Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The crackling fire is closing on you like summer tides assailing the seashore. Every encroachment a step closer and encloses you in an airtight besiege, overwhelming through all available senses that still hook you to this hell on earth. You know not how long the wooden mansion could persist before crumpling to ashes, nor whether the few brick walls might spare you just a little more time to track his down before getting buried with the fragments of planks and pillar stubs. Like a boisterous crowd, the splattering flame wiggles at the periphery of your vision and surrounds in with nondiscriminatory menace. Wild blazing blares the exigency of the situation and screams you to scuttle off.

The scorching heat has smoldered beads of sweat dangling dangerously on the ridge of your brows, but you keep down the urge to bring your hand up and wipe it across your soot-smeared face. Instead, you clench the grip between your palms and nestle your forefinger tensely on the metal trigger. If he comes—this malignity ferments at wrong side of your eyes—when you eventually find him, there’ll be no puerile dilly-dally anymore. Just a single retraction, then everything will be over.

You lay under Heartlands’ sun in its most splendid spring. Perching supinely on your face, a crumpled magazine lay between your bleary eyes and the glaring rays. Your mind strolled while you stared blankly at the moving black spots on the back of your eyelids. Edged circles swimming around like gnats in bushes.

The pounding in your arteries moderated to a more soothing pace as your heart prepared for a comfortable snooze, till a sudden rustle in the grass nearly startled you to snap up from the deck chair.

The deprivation of one sense enhances the rest of the bunch: you once came across that pseudoscience-like claim in one issue of the Saint Denis Daily.

Frankly, you ain't sure about the validity of it—newspapers always flimflam, anyone who read them without a second thought would be a damned fool—but you were surely aware of the footsteps that were approaching because the susurration was getting nearer and nearer. Not entirely alarming, but unpleasant overall. Without lifting the magazine, you mutter under the pages, “Go find somewhere to play. It’s private property here.”

Your imprudence was met with a contemptuous snort. “And leave you and your property to rot together on this beautiful day? Nah, I don’t think so.”

That damned, provoking quip. Your hand found its way up to the magazine and languidly dragged it down onto your chest till the canopy above now greeted you with mottled shades and sunlight. Your mind raced to scrabble for what was left beside your sleepy haziness, which seemed all livened up in a sudden. Certainly, you recognized this voice with its signature hoarseness and cowboy carefreeness. An accent emblematic of freedom in the harbor city. How could you forget?

“What do you want, Mr. Callahan?”

You stared at him behind the magazine's glazed cover. Not directly meeting him in the eye but rather focusing your gaze at the lapel on his shotgun coat, as if you suddenly found it singularly fascinating to behold a piece of grocery clothes whose duplicates you could find in bulks just walking down a single street. Lint embroidered the brim of his frayed cuffs, patches of discolored fabric weathered on gusty prairies and in raining groves. These hints of his experienced life were far from the pristine tailored suits you were accustomed to seeing, but they nonetheless showed you another aspect of living, the adrenaline-filled type that’s always hanging on the line between life and death.

“You know, your old man didn’t pay me the bucks to just stand here and see you bask in the sunshine,” he said accusingly, and despite his rugged look, sounding full of dedication and integrity.

You craned your neck up and shrugged in the most innocent way. As if it’s not your very choice to sprawl here like a washed and splayed coverlet.

“Well,” you proposed lightly, “you can also opt to take the money and do nothing. I’ll tell nobody, no ruining your reputation, promise.” You allowed yourself a wry smile, knowing fully well that he wouldn’t comply.

Last time when you bribed him with a ten-dollar bill to keep silent about you slacking off on the shooting lesson, he ended up snitching on you and your attempted crime to your dad, earning double what you had offered without returning what you first gave. You didn’t quite see him eye to eye after that blatant betrayal, and was very livid about your double loss of dollar and dignity.

For a spell, you had given him the cold shoulder and refused to acknowledge his presence anywhere in the house (to which Elizabeth called you “childish”). Though now it seemed that he was the one to buckle first in this silent war of tugging. Score for you. You wondered if he had brought anything as a peace offering.

Repressing a snicker climbing up your face, you propped yourself up on both elbows and wheeled around and landed on the ground, the canvas sinking and creaking under your movement. With deliberate slowness, you tiptoed to him with both hands crossed behind in a mischievous manner. You bent forward a little, sparse fringes fell before your eyes, waiting for his next move, expectingly.

Arthur moved his right hand towards the satchel leaning against his buttock, trying to fish out something he had in mind. That movement alone seemed stretched and you saw it all in slow motions. For a moment you thought he was going to conjure up something to make up for your previous unpleasantness. A nice necklace, maybe, with a crystal pendant and a gold chain. Perhaps he would ask you to turn around and help clasp it around your neck, like all gentlemen do when they were gifting jewelry. Or it may be a rare, pretty flower he picked up on his way here. A less expensive gift but nonetheless more suitable to his west nature.

Then in complete bewilderment and dawning dread, you saw his hand pass by the satchel and went for the holster. Arthur clicked open the buckle, pulled out his revolver, and fired to the sky.

That sound alone you could not stand. You thought you blanked out for a minute. The thundering gunshot reverberated in your head and you could hear nothing else except for that stream of faint, relentless buzz. The whiteness of the day expanded and magnified before you, engulfing you like the froth of a wave rushing head-on, then it was gradually replaced by a veil of darkness, slowly dragged down till it covered the whole vision as the world cut off its connection to you.

You saw the shotgun’s dark muzzle through that hole blasted on his right shoulder. Sinews and muscles still dangling on his wound’s walls as the red streaks ran down onto your outstretched palm, so warm and lively as if he was still alive. As if he could turn around and gave you an assuring smile while he still had that hole on his part of body that could barely be called shoulder. You felt so frozen against his dissipating warmth. You knew that sound was what had taken the life out of him.

It took a moment for your surroundings to come back to you. And when it did so, you found yourself flopped on the ground, arms huddled in front of the chest and legs limply curled up on two sides. You raised your head up only to see Arthur looking down on you with a mixture of pity and vexation.

