Archive of Our Own ^beta

1. Arthur

I rode my horse back to camp, tearing through the warm afternoon air. The sunlight touched the trees and tents, casting slanting shadows. Leaves trembled in the wind. Everything was still beautiful, as if I hadn't just killed half a dozen folks. The birdsong was drowned out as Bill, that moron, saw me and started yapping about his "plan".

He said there's a family nearby who used to be big plantation owners down South and moved into some self-built house. He thought they might have valuable antiques. It sounded too naive to bother joining, and the possible gains weren't worth my interest.

Bill was too eager to prove himself, blind to how shaky his plan was. I asked him, "You serious? I've seen mangy dogs with brighter futures than those unlucky bastards. Why'd they keep antiques after hitting rock bottom? To open a museum?"

Today's haul from robbing a wagon was decent, over forty bucks. In my book, studying wagon routes beats chasing unreliable leads. On my way back, I ran into some no-name gang dressed like beggars, yelling and circling me. Robbed right after robbing someone, that's America for you.

After looting them, all I found were a few nickels, some pitifully worn-out handguns, a few were even short on bullets, but whiskey bottles were full. Looking at their bodies in the dust, the blood-soaked shirts, and the same shocked expressions, I thought to myself, not everyone can handle this job; then I looked away.

I was moving forward in camp, striding along, and here came Bill again, like a dog chasing his tail. Don't know why he loves bothering me with this kinda stuff. I told him, "If you wanna waste your already worthless time, just go on your own." Before he left, he shouted at me, accusing me of always looking down on him. Well, he got that right.

The ground in the camp was solid and dry and felt firm beneath my feet. The newly bought charcoal pencils were all stashed in my bag. No one bothered me with idle chit-chat anymore. By the time they realized I was actually doing nothing, I'd already walked half a mile away. The further in this direction I moved, the more trees there were. Bushes and berry clusters scattered across the land. I reckoned I could already smell that cool scent of a creek.

I recalled a cluster of white flowers by the stream, quite intriguing, kinda like sesame blooms, growing on stems that climb up and up. But what caught my eyes as I was walking were these thistles. I didn't know their full name. Each one pushin' out of the ground with thorns, a bit sinister. When I was a boy, I used to run around in the woods in shorts; these wild grass always left my legs all red and rashy. Dutch and Hosea would laugh, saying, "Arthur's off to battle the bushes again." Then Miss Grimshaw would patch me up, stern yet loving as she scolded me. Back then, everything seemed a whole lot simpler.

Gotta find some time to figure out what those wildflowers are called. Thinking this, I saw them – the flowers, and the tree shadows swayin' with the water. But I didn't reckon I'd find him here too – Kieran Duffy, half-kneeling on the bank on my side, head down, focusing on something, his hat cast shadow onto half of his face.

From this angle, he couldn't see me, blocked by a few elms and tall grass as soon as I sat down. Well, the lad's always working, busier than a nest-building swallow. I opened my notebook on my lap, wanted to sketch something as a warm-up.

The water's always deeper than I thought, bright sky subtly reflecting. Capturing the shape of the stream ain't easy; I quickly sketched a murky piece that made me wanna tear it off.

Sketching those white flowers was a whole lot easier; they had unique shapes, reaching up to the sky, untouched by anyone's foot. Bright white blooms opened up amidst the green like a whole constellation of glistening stars. But I just casually threw them on paper; other thoughts are occupying my mind. I wanted to pretend it didn't exist but couldn't manage it: Kieran was just a few dozen steps away.

Peeking through a gap, you could catch sight of Kieran, one knee sinking into the mud, dressed in a blue and white shirt with the hat now off. His frame blocked half the mess, which seemed like all the pots and plates from camp. Since the day I roped him in and in some later moments, he'd wear this look of vulnerability and confusion. But when he's working, never a hint of it, as if all his focus goes into his hands or as if the job's bringing him a sense of calm.

He was rubbing and scrubbing at some fabric; it must be one of his shirts. Soap-suds flowed down in rivulets before me, pale and transparent, glimmering in the light. I couldn't resist reaching out to touch them, they're cool under my fingertips, gently popping.

Kieran stayed unaware, head still bowed. I used to think how could such a weak fella survive this life. That was before he saved my life, but even if that hadn't happened, I wouldn't call him weak now.

