For an entire week, I lingered without a single task, feeling like a ghost amongst the living, a reminder of my own perceived worthlessness. Despite this, the camp group was always nearby, offering unsolicited advice that I accepted with a mix of gratitude and resignation. Save for their silent chatter, a hush had settled over the camp, a stillness that seemed almost tangible.
Lost in reverie, I was startled by a familiar voice that cut through the silence.
"Hey, kid," came the gruff call.
I spun around to find Arthur looming behind me, his presence commanding as he sauntered closer, hand resting casually on his belt, a lit cigar perched between his lips.
"Arthur," I acknowledged, brushing the dust from my clothes in a feeble attempt to regain some composure.
"How'r you holding up?" he inquired, his tone carrying a hint of genuine concern beneath the gruff exterior.
"Fine…" The word hung between us, unconvincing even to my own ears.
He took a drag from his cigar, eyeing me with a mix of skepticism and disappointment. "I would've been keen to have you join us in our work, had you kept your goddamn hands to yourself. And I haven't seen any improvement with your shooting either."
His words stung, though I couldn't deny the truth. My progress as a gunslinger was hardly noteworthy, but at least I was now hitting objects, even if the marks painted on them eluded me. Recently, Micah and Bill had taken a peculiar interest in me, their motives unclear. The stress had rendered me unsteady, and Micah's so-called 'jokes' had nearly provoked me into a brawl more than once.
I averted my gaze, nodding in acknowledgment. "Yeah… but I've added a few pinpoints to your map. Treasures, most of them," I said, the hesitation in my voice betraying my unease.
"Huh, did you now?" Arthur responded, pulling the cigar from his mouth as he extinguished it under his heel. "Sometimes, I just wish I could resort to the old-fashioned interrogation, wring every little piece of information out of you and be done with it. But seeing as Dutch and Hosea find some value—or at least amusement—in you, I can't… yet."
His words hung in the air, a veiled threat or perhaps a warning. Either way, they served as a reminder that my place here was tenuous, and that the patience of men like Arthur had its limits.
Upon hearing Arthur's words, my eyes widened, fear flooding through me. But when I glanced up at him, his gaze wasn't stern; instead, his lips curled into a slow, mischievous smile.
"I'm just joking with ya, kid," Arthur said, his voice betraying the tease as he clapped me on the shoulder with enough force to make me wince slightly.
"C'mon, I'm heading to a place—Carmody Dell, if I remember right," he added, pulling me along toward a hitching rail nearby.
"We're going out?" Surprise laced my voice, tinged with a spark of excitement.
"Yeah, sure," Arthur responded, swinging himself up onto his horse with ease. He turned to me, a glint of amusement in his eyes. "I picked out a horse for you too."
"You did?" I asked, a mix of surprise and curiosity in my tone. "Really? Where is it?" My gaze flitted to the horses hitched around us, wondering which one could be mine.
"Ah didn't say I brought it here, Luke," he chided, clicking his tongue to urge his horse forward. "Mount up."
"What do you mean—"
"Eh, he ain't far from here. A young one, not quite a colt, but looked fast and steady—has potential if you can train 'em. Saw it fighting off a pack of wolves too when I was riding nearby," he explained, tossing an apple to his horse, who caught it eagerly.
Wait a minute.
"You want me to train it?!" My voice quivered with incredulity.
Riding a well-trained older mare was one thing, but taking on the challenge of training a spirited young stallion was entirely another.
"You said you were getting comfortable with horses, didn't you?" Arthur prodded.
"That didn't mean I'm ready to train a stallion!" I protested.
"Keep it down, kid, it's still early," he cautioned in a hushed tone. "Don't worry about the training. Maybe I'll help, but that doesn't mean you'll just be watching from the sidelines. A steed and its owner need to make that first connection; otherwise, you won't truly be riding your own horse," he lectured, gesturing toward his own mount as a living example.
We rode for nearly an hour through the verdant pastures teeming with wildlife. Occasionally, a few strangers ambled by, some dismounted with a deer carcass strapped to the hindlegs of their horses, a testament to the untamed abundance of the land.
As we continued our ride, Arthur began to share the purpose of our journey.
"Hosea's at Emerald Ranch. He's waiting for me there," he started. "Says he's got a good business deal with a local who's in the habit of buying stagecoaches for a fair sum and selling them for even more."
I recalled my playthrough as Arthur and Hosea in the second chapter of our escapades, where they discussed a peculiar fellow who, out of spite for his in-laws, plotted with them to rob a stagecoach from Old Bob Crawford.
"Ah," I nodded, recognizing our destination. The virtual world's condensed travel times had fooled me; in the game, a frantic ride from Armadillo to Saint Denis could take as little as ten minutes. But here, our steady trot had lasted a good 50 minutes, and still, Emerald Ranch was nowhere in sight.
"You know where it is, kid?" Arthur glanced back at me, eyebrow raised in curiosity.
"Not exactly, no. But I do remember Emerald Ranch has a nasty owner," I replied. My free time often found me delving into the secrets of Red Dead Redemption 2, unearthing the stories behind its locations. And so, I shared what I knew. "Heard the owner's got his daughter locked up in his grand house, treats his workers like slaves, and underpays them too."
Arthur looked surprised. "Where the hell did you get such information, Luke?"