While you sat immobilized like a stunned rabbit, he had already holstered his revolver, his free hands now resting casually on his flanks, holding nothing and seemed to have held nothing, but you swore you could still espy the smoke withering above him.

The sun cast his shadow fully on your squatting figure, and you felt so small and terrified under his broad silhouette.

“See,” he said softly, better if not with a tinge of mock. “A fucked-up mess, you are.” He had this condescending sympathy that made you want to snap up and slap him in the face if you had the strength. You didn’t need him to remind you that you were broken.

Exhaling a little more than a sigh, he crouched down and stretched out an arm to you, a too-late peace offering that’s decidedly not enough to compensate for the doubled conflicts, not enough to make things all right again. Nevertheless, though grudgingly, you crooked your arm around his and held yourself up from the mud, muttering complaints and half-hearted thanks.

Chapter Text

Just south of their camp at Houseshoe Overlook, ran a slow, clear river where Arthur Morgan liked to go to get his things cleaned up. There were always some more personal belongings that he didn’t want to leave to the ladies to wash: his gun belt that got blots of dirt and blood on in that scuffle in Valentine, and his saddle that got worn on the brims during his time spent on the horseback. Tending this grim himself made Arthur feel closer to his partners that had carried him through countless crossfires and running, he could almost say that he’d become as intimate with them as he did with his fellows in the gang.

When Dutch approached and called him from the back, Arthur was tenderly brushing Boadicea’s mane by the Dakota riverbank. Dutch beamed that confident big grin of him that he always wore when he had big plans brooding over, which made up most of the reasons why Dutch would seek him out in the wild. The head of the Van der Linde gang rarely left the camp. Can't risk the Pinker-tons finding him out.

“Arthur, my boy!” Dutch called out passionately and strode over with open arms. “How you doing here?”

“Fine, Dutch, just helping Boadicea with the wash. The girl has had quite a day.” Arthur addressed Dutch with a nod and patted the mare dearly on her neck.

The two exchanged a comradeship hug. Dutch patted him on the back with a perky strength that told he was in high spirits now, which Arthur was glad to see. Dutch hadn’t been himself recently since the camp was running out of water supply because of the seasonal drought. When they inquired the residents in Valentine about it, they said it was going to pass soon or later. But time was a luxury they could not afford. More going out to the town meant more exposure, meant more chances words would spread and the Pinker-tons might pick up the whispers and track them down in the grove.

"Now," Dutch said. "I have good news you migh' wanna hear."

"Well?" Arthur asked with raised brows.

"Sean came back from town yesterday morning. Bought a local newspaper from the street peddler. Usually, there ain't much stuff happening this part of the country, pretty much the same kind of tame small-town lifestyle, that is. But here, read this section." Dutch produced the crumpled paper from his side pocket, unfolded it and handed it to Arthur, who took it with both hands.

Arthur squinted at the cramped letters. House rentals, grocery ads, and more news about the steel and oil fields, nothing that particularly stood out to him. "What exactly?" he asked.

Dutch jabbed at the lower right corner of the paper, to which Arthur shifted his eyes and read a block titled "Recluse in the Woods." He gave it a quick glance for the gist.

"So some rich guy has moved on the outskirt of town, and we gonna rob him of his holiday money?"

"Of course not, Arthur!" Dutch objected with surprise, then continued with regained enthusiasm, "You see, I was rather interested in this matter. So early this morning, I took the liberty to take a survey around the area, hoping to find a clue to the identity of our mysterious neighbor. And, ah, what an unexpected encounter! You wouldn't guess whom I met there—Mr. Mildred!"

"Mr. Mildred?" Arthur echoed, then with a suspicious, unbelieving murmur he asked for reassurance, "As the arms dealer?"

"Spot on!" Dutch chimed in. He was practically grinning to his ears, like a father being so proud of his son getting the right answer, and Arthur couldn’t help but felt a warm tickle at the back of his throat. Dutch continued his story,

"The man was strolling on the field with his horse when I bumped into him. Quite a snappy old man, I must say. I accosted him and we had a nice conversation together. I explained that I was staying in Valentine as a temporary visitor and asked what brought the man here. Mr. Mildred had some hesitations at first, naturally, but as our dialogues then heated up along, he confided in me his true purpose visiting this countryside. Turns out, he didn't buy the house for his own leisure, but someone else's!"

"And who that might be?" The story was getting more prolix than Arthur had expected, but he’s been intrigued enough to hear out the rest.

“Mr. Mildred’s daughter,” Dutch said. “He said he was gonna settle her here a couple of months to recuperate from some terrible incident that befell on that girl two weeks ago. Though the tranquil countryside might do some good to calm her mind and all. Clearly the girl had gone through something quite traumatic. Mr. Mildred, oh, you should see that old man’s face, a father’s heart broken for his little girl. It’s rare to meet a man so concerned for his family.”

Arthur winced in empathy, he pictured a grey-haired man riding on the horse back, having no one to talk to except a total stranger, and suddenly felt pity for that lonely rich folk. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said. “The man is indeed a poor fellow. But, Dutch, what’s that supposed to do with us? Not like we could help him in any way. I mean, we are a bunch of gangsters, not psychiatrists. I could sit there and listen to that fellow complain all day if he pays well. But I cannot do analysis for him if that’s what he wants.”

Apparently, his concerns didn’t deter Dutch’s resolution for an inch. The charismatic leader gave Arthur a relieved smile and wrapped his arm around Arthur’s shoulders, an awkward position for two strong-built men, dragging him close and saying, “That you don’t need to worry, son. Actually, Mr. Mildred, him being such a nice, grief-stricken man and all, had accidentally divulged a very important piece of information while we were talking. Of course, I, reliable as always, seized the chance and offered him the help. This is going to be easy money, Arthur. A work that both enables us to lay low and gives us a steady stream of money.”

“Alright.” Arthur threw his hands up, a sign of resignation. “You’ve made the work pretty appealing. Convinced me as always. Now tell me what it is before I lay my hands on it. If it’s really so good as you said, I don’t wanna bungle it.”

