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Chapter Text

April 1881

          Arthur ain't quite sure how long exactly he's been in the saloon. It's been days, for sure, shuffling daily between the rented room and the bar as he drowns his sorrows, but how many, he can't say. Everyone in town knows about Eliza and Isaac by now, knows he arrived within a week of their deaths, and knows their killers are in the wind. Arthur takes a long drink from the bottle in his hand, picking at the label and staring at it with bleary eyes. This is probably his second bottle of the day. 

          Probably. Damned if he can remember. It's all been such a blur. 

          He doesn't know what Dutch and Hosea would say if they could see him now, but he does know they'd get him cleaned up, cart him back to camp, and try to straighten him up as best they can. Arthur doesn't want that. He doesn't deserve it. 

          If he'd shown up a week sooner, Liza and his boy might still be here. Arthur swore he'd do right by them, and he didn't. He left them alone, unprotected, and he should've been there. Dutch and Hosea needed him, but so did his family. 

          "Suppose you oughta quit for the night, mister?" the bartender asks. C... something. Clarence, Arthur thinks. 

          "You gonna make me leave?" 

          The man shrugs. "Ain't see a reason. You ain't beaten anyone's brains out just yet, but... still. Maybe you oughta. Clean yourself up." 

          Arthur knows that's not what he means, but he barks an acidic laugh. "You think I oughta beat a man's head in? Make me feel better?" There is no 'feeling better' about this. Eliza and Isaac are both gone, and there's not a damn thing Arthur can do about it. "Could start with you, if you like, Clarence." 

          "We both know you ain't gonna do that." 

          That's true. There's only one saloon in this damnable town, and there'd be no one left to serve him alcohol if he beat Clarence to death. He ain't meant to kill without reason, but by the nine hells, Arthur would like a reason right about now. His anger and shame have coiled together under his skin, burning him constantly in a toxic combination that's drowning him as much as the alcohol in his gut. Arthur ain't never been a mean drunk. Ain't like his Pa. If'n he's gonna beat someone, he wants to remember it, anyhow. Wants to remember whether or not they deserved it. 

          The list of folk who didn't has tipped perilously close in number now to those that did. Liza and his boy just might've tipped the scale over entirely. Arthur didn't pull the trigger, but he may as well have. In the life they live, he should've known better than to leave a single woman alone with her child, neither knowin' how to shoot a gun. He should've taught 'em both—her the moment he promised her he'd be around and him the minute he were old enough to hold a gun. 

          But he didn't, because he was soft. He didn't want Isaac to need to hold a gun at that young of an age the way Arthur had. 

          "Little over three weeks now you been in here, mister." Oh. Is that how long it's been? "I know it ain't my place to decide how a feller handles his grief, but... I think you should leave here. Put this town behind you." 

          "Think so, hm?" 

          Clarence hums, not unkindly. 

          "Maybe. Eventually," Arthur drawls, taking another swig. He hears some voices picking up outside the saloon, but ignores them, unbothered in his drunken state. It would take a lot of noise to so much as move him to any response right now. "Probably not." 

          The bartender doesn't judge, merely keeping an eye on the folk around the bar as he washes some glasses. He's long since stopped eyeing Arthur, knows he don't mean no harm. Arthur has broken up a fight or two simply for the fact that it's hard to wallow in peace if people are bitin', clawin', and poundin' on each other. It's no wonder Clarence hasn't kicked him out yet. 

          Folk outside grow louder. 

          "Sounds like a hangin'," Clarence says, frowning. "Though, I don't remember there bein' one scheduled by the sheriff." 

          Arthur hums. Given that he eventually stumbles his way back to the gang, that's probably where he'll end up someday. He's always been realistic about that, no matter Dutch's dreams and no matter Hosea's schemes. They ain't saints, no matter how much of what they steal goes to poorer folk. Their money still has someone else's blood on it. 

          Just like the ten dollars stolen from a secluded house has Eliza and Isaac's blood on it, probably bein' spent somewhere on shit that don't even matter. 

