the backroom. He found an empty seat where he could have his back to the wall, be far enough from the rest of the patrons, and still see what was going on in the bar.
Charles sipped at his beer, contemplating what he should do next. If he was being honest with himself, there really was no point in continuing his search. The Pinkertons must have taken the body. The only way to honor Arthur now was to mark a grave without him in it.
Arthur was gone. The whole gang was gone. Even the ones who survived were better off on the run. As for himself, Charles would return to Rains Fall. From there, maybe he'd stay on indefinitely or maybe he'd move on and embark on his own again. The idea didn't appeal to him at all, but he had no reason to hang around this area any longer, especially if there was a chance for him to be recognized.
As Charles sat in the corner, mulling the undesirable possibilities, the conversation from the blackjack table drifted into his consciousness.
A young man, flush in the face from drink was babbling about having witnessed the tail end of a gang shootout.
One of his companions cut him off, "You weren't there, Johnny."
"Yes, I was!" insisted the younger man. "I saw them getting shot at."
"Not this again," one of the others grumbled. "You ain't no more seen an outlaw than been up a woman's skirt."
The others howled with laughter as the one named Johnny protested, "That ain't true, none of it. I've been with plenty of women, I tells ya. But that ain't the point. I seen an outlaw on that cliff. I swear on my mother!"
Charles lifted his head and stared at the young man, his curiosity suddenly aflame. Was he speaking truth? He itched to jump up and haul the boy outside for an interrogation.
"You ain't seen shit," another man needled him. "Now, quit stallin' by draggin' your old ma into this and show your cards."
Thoroughly chastened, the young man said nothing more to his companions about his outlaw sighting. The group played cards for another hour while Charles bided his time. He suspected the boy was speaking true, but he couldn't confront him in this bar, where he knew any sudden move could turn into a full on brawl.
Eventually, having lost in cards, Johnny stood to leave the game, wobbling some as he moved to the side exit. Charles followed him out the door. Johnny hadn't made it far, having to use the wall to hold himself up and walk straight. Before Johnny could make it to the street, Charles moved in, pulled the back of his jacket and shoved him against the side of the building where they wouldn't be observed.
"Hey! Watch it!" Johnny whined at the rough-handling as he was too far in his drink to think he was in any danger.
"Who did you find on the cliffs?" Charles demanded without preamble.
Johnny eyed him warily, but he didn't seem indignant or resistant. "All I know is he was an outlaw."
"What was his name?"
"I don't rightly know, mister. He was in such rough shape I reckon no one would know him. Got the doc to look at him, but he said there wasn't much he could do."
One of the last conversations Charles had with Arthur rose from his memory. "I didn't tell you before, Charles...I saw a doctor...it's pretty bad, and it's gonna get worse."
Charles released the young man. Realistically, Charles knew the kind of shape Arthur had been in. There wouldn't have been much for anyone to do, especially if Arthur had been shot to hell by the Pinkertons on top of everything.
"I'm sure that fella's dead by now," Johnny commented idly. "I just ain't had time to visit Miss Charlotte and check."
Charles frowned. "Miss Charlotte? Who's that?"
Johnny's mouth turned up in a lopsided grin. "My lady love."
"What does she have to do with Arthur?"
Johnny yawned, smacking his lips a moment before he answered, "Oh. Miss Charlotte was the one tryin' to nurse him back. But I heard from Dr. Barnes that it was a waste of time. That fella didn't have long to live."
The doctor was probably right. But at least if Arthur had made it away from the Pinkertons' clutches, Charles could bury him properly rather than him being left for the wolves.
Johnny tried to walk away, but Charles pulled him back and ordered, "Tell me how to find this Charlotte."
XXXXXXXXX
Charles followed Johnny's directions to the cabin called Willard's Rest. He bypassed the coal-filled town of Annesburg in favor of the clean air of the forest west of it. The trails were clear and it was good hunting grounds. Possibly too good. There were tracks and dung along the path, proving cougars prowled the area. Charles kept a vigilant eye, his bow at the ready.
The big cats, if they were around, took no interest in him as he and Taima emerged from the trees, the trail turning downhill. They traveled across a set of train tracks that bridged over a river. At the river's head, a waterfall cascaded with deafening magnificence as it misted the air in a refreshing spray. Deer and elk drank freely from the river without fear of an abundance of hunters in the area.