“That’s my boy!” Dutch let out a thundering laugh, squeezing Arthur on the shoulder once more before letting him go. “Now, Mr. Mildred asked me if I knew anyone good with guns…”

You really didn't like it—practicing guns on the open field. Firstly, you enjoyed basking in the gentle sun, which was one thing, but being baked under that scorching fireball with no visible shades for shelter was another totally different matter. Streams of perspiration crawled down your nape and messed your collar into a drenched wad of wretch, you felt much like just ditching Arthur on the field alone and scuttling back to the bathroom for a nice shower. Though a tentative glance at your mentor dispensed you of such a whim. Your attempted escapes had backfired on you enough times to persuade you that whatever craft you could come up through that thick skull of yours was going to be futile. Perhaps the wiser choice was to channel what little energy left to deal with the present task, the quicker you get done with it, the better.

You felt a nudge pushing your arms upward, but when Arthur dropped his support, the familiar heaviness of the metal weighed you down again. With your shoulders as pivots, your arms flopped down like the stem of a withering flower. You turned and gave him an innocent, tired look, which Arthur returned with a criticizing dart.

"Level the barrel with your eyes," he said. "You're not gonna shout anything in that posture."

"Not like I am going to shoot anything," you grunted.

If looks could kill, you were sure your exasperating tardiness would have earned you a double death. It might easier if Arthur would just put a bullet in your head and straightly ended your torment. You had witnessed death close enough to know it wasn’t the scary pain and despairing termination that most had assumed.

The truth is, it’s a simple, almost calm ending, befitting to every tired soul and burnt-out flame. You had seen the stillness in Daniel’s dried-up eyes, and the firmness that hung on his smeared face. He had squatted there like a holy statue, even after life had been drained from his body and left him with nothing to hold anymore, shielding you behind his back.

However, you wouldn’t like such an abrupt death. You would want someone like Arthur to give you a suitable ending. Someone who neither cherished you with intimacy nor treated you with indifference, who was just a passerby and didn’t know you enough to shed tears nights and nights after you were gone from his life. You imagined staring at the pitch-black mussel of his revolver when slowly falling backward, giving up yourself to the pull of gravity and enjoying the leisure of drifting along. No fighting against fate.

When your vision then began to blur and morph into darkness, you would stare into his teal eyes that were like unruffled surface of a lagoon and felt relieved but not guilty. Not guilty of leaving people behind, of not having fought enough, and of being so weak and feeble. But to see the peaceful acceptance in his marble eyes that mirrored your last thought and feel that you were somehow understood and connected to his hand that had unraveled the last knot, that had written the final period in a boring book that everyone wanted to lengthen for no meaningful reason. Yes, you think you would want that.

But instead, he ignored your retort. With a swift flex of his wrist, he drew his revolver from his flank and hoisted it horizontally in front, the mussel in line with the target set a dozen feet away in the middle of the field. Without turning his body, he hinted at you to follow his example, stifling whatever grumble you had to mutter with a predatory glance. Under implicit coercion, you raised those sour arms of yours and mirrored his movement.

"Shame that's not really a choice for you," he said lamentedly, still looking forward. "The whole point about me being here is to teach you to aim and shoot. It'll be much easier if you could just put your mind to it."

Then, without a warning, he fired three shots in a row, straightforward. Ammunition burst in the air, pierced the space, and left three apertures on the wood board, snaking cracks spread from the center.

There's no saying what frightened you the more, the suddenness of the shots or the sounds themselves. Sometimes reflex was beyond men's control. Hauled back by an ineffable source of force, you flinched and retracted your arms, clenching that piece of metal close to your chest. When you took the step back, you nearly stumbled over, clumsily tripping over your own feet, but Arthur got you by the arm and held you up, preventing you from twice making a fool of yourself. You awkwardly regained your balance with his support, but when you tried to disengage yourself, he didn't loosen his grip. You gave him a befuddled look.

"I'm alright," you said unconvincingly, restraining the shudder in your voice. "You can let go of me now."

"Not till you explain to me what the hell is all this."

You tilted your head to a questioning angle; his words didn't quite make sense to you. "Explain what?" you asked.

"You being skittish as hell," he clarified.

You jutted out your chin and looked up at him defiantly, searching for a clue to his intention. Against the glaring sun, you saw his gambler hat's shadow fell just below his nose, covering his upper face like a masquerade, and his visible expression was unfathomably deadpan.

If he hadn't been griping you, for sure you would have scuttled off.

"What's all this about?" Arthur asked again, more genially, trying to pry into your thoughts. As a show of thoughtfulness, he loosened the grip on your arm, careful not to bruise you, his hand just lightly hovered there. It’s a good sign that you didn’t immediately wring yourself out of his grasp. At least you were still willing to converse with him.

He roughly knew the accident that had conduced to your change. Dutch had told him, and so had Mr. Mildred, when Arthur first came for the position. He thought then that it was a temporary thing, emotional distress that would eventually fade with time. But your expression had just told him otherwise.

When you dropped the gun in your hands, there was a harrowing resignation laced beneath your calm that worried him. He hadn’t expected to see such weariness in a young face that should have exuded vim and vigor, which was like seeing daffodils wither in the mid-spring, and chirping sparrows flop from the sky. Your eyes glazed over with nothing but dullness, and your manner spoke of the passivity of a mannequin. He wanted to snarl at your sluggish movements, your reluctance to cooperate and your lack of initiative, but your grunt had dispelled him of this crudeness. For there was a certain fragility he felt about you. A piece of porcelain with cracks all over and would shatter into pieces if he mishandled it.

“The gun,” you whispered. Your voice coarse with a nasal tone. “It’s a bit too heavy for me.”

Directing your eyes to the ground, you stared at a procession of crawling ants and swallowed hard, you throat bobbed with the movement. A catharsis was near and you had to bite your lips to get hold of yourself.

Those words barely stood for their own, but that’s all you could manage for now. Sometimes ideas are unutterable. Speaking horrid things out would give them concrete forms. To admit your fear is to let nightmares persist in daylight. So, you could only convey your message in desperate, nonsensical hints, hoping someone would piece them together.