          A few patrons stumble into the bar, clearly excited by all the commotion. "Hey! A few shots for us boys, mister!" 

          "Hell's all the fuss about?" Arthur asks. 

          "They caught some thief out there in the dark. Nearly made off with enough ham from the butcher to feed a small family. Dumb kid." 

          Arthur's spine goes stiff. "Kid?" 

          "Oh, yeah," another one says, unconcerned as though this happens every day. "Scrawny little thing. Not a day older than ten, if that." 

          Something sour settles in Arthur's gut, and he stands and moves in a direction away from the saloon for the first time in three weeks. Clarence calls after him, a warning that he should leave it be, but Arthur doesn't care. He staggers with as much grace as he can toward the gallows at the far end of town. It ain't hard to find. He just has to follow the crowd baying for the blood of a child. 

          A cheer goes up, a raucous, jubilant cry, and Arthur staggers faster, his heart thudding in his chest. When he arrives at the gallows, he's stopped in his tracks momentarily. It really is just a boy—a boy more bones that skin, hollow eye sockets, bruise-cheeked with a split lip, and gasping uselessly for air as his feet give weak kicks. Ten years old looks a gross overestimation. He weren't heavy enough for the rope to break his neck right away, to make it painless. A boy maybe Isaac's age bein' hanged right before his eyes.

          Before Arthur even knows what he's done, a shot rings out from his gun. The boy drops like a stone, eerily still for a moment before violent coughs wrack his body. Arthur ambles over, his gun still smoking in the chill of the evening. There ain't a lawman to be seen, so this is clearly the work of a mob of angry people. 

          "The hell is the matter with you folk?!" Arthur bellows, turning his back on the wheezing child behind him. 

          "Now, mister," someone says, "-we know what you lost, but this ain't none of your business-" 

          "Sure as shit is my business now!" Arthur barks back. "He's just a goddamn boy!" 

          "He was caught thievin'!" 

          Arthur growls. The constant lethargy that haunted his past days has all but evaporated. He's not letting his guard down for a single second. "Because he were starvin'! A blind, drunk idiot could see that! You're gonna hang a boy for bein' hungry? A child?! What if he were yours?" 

          That sends a ripple of disquiet through the milling crowd. 

          "Get the hell outta here," Arthur snarls, and when that doesn't disperse the crowd, he fires his gun in the air. "I said get the hell outta here, or the next one's goin' in somebody's chest, and I ain't picky as to whose!" 

          The threat finally gets them moving, and he waits for them to file off before he turns to check on the boy. He holsters his gun after reloading just in case anyone gets ideas. At first, he fears he was too late. The kid is deathly still, pale-lipped, and eyes closed, but Arthur can see his chest movin'. He kneels down and works the noose off the boy's neck. Mud cakes the kid's tattered clothing where he hit the ground, and the rest is growing damp as it all soaks in. His hair's a tangled, knotted mess of black strands, and he stinks like piss and pig shit. It's a wonder he's still alive, even without the hangin'. 

          When Arthur finally pulls the noose free, the boy stirs, his breath hitching when he tries to move his tied hands. He coughs, a terrible squeaking thing that must be twice as painful as it sounds. His eyes sluggishly blink open, red and drooping from the lack of air. His irises are an oddly dark shade of blue, stormy. Wheezing audibly, he finally looks up at Arthur. He starts in on a whimper, but the noise is swiftly cut off as agony pinches the child's face. Bloody scratches mar his neck from the rope, and the skin that isn't open is torn, already turning an angry shade of red. 

          "Don't, boy," Arthur murmurs. "Don't try to talk. You'll make it worse." 

          He stills. Trembling from head to toe, he watches Arthur check him over, flinching when large, calloused fingers probe gingerly at his ribcage. The look on his face when Arthur apologizes for the pain is nothing short of astounded. How long's it been since anyone treated him well? Where'd he even come from?