"It ain't a secret, Arthur. That feller's reputation is well-known," I assured him.
"Is that so?" He shook his head, a smirk forming on his lips. "Well, if we're robbing him, it'll make it easier on us knowing he's a scoundrel of that sort," he chuckled.
"We're close now, Luke," Arthur declared, slowing his horse to a more leisurely pace.
"Finally, let's rob that stagecoach then," I said, dismounting carefully. We had been sharing one horse, and it was a relief to stretch my legs.
"It's not about that, kid," Arthur corrected, placing a cigarette between his lips and gesturing towards the expanse before us. "There's our champion"
I followed his gaze, my eyes taking in the breathtaking landscape. Rivers as clear as crystal cut through the terrain, and a handful of horses grazed near the water. But it was the creature striding across the river, away from the herd, that captured my attention. Arthur had led me here to see the horse he intended for me to train, and in that moment, I was left dumbfounded.
I gaped at the creature wading steadily across the river, its form a stark silhouette against the water's shimmer. Turning to Arthur, I saw his scowl give way to a look of concern as he studied the horse.
"What... what is that, Arthur?" I stammered, hoping against hope he wasn't serious about me training what looked more akin to an equine revenant than a horse.
"That's your horse," he replied flatly, dismounting with ease. He rummaged through his saddlebag and produced a rope—another lasso—and handed it to me. "Don't ever judge a horse by its appearance, Luke. I swear, that creature there is going to be a trustworthy companion that'll see you through to the end."
"Arthur, it's missing an ear, and its right eye is milk white. I think it's half blind—Oh God, I can see its ribs from here. Arthur, I'm... I'm actually scared," I admitted, my voice a mixture of awe and terror as he nudged me forward.
"Shhh," he hushed, pressing the lasso and an apple into my hands. He gestured toward the forlorn beast. "Walk up slowly, let it know you're there, and talk to it," Arthur instructed, pushing me gently toward the horse that had now ceased its crossing to stare in our direction.
"Horses are skittish creatures, Luke, but I reckon those scars weren't born from skittishness. Earn its trust, no sudden movements," he advised from behind me.
Keeping my gaze locked with the horse's, I advanced slowly. Horses typically grew agitated when unfamiliar species approached, yet as I moved closer, the animal remained still, its head bobbing slowly in what seemed like an invitation.
Holding the lasso behind me, I presented the apple. "Here, buddy, do you like apples?" My voice was soft, coaxing.
Now just five meters apart, the horse's ailments appeared less severe than from a distance. As the horse limped toward me, my fear subsided, and I crept forward to meet it.
Up close, I saw scars likely inflicted by a large predator, perhaps a mountain lion, and the horse's blinded eye bore the mark of a vicious claw. The air was ripe with the scent of both fresh and aged wounds. Nature itself seemed to have cast this horse out.
Yet, the survivor before me took the apple with a gentle nudge of his snout, the tickling sensation nearly drawing a giggle from me. In that moment, Arthur's voice brought me back to the task at hand.
"That's a good boy right there, Luke. Now, bring him over here, slowly... He knows you've got treats, but trust takes time," Arthur observed, eyeing us both cautiously. "Don't rush to touch him. If he's uneasy, he'll back off. If he's willing, he'll show you his neck, you have yourself a friend."
Arthur retreated, giving us space. I raised my hand, ensuring the horse could see it, and reached out to touch his neck, avoiding the wounds. Our eyes remained fixed on one another until the tension dissipated like air from a balloon.
From a distance, Arthur removed his hat and exhaled in relief, grateful for the absence of any sudden movements that could have spelled disaster for me.
"Good boy, very good... and congratulations are in order," Arthur declared, producing an open bottle of whiskey from his satchel. He uncorked it and passed it to me.
"Thanks," I responded, my voice betraying my lingering nerves as I accepted the bottle.
"I half expected you to faint dead away," he laughed heartily, remounting his horse. "I'd suggest you ride him, get him used to yourself for riding and all but he's in no shape for that. His back's bleeding, and there's a bone sticking out." Arthur's concern for the horse was evident. "He needs care," he pointed across the river to a road. "That road leads to Valentine. Start walking, and take these," he said, handing me a red box of cartridges labeled 'EXPRESS-20-40-ARMY.'
"The stable owner in Valentine owes me $30. Tell 'em Mr. Killgore sent you for horse care, and don't let him overcharge you. If he tries, just point your gun; he's a coward at heart," Arthur instructed, eyes already scanning the horizon toward the now-visible ranch.
"Thanks, Arthur. But how will I get back?" I asked.
"You don't, not yet. Get a drink, wait at the saloon," he said, tossing me an envelope. "It's your cut from the O'Driscoll camp."
I figured the envelope held about $20. I nodded, grateful for everything.
"And lastly, keep an eye out for Lenny. He should be making his way to Valentine soon. He was on guard duty at the camp not long ago, so he should be coming in a few hours," Arthur concluded before nudging his horse forward, leaving a cloud of dust in his wake as he rode off into the distance.
With Arthur's instructions echoing in my mind. I knew I had to ensure my injured horse received the care it needed at the stable, meet up with Lenny as planned, and then make my way back to camp. As if sensing my plan my companion took the lead, chuckling to myself I followed suit to the Valentine.