If Arthur understood what you implied, he didn’t show it in words. The open field's breeze fluttered his hat's brim, he moved up a hand to hold it down, and, removing it, tossed it on your head. He gave a good shove to settle it that nearly pressed you down.

You staggered to straighten yourself. The absurdity of his action filled you with bewilderment. His gambler hat, perching on your straggly hair, still oozed his warmth and the sun's heat. You touched your hand to the creased brim, its lint brushed your fingers, yarning the story of western life, the sunlit, warm places of America that you had never visited yet. If you hadn't realized it before, you suddenly found it intimate to fondle his belonging like this.

You handed over the pistol when Arthur spread out a hand. The gun's barrel was cool from the devoid of firing, he replaced it back in his holster and tugged at the belt. "Let's call it a day," he said considerately. "We'll try another time when you are more in the mood of really shooting something."

He started striding towards the manor, and the grass yielded under his boots, rustling sounds sent black-tailed rabbits to scamper into groves. Despite the liveliness around, you were still rooted to the ground, to this destructive tranquility that lured you to stay, but you could also feel his presence pulling you over, even though his grip was no longer around you.

"C'mon," Arthur called over his shoulder. "Didn't you just say you want some rest?" On the open field, his voice had no echo but simply dissipated like ripples, a one-time thing which had no coming back.

You'd sworn that no second light would shine into your heaven, no later bliss should ever herald spring. In remembrance of the passing of your half, you shall mourn with every bit of your soul till fate came to end your repentance. But, even yet, you dare not let it languish.

So, you pursued, tracing his footprints embedded in the cracked mud.

Chapter Text

Drought in spring was wreckful to wildlife as well as the Van der Linde gang. Charles, who from time to time fished near the stream abutted their camp, was seen more often recently hunting deer and rabbits in the woodlots. Ms. Grimshaw, on the other hand, had become perceptively irascible due to the plunge in the camp’s sanitary conditions, scolded other girls who themselves had no idea how to wash the clothes as clean as before with only half the water ration.

It’s all understandable. Every member in the camp shared her irritability more or less and to some extent hold this apprehension himself, though there would always be some sanguine fella whose optimism defied any sort of gloomy prospect.

Like John Marston, for instance.

Despite Abigail’s reproach, no sooner had John recovered from the wounds on the snow mountains than he volunteered to help with the chore at the camp. Chopping firewood, loading up heavy sacks, cleaning horse shit—works that the girls were less capable of doing or less inclined to do. It was sort of his way to make up for that one year’s absence, and the days of worry and agitation he imposed on Abigail and Arthur because of his impertinence. He still thought he could have hunted the deer, though, if that goddamn wolf hadn’t jumped on him from the back and mauled his face all bloody and ugly. John’s bile towards that beast rekindled as he touched the scar running down his left cheek, remembering the seething pain and the hollow fear hoarding inside while his body was slowly buried by whiteness.

Then, a similar whiteness resting on top of a crate caught his eyes. John approached and picked it up. He turned it around and gave out an amusing hum at the sight of a familiar name. Failing to locate the right person after a rough sweeping over, John resorted to the simplest and bluntest way. He took a deep breath and shouted through cupped hands,

"Mr. Callahan! Here's a letter for Mr. Callahan!" He waved the envelope clipped between his fingers.

"Stop yelling, Marston." Arthur snarled, coming out from behind his wagon lean-to. "What's the use of a pseudonym if everyone knows that's you."

“No worry, no strangers around anyway.”

“Whatever you say. I wouldn’t help you again if you get yourself into trouble next time. Now, the letter.”

Arthur stretched out to take the envelope, but John ducked aside, hiding it behind his back with a funny look hanging on his face.

Sometimes John’s mischief really got up his nose, but it’s been a long time since they had their tension resolved like this after they had that big argument about John’s leave. Arthur glared at the snickering man who was behaving more like a boy. “Well, the letter?”

“Of course, your letter.” John took the envelope from his back, but agilely retracted again when Arthur lunged for it, who now looked like he might draw out his revolver and shot Marston between the eyes.

“Relax, relax, Mr. Morgan.” John cooed. “I’ll hand you the letter. No more craft, I promise. But, under one condition—” John held up a finger, then his tone shifted from solemnity to jauntiness, an amused pleading. “You’ll share the story with me, wouldn’t you?”

After a few seconds of thinking, Arthur heaved a sigh in reconciliation and lunged. “Fine, Marston. Just stop your childish act and hand it over.” He snatched the envelope from John’s hand, tore open the glued part, and took out the letter. The paper had a silky texture and almost slipped by when he rubbed it under fingers, he had a rough idea about whom it was coming from.

“Should’ve just told Tilly to put it on my desk,” Arthur muttered under his breath.

With John peeking sidelong, Arthur gave the content a quick sweep over, omitting the pleasantries and verbose rhetoric. It bore no big differences from the previous ones that had been sent along with the payment. The verbosity was unnecessary, really. Arthur wouldn’t object even if they just shoved him a handful of cash with no greeting at all, but Mr. Mildred was a man heedful of etiquette. The wealthy dealer made no compromise at times when he could demonstrate how cultured and civilized American people had become.

The letter didn’t have much to itself except the usual thanks and request that Arthur would pay a visit to the manor at the same time next week. He refolded the paper along its creases and tucked it into his satchel together with the other letters that he always kept for record. The envelope he chucked into the bonfire after fishing out a stack of bills, which was soon gobbled down to ashes by the egregious flame.

“If we could all get a sideline like this.” John gaped at Arthur flipping the flashy bills and dividing them into two piles. “Hell! We would have long quitted robbing stagecoaches and stealing from cottages.”

“Forget about it, John. It wouldn’t help us save much, at least not enough to let us disappear forever, just something to get life through.” Arthur put one of the piles into the camp's stash box. “And I don’t reckon it’s gonna last long. Feel like they won’t need my service much longer. The kid no longer flinches when hearing gunfire and can now do some basic shootings herself.” After a pensive pause, he added. “I think my duty’s coming to an end. That ain't much I can help with anymore.”