Charles followed a trail to his right, which led him between some densely scattered trees before it opened up again. At the bend in the path, he unfortunately spotted a cross stuck into the head of a grave to his left. He pulled Taima to a stop momentarily, taking in the wooden cross and mound, his mouth lowering into a grim frown. So, the kid in Van Horn had been right. Arthur had died and also been buried up here.
Charles debated on dismounting and saying a few words over the grave, but decided to speak first with the woman who had at least tried to help his friend. She'd been the one to last see Arthur, after all.
He led Taima up to the house. It was a decently sized cabin, with a steep hillside protecting its back. There was the beginnings of a garden displayed in front, freshly tended.
Charles slipped off of Taima and couldn't help but notice the horse tracks in the dirt leading the direction he came in. He wondered if the woman who lived here was even at the house right now. Yet, if he stilled for a moment, he could tell that the area didn't feel empty. Smoke rose from the cabin's chimney and a cooking meat smell wafted in the light breeze. Someone was here.
He approached the steps and knocked on the front door. After he did so, a cat bolted from under the porch and skittered behind the shed.
He turned his attention back to the cabin when he heard footsteps inside. The door opened and, before he saw a person, Charles had an eyeful of rifle. Past the barrel, he looked squarely into the hardened gaze of a dark-haired woman.
"Who are you?" she asked sharply.
Reading more wariness than hostility in her eyes, Charles took a step back and lifted his hands in obvious surrender. He had to suppress his instincts to respond in kind, as it wasn't easy to have a gun to his head without attempting to defend himself.
Charles kept his voice low and even as he told the woman, "I'm sorry to disturb you, ma'am. I just have a couple of questions and I'll be on my way."
Her hands shifted nervously on the rifle, but she nodded. "Go on."
He waited a beat before asking, "Do you mind putting down your gun? I don't mean you any harm."
"You aren't the first man to tell me that and you likely won't be the last," she responded firmly, yet somehow politely, "but I'm not setting down this rifle, sir."
"Fair enough," Charles said agreeably, lowering his hands. He supposed he couldn't blame her for being cautious. It wasn't likely she had too many visitors out here. "I won't waste your time. A few weeks back, there was a shootout at Beaver Hollow..."
Her eyes widened and he saw her grip tighten on the rifle. "If you work for that Pinkerton Agency, then I can't help you. I wasn't there."
That accusation set him back a moment, first with some slight confusion before a little of his humor arose at the idea. Him, a Pinkerton? He released an easy-going grin. "Believe me, I'm the farthest thing from a Pinkerton, ma'am."
She eyed him searchingly. "What is it you want?"
Since she appeared unsettled, he tried to soften his tone even more. "There was a man who perished on a cliff back there. A boy in town told me you brought that man here."
Her eyes narrowed with suspicion. "Maybe I did."
He indicated the grave's general direction. "I only want to confirm where he's buried so that I may pay my respects."
"Buried?" The woman lowered her gun, a befuddled expression that he didn't understand taking over her features. There was a grave just down the hill and he had heard an account of a dying Arthur being brought here. Was she being purposefully deceitful?
He said doubtfully, "Perhaps the kid was mistaken..."
The woman's gaze drifted behind him and her shoulders dropped slightly, as if in relief. Before Charles could turn to see the cause of her distraction, she asked, "Pray tell, what is your connection to the man you're looking for?"
He had no reason to lie. "He was a good friend and a good man. One I want to honor with a proper grave site."
The woman studied him, as if deciding on what she wanted to tell him. He took a moment to study her in return. Her green eyes were piercing and intelligent. He would estimate her to be older than the girls in the gang, but with no gray hair she had to be younger than Miss Grimshaw before her untimely death. She didn't slouch at all, as if she'd been taught at a young age to keep her posture.
Charles considered himself a good judge of character. He didn't see any malice in her eyes or tone. In fact, she was fairly soft-spoken, even when attempting to appear threatening. He would have been willing to wait patiently for her explanation of events.
That is, until he heard the sound of a horse coming up on the trail. Taima whinnied and shifted in the dirt. Someone was dismounting from their horse and marching up to the house.
Charles briefly considered the notion that he was about to be ambushed as he spun around ready to grapple with an attacker. Instead of action against an assailant, he uncharacteristically froze in place, shocked. His eyes widened at the sight of the man striding up to him, not comprehending exactly what he was seeing until a hand clapped his shoulder and he was pulled into a quick hug.
Charles returned the hug, but in incredible disbelief at the appearance of the one man who was most certainly supposed to be dead: Arthur Morgan.