I thought about a conversation I had with him not too long ago, a conversation I started – and one that passes as normal, I guess. Couldn't really explain why I did that. Maybe deep down, I felt a bit sorry for him, or I had some guilt nagging at me. Nothing more.

"Kieran," I didn't call him O'Driscoll boy then, "you ever been to Valentine?"

I spoke as if it was some interesting affair. In reality, there ain't much to see in that town, but it sure beats sitting around in camp.

"Been there once, got some horse medicine and leather oil – for the saddles," he shot me a look, then turned to feed the horse, giving her a gentle pat. "Y'all really can't keep using soap for that."

"You didn't... wander around a bit?" I asked.

It only hit me then what I was saying. How could Kieran have the luxury to wander about? To the O'Driscolls, he's like a lame rabbit in a pack of hounds. He probably just snagged a rare free afternoon with the group, and even then, most folks couldn't have been giving him any friendly looks. "You didn't wander around a bit"? Seriously?

But he didn't show any sign that I'd said something stupid; just paused his movements, like he didn't expect me to ask that. "No, just bought the things."

I looked at him, and he looked at me. Something in me stirred, eager and warm. It shouldn't be like this. And yet, facing those innocent but questioning eyes, I lost my restraint:

"You work hard, and that's a good thing. So I was thinking, sometimes I ain't got much to do... and camp ain't the most comfortable place, you know? Fools bickerin' or getting drunk or somethin'." I let out a little chuckle, trying to sound all casual. He continued to gaze at me like that: calm and polite, but those eyes of his were asking questions. "If you ever need to buy something or just fancy a stroll, and I happen to be free, we could go together. Don't worry 'bout them O'Driscolls; I won't let them…" Just stop talking, Morgan. "You know what I mean."

He looked at me, and I looked back at him. And then, his entire face lit up, as if he understood all the subtext in my words. I felt a mixture of fear and joy. He quickly thanked me with a cheerful tone, as if I were the only one bringing bread to him when he was starving to death. Ironically, I was the one truly indebted to him for saving my life. Compared to that, my thanks felt as awkward as having a gun pointed at my head. His expression was hard to describe. I averted my gaze, scratched the back of my head, muttered something, and then hastily left.

Honestly, the whole thing was a bit embarrassing. But I couldn't stop thinking about it.

Before realizing it, I had quietly pulled away a bunch of obstructing wild grass and began sketching Kieran in my notebook. I added a few rough strokes, thinking that if he asked what I was doing here, I could show him the sketches of the stream and the flowers – that wouldn't be considered lying... No, wait, what are you feeling guilty about? It's just Kieran, not some detective with a revolver. Idiot, Morgan.

Structure, light and shadow, proportion — I try to faithfully recreate the scene. I've never so much as laid eyes on an art technique book; just fumbled through practice and occasionally flipped through the painting albums Hosea brought back. But I do enjoy drawing, the feeling of letting my mind wander, not thinking about how much blood's on my hands or the contradictions in this way of life. It brings a different sense of accomplishment: I can capture beautiful things instead of destroying them.

Mary Beth once said, "Arthur, you could be an illustrator." I just shook my head, smiling, not thinking I had such good skills. Besides, I only draw what I want to see, and these drawings are mine alone. I rarely show them to anyone. They are like a corner with a warm fire in the midst of freezing cold – as long as it's there, my stiffened heart feels a bit saved.

Now, a drawing was gradually taking shape under my pencil. Nature stepped back, and Kieran took over the scene. In contrast to the sturdy elms, his hunched frame looked small and lean. He had a relaxed expression, yet wholly focused, with a faint smile playing at the corners of his mouth. If I could, I'd close this notebook and just watch him here, watch him here for a long time.

Yet my hand started to wrestle with the charcoal pencil, and no matter how hard I tried, the drawing just wouldn't come out right. Just as I was about to add some shading, the sun moved, casting an untimely shadow that danced on the face of the main character in this drawing. I tried to deepen the background colour, but it felt like it was ruining the whole thing. I sketched his figure and expression, but it was just a clumsy imitation of reality.
Kinda like when I tried sketching someone else before, expectations were too high, no matter how hard you try, it's never satisfying... No.
Stop thinking about it.

In the end, I've got my very own Kieran Duffy on a page in my journal. There he was, half-crouched in the woods, at the center of nature, with a calm, content expression. When I close the page, he'll stay right there, not a glimmer moving on his face. Somehow, that thought brought me a sense of satisfaction.