The shift in tone cast certain melancholy to the dialogue. Arthur rolled up his share of the bills and cached it in his satchel, about which John never figured out why it could hoard so many tins and cans despite its visibly small capacity, but that's not his primary concern for now.

“So you are giving gun classes to some rich fella?” John asked in a jubilant manner, trying to turn the conversation back. “These guys have a strange heart for dangers I never understand. They must have been bored living that peaceful life of theirs. Never content with what they have, it seems.”

“Sort of,” Arthur murmured.

“Well, in that case, we are gonna have a hard time robbing them in the future. If the rich folks crouching under the wagons are going to start fighting back with that good shot of yours, they might just shoot us all dead in the next robbery.”

Arthur let out a chuckle and snorted. “Nah, they are still far from that.”

Tranquility, that's what featured the Heartlands when the moon hung high above and the night devoid of cacophony. Squeaking grey mice scuttled off as Boadicea's hooves trotted close on the muddy trail, rhythmic thumps echoed underground, reaching rabbits slumbering in humid holes. Fireflies were still a decent view in places where lampposts weren't installed like those in Saint-Denis, but the gnats were just vexingly prevalent on this open field that the docile mare threw her mane vehemently to shoo them away. Reaching forward, Arthur patted the girl on the neck and mollified her with soft praises. He took out a piece of oatmeal cookie from the saddle bag and passed it just below the horse's head. Boadicea bowed down and crunched her snack slowly, savoring each bite. She puffed pleasantly after finishing it up and seemed to stroll in a sprightlier manner.

When Arthur rode past by the Vacation Manor, he pulled on the reins to turn left, and what spread before him was the field and that quaint house which had gradually become unfamiliar to him since he stopped coming weeks ago. All those fancy chandeliers and carved banisters, he didn’t think he could really get to a wealthy but restrained life like that. Civilization rejected outlaws, and that feeling did not go in one direction.

But Boadicea seemed to think otherwise. She was chewing on a patch of grass when she suddenly snapped up and start nickering towards thin air, jumping and stirring that Arthur had to dismount from the saddle.

“Hold on, girl—hold on.” Arthur crooned while lovingly stroking the mare's neck. “What’s the matter, you want some more cookies?”

He fumbled out these sweet treats from the package, but Boadicea simply gave the snack a few indifferent sniffs before turning her head away. She nudged Arthur's cheek with the tip of her nose and turned him towards the alight manor, huffing wet, warm breath onto his face.

"Wow, easy there, easy ..." Gingerly, he pulled the horse away, who licked on his hand with her bumpy tongue, leaving a sticky smudge of dribble. Arthur faintly grimaced at the slimy feeling, but still moved his hand up and stroked her ears, pressing them down before she pricked them up again.

"Ah, I know," he said briskly. "You miss the candy carrots, right?" He gesticulated accordingly, then scratched her at the chin. "Sorry, girl, but we aren't getting those from Miss. Mildred. She has her own business, and we ain't gonna bother her this late. That ain't polite."

But his intended comfort only backfired. As if vexed that her thought didn't get across to her dopey master, the horse tamped her forehoof against the soil, kicking up quite a sweep of dust. Never before had Arthur so keenly wished that he could understand equine vocalization as he did English. Just short of knocking him off, Boadicea drummed her head into Arthur's chest, jostling him till his back was against the fences; he stumbled on the verge of trespassing on private property.

When Arthur glanced up, an observation suddenly struck him, and his befuddlement drained away. Hastily, he brought out the watch and his odd feeling was checked: it was almost twelve o'clock, but the house was still lighted up. He had known you to be an early sleeper, always retreating to bedroom before nine. Your dropping eyelids perpetually had a certain languor despite how late you might get up, as if you found more energy in dreams than reality.

Though he might not be the most eligible person to speculate so, but Arthur's mind first shifted to the thought of burglary. As an experienced one himself, in which he didn't take much pride as others might expect, he could positively contend that night was the best of all times to perpetrate crimes, and a grandiose manor like that was decidedly appealing.

Before he could come up with any better ideas, Arthur found himself standing on the manor’s front porch and knocking on the double doors. He heard the quick steps of someone rustling near in clogs. Coruscating with shrewdness, a pair of wary eyes peeked from inside, then the crack was opened wide.

"Mr. Callahan!” Elizabeth, the maid of the Vacation Manor, greeted him with delight. “What a surprise, I didn't expect your visit at such an hour. How can I help?"

The presence of the hospitable maid was enough to assure him that his speculation had been wrong. Though embarrassed for his unwanted disturbance, Arthur relieved at your safety.

"Just passing by, ma'am. Thought I might stop by and say hello. Check that everything is fine." he said, tipping down the brim of his hat.

"How nice of you, Mr. Callahan,” she lilted. “We are all very well, as you can see. Though it's a real shame that you stopping visiting miss." After a pause, she dropped her voice lower. "It's between you and me, sir, but Mister Mildred can sometimes be really negligent to miss’s thoughts. First dismissing you from the part-time, then he hasn't even come to see miss recently. Busy with his clients up North, I guess. The snobbish bunch in New York. He's certainly not a thoughtful gentleman like you."

"You flatter me, ma'am," Arthur gave her a faint, sheepish smile. Then he stepped backwards, moving down the porch steps. The lamp dragged his tall shadow stretching to where it well blended into the night. “Well, I’m afraid I might be overstaying my welcome,” he said. “I’ll bother you no more, have a good night and send Miss. Mildred my regards.” He put up a hand to wave goodbye, but before turning away, Elizabeth called him to a stop.

“Mr. Callahan, please, just a second!”

They both paused, even she seemed to be surprised by her own voice. After a moment of wavering and clenched teeth, she resolved to resume.

“The thing is … I mean … it’s already quite late, isn’t it?” She stuttered; her hand hovered awkwardly in the air. “If you don’t mind, would you care to stay for the night?”