          Those are questions that'll have to wait until the kid can talk to him, which won't be for a long while. 

          "You got a home for me to take you back to, boy?" 

          A head shake is his response. 

          Arthur curses himself internally, because if he weren't so damned soft, he wouldn't have to be wonderin' what the hell he's supposed to do with this boy now. He could just let him go, but considerin' the whole town recently mutually agreed to hang him, he'd likely be dead by morning. Maybe he could try an orphanage. There's one of them a few towns over, he thinks. It'd be a three day ride, but he could manage. 

          "You needin' to go back to an orphanage?" 

          The boy's confusion turns to fright in a hurry, and the only reason he doesn't squirm to freedom is because Arthur hasn't untied his hands yet. So, ran from an orphanage, then. Maybe that's where them bruises came from. The older ones, anyhow. The ones on his face look fresh. 

          "Whoa, there," Arthur soothes. "Take it easy, boy. I take that as a no." He searches for a way out of the mess he's just found himself in. "You got... anywhere you can go? That you want to go?" 

          Another head shake tells Arthur no. He's still trembling. 

          Damn it all.

          "Well.... Shit." Arthur runs a hand down his face and pulls out his hunting knife. 

          He raises his hands in a placating manner when the boy panics again, hushing him awkwardly and assuring him the knife ain't goin' nowhere near his sorry neck. The kid scrambles back a few paces once his hands are free, panting in between frightened hiccups as he stares up at Arthur. He holds his shoulders like they're hurtin' 'im, and one boney hand cradles his ribs. Every breath he takes scrapes in the back of his throat. 

          "Come on, then," Arthur says finally. 

          The boy watches him carefully. 

          "You're hungry, ain't you?" 

          Suspicion springs to life in the child's expression, something that shouldn't belong on the face of a kid so young. The fellers in the bar said he might be ten, but he don't look any older than seven or eight, if Arthur had to have his guess. Arthur can't blame him for the suspicion. It's not like he trusted Dutch and Hosea when the two of them took him in off the street. 

          Arthur stays crouched, knowing he's not exactly the most unimposing of figures. "I don't want nothin' from you, boy. Ain't like you've got anythin' to offer me, anyhow." 

          The wary regard stays put on the child's features. 

          "Ain't lookin' for nothin' untoward, neither, if'n that's what you're worried about." Arthur's mouth and nose crinkle with disgust before he continues, "Meal's free. And hot. Doubt anyone else in town's gonna offer." 

          Hesitating for a long period, probably upwards of a minute while his panting breaths calm down, he eventually turns onto his side to climb to his feet. Arthur starts forward without thinking when the kid's legs give out from underneath him, his heart giving a traitorous squeeze at the raspy keening noise that scratches free from the boy's throat. How bad did they hurt him gettin' him up on the gallows? Did the fall to the ground do it? It hadn't been that high, but he's all bones....

          "Can you walk?" 

          The boy doesn't answer, trying again as though afraid the offer will be taken away from him if he doesn't manage on his own. Arthur hefts him against his chest before he can fall back into the mud. A squeak of surprise leaves his mouth, and he squirms at first, biting the meat of Arthur's shoulder, but he's shaking too hard for it to do any good. He tires quickly, falling limp as Arthur slinks out from beneath the gallows with the boy tucked to his body. Shivering legs hike to wrap around Arthur's hips for better support. 

          Arthur ain't sure why he does it, but, for a long beat, he merely stands there, rubbing circles into the coughing child's back. He's just a boy. Just a boy, and they nearly hanged him.

          He doesn't have anywhere else to go, so he walks back to the saloon and sets the kid on the floor under the edge of the bartop. He drops some change on the table. "Whatever stew you've got today, Clarence." 

          Clarence doesn't ask. He never asks. Arthur likes that about him. Soon enough, he brings a steaming bowl of stew from the kitchen area tucked into the back of the building and hands it to Arthur. "Here you are. Hot off the stove. Kept it mostly broth." 