2.Kieran

Oh... some things happened.

I was working, Sean came by, Mr. Matthews came by, and then Arthur showed up nearby at some point to draw; perhaps he thought I didn't see him. But when he called my name from behind, I still jumped and dropped the iron plate I was holding. It floated down the stream, hit a large rock, bounced into the center of the current, then spun away.

I bet when Arthur left this morning, he didn't think he'd be spending the afternoon chasing a plate.

Arthur went back, his clothes all wet. He put the plate in the basket next to me; his fingers got black from the charcoal pencil, and then the creek water made them all muddy and grey. I apologized and expected him to make fun of me, but he seemed to be in a good mood.

"Well, good thing you don't do the dishes too often, O'Driscoll boy. Otherwise, we'd be stuck using empty bottles for Pearson's stew." Well, there it was.

"I ain’t no O’Driscoll." I sighed. "And you're the one who scared me."

"If this is enough to spook you, you really shouldn't be venturing into the woods alone," he remarked. Then suddenly, like something struck him, he turned fierce, eyebrows knitting together. "Wait a second, you shouldn't be here on your own at all. What if the O'Driscolls find you?"

I gestured vaguely to a spot not too far behind me, "It's okay. Sean's keeping watch over there. He said I can just yell for him if there's any danger, and he's got my back as long as I help him with the laundry." I glanced at the pile of dirty clothes next to the mess of dishes. After Sean, Mr. Matthews stopped by, asking if Sean was slacking off again. I assured him he wasn't, and he nodded, praised my work and then left.

Arthur rubbed his forehead like he was experiencing a severe headache. "Have you ever seen Sean in a fight?" he asked, "You just... I don't know why you're doing dishes today, probably helping out some lazy bastards." I nodded, "Anyway, don't go out alone next time, and don't count on Sean to protect you!" He said, with a serious tone.

"Oh... okay."

I've never read books, but mammy used to tell me stories when I was young. There's a fairy tale about a kind but internally conflicted brown bear. He doesn't eat any animals, yet believes that only through fear can one earn respect. So, he puts on a fierce appearance, roaring that echoes through three mountains... Eventually, people realize he's not dangerous, and they befriend him, even napping on his soft fur. One day, I remembered this story, finding it hilariously familiar. Of course, for many, Arthur isn't a threat. The only problem now is when he might suddenly turn a bit fierce, using sharp words towards me. But since I understand his nature isn't bad, I always let it go.

Suddenly, I thought of something and said, "But aren't you also around?"

"...Well," he hesitated, weakly waving a hand in the air, "'s just a coincidence, it might not be like this next time."

I felt oddly comforted by his words, even though they were only a warning. "Okay," I said, glancing at his wet clothes, especially the fabric around his shins. He seemed not to care, or at least pretended not to, so I continued washing the dishes without a word. Standing beside me, he swayed a bit, unsure of what to do, then he sat down, washed his hands clean and picked up a dirty spoon.

"Arthur Morgan's doing chores for me? THE Arthur Morgan, who's too proud for this kinda stuff?" I teased, didn't know what's gotten into me. Occasionally, I'd retort when he went too far, but I never actively provoked the bear. Perhaps I would not survive tonight, I thought with a smile.
He seemed offended, "... Who said that? I do chores sometimes."

"Just joking. You know, jokes? Like the ones you throw at me often—"

"Alright, alright, for Christ's sake," he grumbled, still looking down at his hands, but there was a hint of a smile on his lips. I stretched a bit, settling into a more comfortable position, and said, "You didn't ride a horse?'

"This place ain't far. Felt like taking a walk.'"

"Oh... Abner's a good boy. You take good care of him. Strong, energetic, and doesn't shed much." Abner is Arthur's horse, and I love the way his eyes glint when I brush his coat, the gentle breath, and the warm touch as he rubs his head against my chest. Arthur really cares about him. The first time I bathed and brushed him, Arthur was nervously pacing nearby; maybe he didn't trust a guy who used to be in the O'Driscoll gang with his horse or simply lacked confidence in my skills. But I felt relieved when he admitted I cleaned Abner well.

"Sure," Arthur talked like Abner's his own child, "he's calm, but when he runs, it's as fast as the wind, and his appetite is astounding... I wish you could meet Boadicea," he looked up into the woods, "I still miss her."

"Losing a horse you love is as painful as losing family," I said.