Arthur watched her agape, utterly taken back. In a stern voice he said, “Sorry, ma’am, but I—”

“Oh my, you’ve mistaken me. I didn’t mean that.” She quickly interjected. A hot flush flared in her cheeks. “How bad I’m with words.” She sighed, then ran an awkward hand over her mouth and murmured,

“The truth is, sir, I wasn’t telling the whole story. Not that I wish to hold back, but I’m not in the place to interfere with miss’s personal life, least without her consent, that is. Alas, she is almost a daughter to me! How it pains me to see her wane in distress and wear off her youth! Mr. Callahan, I plead you, would you please go have a talk with miss? I think it would do her some good. This manor is such a lonely place, no one around her when she is in most need of company. I’ve told Mister that long ago, but he never listened.” A note of indignation flared her tone.

“All right, that I can,” he resigned, mounted back again, and brushed past her to enter through the door. "Though I doubt I could be much of a help. We aren't ... on the best terms, I think. She seems to be reluctant to have me around, at least she used to be when I was teaching her the gun. You sure she wouldn't object?"

“Ah, nonsense." Elizabeth creaked the door close and observed warmly with a little reproach, as if he had said something funny. "You may find her in the kitchen now. She's still up, not in the best condition, though. But don’t you worry, she might not have said it herself, but she is really fond of you. I do see that.” She winked knowingly.

Chapter Text

When Arthur entered the kitchen from the hallway, there was this curt change in surroundings that made him feel like crawling into a mountain cave. All the other rooms, though devoid of occupants, were all well lighted: lamps and chandeliers shone and wasted for no one. But the kitchen, where there was actually someone, had most of its lights off except for one pendant hanging right above the dining table. The border between dark and light was blurred by muted whiteness, which singled out the figure on the table like an ongoing monologue scene in a stage play.

Arthur groped on the wall beside him, feeling for the lumps that should be light switches. After a moment, his finger successfully found the slants and was about to press—

“Not the light, Elizabeth!” A bellow cut through and halted his motion. Cheeks flushed with two crimson spots and hair knotted like bird’s nest, you snapped up from the lying posture and said, “I told you not to mess with the lights! I’m just fine here…” Furrowing deeply, you drawled and squinted at his outline shrouded in darkness. The lack of illumination gave you a hard time discerning who it might be. The contour of the person was too broad to be Elizabeth, you thought. Even with your groggy mind you were at least able to remember that she was a slim woman.

Well, that’s strange. You swirled your bottle back and forth to try to externalize your zigzag process of thinking, channeling your energy to the front of your brain. As expected, it didn’t go well. All you hear was the tinkle of liquid lapping the curved inside of the glass bottle, that sad vision of yours was wobbly and distorted with iridescent rings glistening at the peripheral, and your languid attention roamed aimlessly to every little distraction along the way and seemed to pervade like smoke. Your thin layer of awareness stretched over and was incapable of forming an exact thought. Only when he took the initiative to step into the light and lay the answer plain before you did you make it out.

"Arthur," you blurted in a small, surprised voice, more to yourself than to him. It was perceptible that you delighted at the mere sight of him, but the joy was soon replaced by a mixture of confusion and somber, and you hunched over the table to hide your eyes from the light, instead studying the wooden groves snaking beneath.

What you were seeing right now definitely didn't make sense to you. Arthur Callahan hadn't stepped into the house ever again since father ended the contract and stopped sending him the payment. While the end of the flow of greenish paper always meant the end of connection, in the first couple of days, you still harbored a slight gleam of hope that whatever bond you two had formed during these weeks might lead him back, even though there's no profit to gain for him. But now having experienced disappointments in the various forms of insomnia, agitation, and lassitude, anticipation had become luxury.

Feeling for your muscles, you shut your eyes tight before opening them again. But that familiar tint of dark blonde stood still, watching you with those emeralds of his.

"Fuck …” you groaned. “Have I drunk that much?"

Pinching the bridge of your nose, you frowned from the dizziness and squinted harder. Slowly, his two overlapped images merged to one and finally you stopped seeing double, though clearer in vision but still not in thoughts.

Anyway, you decided, there was no harm talking to your illusion. Should just stop pretending that you hadn’t done enough folly already. If he’s you imagination, you would only embarrass you to yourself, which didn’t really count as losing face. And if he wasn’t …

…

… Alright, let’s just stop there. No point overtaxing your dopey brain.

Then when you opened your mouth to speak, to your intense discomfort, you found your tongue swollen like an inflated balloon, and the words slurred over.

“Come on, whatcha want, Arthur? Are y’ gonna say something, or you just gonna stand there an’ watch me all night?”

You tilted the bottom up and took an indulgent swig. From the corner of your eyes, you saw his brows knotted in disapproval.

“You aren’t thinking clearly right now” he said. “Give me the bottle and let’s get you bed. We’ll sort this out tomorrow.”

He lunged to grab the bottle by its body, trying to wring it from your clench. But you held its neck like an iron clamp and growled.

“It’s my drink, mister Callahan. Go find another if you—” you belched uncontrollably “—if you want one. They are all stored in the cupboard.” You craned towards the hallway and started shouting. “Elizabeth, Elizabeth! Go get Mr. Callahan a bottle of wine. We’re gonna have a party—”

“For god’s sake calm down, you drunk.” Arthur scolded and released his grasp on the bottle. Too slow to retract your pulling, you clumsily flung yourself back to the chair, collided with its back and nearly toppled over. You steadied yourself once more before crawling back onto the table, still swinging the bottle like it’s some kind of trophy.

“I’m no drunk.” You retorted indignantly. “I’m actually more sober than I’ve ever been.” Your claim was as credible as businessmen’s words, which was to say—not at all. “Do you know that a little wine helps clear up the mind brings the diverging thinking? Many writers did their best work when they were drunk. Believe me, Arthur, being drunk ain’t so bad. You should try it sometimes. It’s like floating in the clouds—really great—like flying with the eagles— Wait, on second thought, you should probably try it now.” Babbling incoherently, you propped yourself up on the table, turned around and waddled yourself towards the cupboard. Since no one else had turned on any other lamps yet, you had to scramble in darkness for the handle (much thanks to yourself forestalling all attempts to light up the room).

Just as you were about to reach the limit of your patience, a smooth, cool, metallic touch greeted your palm, and you swung the cupboard open in an almost dramatic manner. A waft of mellow aroma pushed itself down your nostril, diffusing a pleasant smell of ripe grape and fresh citrus that aroused your memory of fruit trees and gurgling autumns. You reached your hand deep into the cabinet and came out with a bottle of red wine. You turned it around to check the label, recognizing it as the Burgundy that had been stashed for some years before pivoting around and tossing it in an arc.

“Look out!”

Agile with that great reflex of his, Arthur lurched forward and caught the bottle midair, but not without fright. His breath hitched and sweat almost seeped out on his forehead.

“Goddamnit!” He looked down and read the label in stark shock. “You handle a Burgundy like that?”

Feeling playful, you returned him a mischievous smile. The intoxication made your expression sloppy and sentimental. The muscles tugged at your skin unfamiliarly, as if you hadn't smile this heartly for a long time.

There was an audible sign. Giving up on arguing with a drunker, Arthur pulled the other chair from the table and slid into it, slopping down in resignation.

“Never took you as the type to drink.” he remarked, changing the topic as he dived the screw into the cork and pulled it out with a crisp pop. “Though I’ve got to say, that’s some good stuff you got up there.”

He gave the liquid a sip. Truth be told, it was good enough that he regretted having open the bottle in the first place. Should have just taken it back and sold it for some bucks, he thought, might even earned a dozen dollars—at least the camp would need it if he didn't.

“These aren’t mine,” your wistful voice dragged him back. Leaning forward, you peered into the bottleneck like an astronomer looking through a telescope and said, “They’re Danny’s.”

“Danny?”

“Daniel, Daniel Mildred, my brother.”

Arthur froze.

Luckily, you continued without noticing his unusualness, “He was no longer here, though. Just last winter, we were travelling back from Midwest when a group robber held up our stagecoach. I never saw that coming. We've travelled the same route hundreds and hundreds of times and nothing had ever gone wrong. But I guess that's always the time when most tragedies happen—when you least expect it. What ensued after you could figure; he wasn't as lucky as I was."

Surely, he had heard of it, but never once was the circumstance of the young boy’s death mentioned to him—omitted by Dutch in every time of his narration. Now, Arthur saw the reason, and the comfort words died on his tongue; what remained of them lodged in his throat like edged rocks and pricked at his flesh from inside.

The silence followed was only too eerie to be called tranquil or placatory. Outside the window a bank of cloud blotted the moon like ink splattered over paper. No wind nor rain were present tonight: American ravens had buried themselves in deep slumber, and not even forest owls deigned to pay them a visit. Mice that were scampering around seemed to have all disappeared into thin air. It was so quiet that he could hear a pin falling on the floor.

Then in the most vitriolic and seething voice he’d ever heard you use, you ground out, "I wish those bastards could all be dead."

The curse caught him off guard like a blow from the back. A moment of unsettling nausea found his hand halted midway and holding the bottle in a still, slant position, liquid weighing down his stomach like he had just swallowed rocks. Perhaps the wine wasn't as good as he thought it was, Arthur mused, for he was suddenly hyperaware of the bitter taste of grape skin prickling at his palate.

You curse wasn't directed at him, he knew it. You were just a drunker venting your frustration and anger late at night. No way you could know what he also was. No way you could be insinuating his sin and the blood that he had gotten on his hands from so many victims alike your brother. Hell, you probably didn't even mean what you've said—it was just the alcohol working its way through, just the vertigo digging up something nasty and hateful hidden deep—but there was no lying how his legs were jittering under the table.

The floor clock ticked rhythmically into late hours; a grave clunk struck of lapsing days. Stars were fading out as clouds gathered denser. Driven by an unutterable desire for confirmation and assurance, he asked,

“What if I’m one of them?”

A pause. Your jaw tensed from clenching teeth, “What do you mean by that?”

“I mean …” His voice faltered and he shifted away, not meeting you in the eye. How was he going to explain things he didn’t understand? Instead, he stared down at his tapping shoes, so much that the periphery of his vision started to blur. It's a mistake to bring it up in the first place.

“Why—Arthur!” Contrary to what he had expected, you exploded an exclamation and fell back into the chair in an almost comical sway. Between hitched breaths, your chest heaved with jolly laughter and your eyes turned watery with gaiety. “Don’t put on that a long face. I’m just messing with you." Nonchalantly you waved your hand outward and spread it open, a gesture aiming to clear away the tense. "What’s so serious about? You’re certainly too nice a gentleman to be like that, aren’t you?

“You are nothing like those degenerates—robbing and killing for things that ain’t belong to them. Don’t you find it injustice to just take whatever you want in the name of freedom, to exert violence just because you could? That’s damn abuse, I say. You can’t just rob a man because he’s richer than the most. Where’s the equality in the process? You can’t justify an action solely by its end.”

A wry smile climbed up his face in feigned agreement. Not till this points, he really didn't realize that compliments could whack just like swears, perhaps even more. It slugged him right in the stomach and his guts contorted, feeling as if someone was wringing his intestines like a piece of rag. A gnawing sting, may be guilt, or anger, seeped out and plunged into the deep abyss below, a jingle of its finality echoing in the empty space. Wait, or was it the leaking faucet he was hearing? Honestly he couldn't discern. Damn, that wine must have started kicking in.

“So, that’s what the drinking is about?” he asked, trying to divagate from what he had brought up. “It still haunts you?”

In reply you gently shook the head. “This isn’t about that,” you said and repeated for emphasis. “No—it isn’t.” Your statement seemed real, not some prideful denial or foolish self-deception, but it also sounded like there’s more to that. Then washed over by a gush of melancholy, you sprawled forward and rested you chin on the tabletop, huddled yourself small like a deer in sleep. The lamp light dropped a ring of reflection upon your lustrous hair, whose usually braided strands now draped loosely over the tailored nightgown. “It’s another matter,” you whispered.