"Yeah. We went through a lot together. She had a fiery disposition, but she was loyal."

I thought to myself, she probably got that from her owner. "I had a horse with that kind of attitude too—no, not mine. When I was thirteen, the stable got a Saddlebred named Rose, even taller than Abner. Beautiful and majestic, unmatched in speed. But most of the time, you couldn't believe she was a trained horse. Unless you were her owner, riding her usually ended with you on the ground, and sometimes she didn't spare her owner either. The stable was noisy with her tantrums all day long."

"My god," Arthur said, "I bet she sometimes kicked up her legs fiercely, no matter who was around."

I nodded, "Exactly!"

"It took me a while to get Boadicea to stop that habit," Now his words sparkled with the joy of reminiscence, "but one time she kicked down a lawman for me, so I rewarded her with some strawberries."
V"That cop sure wouldn't be gettin' near any horses for a while," I said. "Anyway, I got assigned to take care of Rose while someone else got the task of takin' her out 'cause I'm too short to mount her... Lucky break, I reckon."

"Only thirteen, and wranglin' a tall, fiery horse and still kickin'?" Arthur's tone lifted, a mix of jest and genuine admiration. "Kieran, you sure are full of surprises."

I could feel my heart getting as light as a feather with his words. I had to pause for a few seconds to hide my smile. "Well, I've learned to dodge her attacks and tried trainin' her, but it didn't work much," I said, "After a while, though, she got a bit friendlier, only when she's with me."

"But why?"

"Maybe 'cause I'm patient with her, never lay a hand on her," I recalled, "There were two guys in the stable usin' violence on the horses... luckily, they got kicked out later."

Arthur nodded solemnly at my words.

"Or maybe I'm just a genius when it comes to horses," I said, putting on a smug expression.

It amused us both, and Arthur's chuckle was warm and deep. He tilted his head slightly, eyelashes catching the light. His beard extended along his firm jawline, making him look handsome and a bit fuzzy. At this moment, he showed no aggression, just like an ordinary person. (Ordinary is a term too distant for us.)

Then I realized this was the first time I'd spoken so much to him alone and the first time I'd seen him smile from such a close distance. His expression was as if he'd just shared a secret, an inside joke, like we'd formed some kind of connection from that moment onward.

My voice was rather calm:

"I might be weird for saying this... But I used to think getting caught by you was one of the unluckiest things that could happen to me," I kept an eye on his face from the corner of my eye. He didn't look at me. "I was ready to face death back then. But later, it turns out, workin' could earn me a spot. As long as there's a place to eat and sleep, even if most folks dislike me, that's still kinda lucky. And now, some folks are changin' their attitude towards me, startin' to accept me. Mary-Beth, Hosea, Sean... and, of course, you too."

Hearing this, he quickly glanced at me. It seemed like he wanted to say something, but in the end, he remained silent. Actually, he didn't need to say anything.

"Work's tiring but not too difficult, and I get to spend more time doin' what I love... In the past, Colm and some others used to berate me while I cared for the horses, saying it's better to clean their guns than doin' this. At least Dutch never did that," I said. "Life sure takes unexpected turns."

Arthur listened attentively, occasionally nodding. I'd seen him like this by the campfire; he'd usually listen when folks talked about themselves, often with a bottle of whiskey in his hand. But now, there's a subtle difference, like he was contemplating.

"Well, sometimes," by now, I couldn't stop myself if I tried. "I look at all those horses I've taken care of throughout the day, standin' together in the sunlight. They're beautiful. Shiny coats, happy spirits. Good boys and girls. And the sunlight's like a glowing blanket covering them. When I get close, I'm greeted with welcomes, kisses, and hugs. I know they'll never reject me. Every time this happens, I just feel..." I paused. "I just feel glad to be alive, and I want to keep on living, keep on living forever."

Arthur stared at me, completely absorbed, his gaze almost burning into me. How quiet it was in the woods. I didn't know what expression I had when I was speaking, and at this thought, I turned my face away, suddenly wishing to hide.

His voice had a solemnity, a bit cautious.

"Finding something in this world that makes you want to keep on living, that's a precious thing." he said.