In lengthening reticence, you pondered over whether to confide. Despite your very disinclination to further expose vulnerability, the absence of sounds prodded you to speak like spurs kicking a horse’s flank, it urged you to tack on something to this emptiness, to resolve the vacant stagnation—so you drifted along and said, “I guess I’ll be leaving Heartlands in five days or so. Pa wants me back to New York with him.”

“New York?” He arched an eyebrow in question, for he was confused by your reluctance. “That’s good for you. I mean no offense, but, I really don’t think you’re cut out for the wild, miss. You can’t hunt, you can’t chop, and you ride horses poorly.” He snickered upon remembering you once riding Boadicea like taming a wild boar, and you would have slammed your face right in the dirt if he hadn’t intervened to calm her down with sugary carrots. “That’s some kind of surviving skills you get there.”

“Stop nagging me abou’ it, Arthur.” You snorted in displeasure. Your exhaled breath tinged with bouquet, the same scent that also lingered on his tongue. “I don’t wanna be back. New York is boring—busy but boring. All the same faces every day, the weary pleasantries and the fawning, silly men. Sure, I’m good at living there. Civilization is my thing—sure it is—I guess you at least get that part right besides the surviving thing. But you know, that ain’t what I want, what I’m good at isn’t necessarily what I like … that isn’t … what I want is …”

You voice ebbed as you drawled on, strength nibbled away by the sleepiness that was also weighing down on your eyelids. You had loosened your grip on the bottle and was now only lightly stroking its glass neck. Depleted your vigor like how every drunk in history ended up—slipping into unconsciousness. Through your wobbly vision and between those two closing pieces of darkness, you vaguely saw Arthur stretching froth and prying the bottle from your hand, slowly and stealthily like stealing an egg from a crocodile nest, but you felt too tired to protest, and that much he sensed through your manner. So he was really startled when you suddenly sprang up from seat and took him by the wrists. Your eyes glimmered.

“Please, come to New York with me, Arthur Callahan.”

He only knew that look too well to dwell in its fervor. But when he tried to withdraw, you only jerked him closer and wrapped your hands firmly on his with a strength he didn’t know you to be capable of.

“I’ll offer you a new life up North," you touted. "A decent one away from wildness and danger. A steady pay that doesn’t hang your life constantly on a single string. I tell you; I’ll talk to father to give you a job as a guard—a bodyguard. You are such a gunslinger! There’s no way he wouldn’t agree. He’ll pay you handsomely. He will. He must have to! Isn’t that great?” You jabbered with great zeal and frenzy that approach self-indulgence, eyes fixed on him but looking past him into a distant future you were picturing in your own mind.

“Would you first let go of me and we can may be talk this out tomorrow when you are more sober?” He sounded tired, in stark contrast to the energy you exuded.

“Why so, Arthur? Why so? Isn’t that easy to make up? Just a ticket and then you could go with me. Up to the North! You’ve never been to New York, have you? I’ve been there, lived there for quite a long time actually, but this time with you around, it’ll be totally different. Such excitement it shall be!” you said dreamily. “If money is your concern, I assure you that's no problem I can't handle. What else could you possibly worry about?”

A trembling excitement dominated your demeanor and he could feel it through your palms throbbing against his skin. Your dilated pupils conveyed a glowing enthusiasm that was ridiculously naive to the point of being pathetic—a dauntlessness of those who were born with silver spoons.

He made efforts to stifle a fluffy, ironic urge not to laugh in your face. Hell, you rambled on about running off to New York like it’s ever a feasible option, like all he needed to is to pack up the luggage and endure several boring days on the tumbling railroad, then when he debarked at the destination all worries would be casted behind as well. Your blind optimism reminded him of Dutch’s recent delirium, raving about the last one big score that was always looming ahead, the repetition of which he had slowly grown impatient and suspicious about (Dutch resented his second doubting to guts). But perhaps in comparison you’ve even raised it up to a new goddamn level, considering how little you really knew about him. This kind of unwarranted trust he was familiar with when taming horses, deferential animals that would lean into his palm and let him stroke their neck just for one juicy apple.

What you were seeing was a fraction of him that had been idealized and embellished, the novelty of wilderness that only attracted the city folks under certain premises—like cougars in the zoo. He was fairly sure, at least he believed, that whatever you were holding was a volatile feeling that would succumb to the mighty force of habituation in no more than two months’ time. And judging from your intense abhorrence towards outlaws, if you were to know his true self, you’d surely come to detest him enough to shoot him in the head and resent yourself to the extreme for having ever tried to befriend him in the past.

Harboring this cloud of thoughts going on inside, he tilted the chair back on its legs and let the surrounding dimness veiled his countenance. Though you were just seated a table away from him, never before had he been so conscious of this chasm between you two, separating you from each other in terms of the very foundation of your upbringing and your values of existence.

What you said in the rest of that night Arthur barely had memory of. Most of it skimmed over his brain and was filtered to simple syllables rather than words. In numb passivity, he waited for you to exhaust your energy till you could no longer hold yourself up but to fall sound asleep on the table, head sideways and drooling onto the tabletop.

Then crossing the other corridor, he crept out the house and slid out through the back door with the furtiveness of wolf. Grass rustled in uniform with his overcoat as he dashed across the field to its edge. On notice of his return, Boadicea trod back and forth and wagged her tail briskly. Without a word, he unhitched the horse from the fence and mounted on with a high jump, sending the her to gallop with a holler that rent the night.

On the whole ride back camp, he pressed himself low and leaned against the mare’s back, her fluffy mane brushed by his cheek with a soothing quality of stroking. Diving down, he buried himself in her softness and listened to the sibilant buzz of gnats and the gruff cawing of American crows, willingly immersing himself into this crude and gentle wilderness that was familiar as home to him.

There was one thing, though, that clung to him all the way back and kept him turning over on the bedcover throughout the night with eyes staring into the snuffed candle and mind racing like leopard: when he was to tiptoe out of this suffocating manor, just beside the back door, he chanced to glance sideways and spot a flight of stair leading down to a cellar. And peeking over its door that happened to be left ajar—the porters must have become remiss in loading those all the furniture and valuables—he saw a streak of goldenness glimmering amidst dark.