All those utensils got scrubbed clean, shining silver-gray again. I took the last one from Arthur, dried it up, and put it back. After getting back to camp, they'd need to wipe them with oil to keep them from rusting. We chatted a bit more, and then he grabbed the basket and checked out what I'd done before he joined; kinda of surprised that it was all the camp's utensils, even the ones hardly used. I chuckled shyly, shifted the topic, and complained about Pearson's stew. Honestly, thinking about having to eat it again in two hours made my stomach boil. You could almost write a whole book with all the insults folks come up with for Pearson's stew.

"Speaking of which, I've got some extra candy and beef jerkies," Arthur said, "and cigarettes too. If you want, I can fetch 'em for you."

"Really? Thanks, Arthur." I said, "Actually, with Ms. Grimshaw's secret spices, the stew ain't too bad."

"That Texas chili powder? Yeah, went from hell stew to American stew, but who says America ain't a kind of hell."

I couldn't help but grin. Arthur stood up and brushed off dirt and leaves from his pants. "Alright, let's head back then." His cloths were already dry. He was holding the basket with the utensils and grabbing Sean's tangled mess with his other hand, signaling me to grab my own clothes. "Can't keep dodging fate forever."

"But, but I promised Sean I'd help him." I said.

"Sean's a grown man. He can wash his own clothes." Arthur drawled, "Besides, I haven't seen him do anything for you."

"... Alright."

We went through the grove of elms, patches of berries, and tall, thick weeds. From a distance, you could vaguely see the camp's dirty-colored tents, like a bunch of little dirt mounds. Arthur walked a bit ahead. Even with both hands full, he strode with a determined posture like a man on a mission. I found my eyes trailing his arms under the shirt.

I surely didn't forget his words from before. It was the second time I saw Arthur Morgan stammering. Since then, I couldn't find an excuse to leave camp, and he stayed busy with all sorts of tasks. It's hard to say if he was behaving friendly out of guilt and pity or if he genuinely saw me as a friend. I couldn't even articulate what I really felt about him, only that the complex emotion was expanding, growing, occupying a corner of my heart. Dangerous as it was, I couldn't let it go.

"Arthur?"

He turned back, "Hmm?"

I think you're a good person. I think you're a decent person. Thanks for being kind to me. Or maybe: I want to spend more time with you.
But none of it came out. Arthur's gaze brightened, full of questions, and my voice melted into something hot and dense in my throat. The silence stretched for too long, and I conceded.

"... Just wanted to ask, what were you drawing before you came to find me?"

Arthur paused.

"Nothing. Just... landscapes."

I held my clothes close, snugly against my body, "Oh."

"If it were any other day, I'd show you," he stared at the ground, "but today's drawing ain't too good."

"Maybe next time then." I said.

He looked at me seriously for a moment, bright daylight shimmering in those blue-green eyes.

"Maybe next time." he said.

The next morning, like dozens of mornings before, I, as the earliest riser in the entire camp, opened my eyes with my face still pressed against the pillow. But today, my gaze drifted to the left, and I saw a corner of neatly folded white paper peeking out from under the pillow. I sat up and unfolded it.

It was a drawing. Though I know little about art, I could sense the careful yet confident strokes of charcoal, they had a unique style. Several horses stood close to each other in the center of the drawing. I could name every one of them. Their postures, whether gazing at the horizon or bowing their heads to graze, showed grace and tranquility. The sun illuminated the horses as if they were glowing. In between them, a man was feeding one of the horses, wearing a short-sleeved jacket, a wide black hat snug on his head. His expression was relaxed, sunlight and horse shadows dappling over him. The horses weren't tied with reins, and there wasn't even a hitching post anywhere in the scene, as if they didn't want to leave his side, as if he and the horses were the whole world. I looked at the drawing, and a smile appeared on my face.

3. Arthur

I knew he'd like it, and sure enough, he told me that himself. Before the sun fully lit the sky, he came to the tent to find me, nervously squeezing out some words of thanks. At that moment, it was like I was possessed by courage, so I invited him to dinner at the Valentine's Saloon tonight. He immediately agreed, even mentioning he'd cherish the drawing I gave him... Actually, it ain't something to make a fuss about. Didn't take me much time to finish it. It's as if that scene was already imprinted in my mind.

As for the sketch by the creek, I tore it out and tucked it into a notebook on the bedside table.
One day, I tell myself, I'll let him see that drawing too. A day where there ain't someone on the lookout a few hundred yards away, no utensils urgently needing to be returned. A day when we'll be in the tent, forgetting about missions and fights. We could pretend we have all the time in the world.