          "Ain't you just a helpful one?" Arthur huffs. He grabs the spoon and messily cuts what few potatoes are in the stew into smaller pieces, knowing all too well how a starving kid might try to gorge themselves regardless of the state of their body. If his throat starts swelling, he could choke if he's not careful. A good thing Clarence probably knew what to expect the second Arthur sauntered off to go see the hangin'. 

          In all honesty, they both knew the stew was for the kid long before Arthur walked in the swinging doors with him. Bartenders tend to know things. 

          "Boy," Arthur gruffs. "Come on. Up." 

          The kid jerks, hurrying to do as he's told and climbing onto the barstool beside him. His mouth pinches with pain for a second, but the look eases once he's settled. He stares hungrily when Arthur slides the broth a few inches his direction. 

          "Go on. Slow." 

          Tentatively taking the spoon from Arthur, the child dips it into the broth and takes his first mouthful. The urge to go faster hits first at the burst of flavor across his tongue, but he's swiftly reminded of his situation when he swallows. His hand snaps to his neck as he stifles a whine. 

          "That's why I said slow." 

          There's a spark of fire in him somewhere if the glare he skewers Arthur with is anything to go by, but he slows down accordingly. 

          "Oughta see to them scratches," Clarence says. 

          "After he's got somethin' of substance in his stomach, yeah. We'll get to it." Arthur reclaims his bottle from earlier and takes a small swig before dropping the remainder into his satchel. "Figure he needed food more than anything at the moment." 

          Clarence snorts. "What he needs is a bath. Boy stinks to high heaven." 

          The kid hunches, a surly scowl plastered on his face as he continues eating his stew. Each swallow is accompanied by a pained grimace. Arthur pays him little mind except to keep an eye on that tremor of his. His eyes still droop with exhaustion, duller than a child's should be. People who survive the noose ain't always the same after. It'd be unfortunate for this boy to grow up with a shake to 'im because of it. 

          Eventually, the kid pushes the bowl away, finished and looking as tired as Arthur. 

          "I best take him upstairs," Arthur sighs, rising from his seat and leaning down to scoop the kid into his arms. He expects the feeble wriggle the kid offers up and holds firm. As much as he'd like to stay down here and keep drinking until he can stumble back upstairs and pass out, he gave himself new obligations by accident. 

          He sets the boy down on the floor once again. Those clothes of his aren't coming within three feet of the bed. He tugs out a spare shirt from the trunk at the foot of the bedframe and sets it out. The kid will drown in all the fabric, but it's better than stewing in his own piss and slimy mud. "I'll be back. Put this on in the meantime." 

          The kid wrinkles his nose. 

          "You ain't got much room to be picky, kid," Arthur grumbles. "Gonna head across the street to the hotel, have 'em run you a bath. You smell like a dead racoon dipped in oil and caught fire." 

          At the mention of the bath, the boy's disdain tapers off. He looked gobsmacked that Arthur even bothered. By now, Arthur ain't surprised to see such a look. 

          He doesn't wait around to see what the does, pausing at the door and saying, "You know how to count?" 

          After a moment to think, the kid holds up ten fingers twice. 

          He's how old and can only count to twenty? Who the hell raised this kid up? "Well, all right, then. I'll knock three times if it's me. You don't open for anyone else. I'll lock up behind me and leave the key in the door on your side. Got that, boy?" 

          He gets a nod in response. 

          Good enough. Arthur trudges down the stairs and out of the building. He stumbles a little on the steps, still a little tipsy. He's grateful bein' tipsy never does much to his aim, otherwise the boy he acquired would've met a worse end. A part of Arthur wonders if maybe it would've been better that way. He certainly ain't suited to keeping folk alive these days. Now, the boy is stuck with him. 

          Sorry bastard.

          "Can I help you?" the hotel manager asks. 

          "Payin' for a bath. Ain't stayin' the night." 

          The manager agrees easily the second Arthur places fifty cents on the table for it. "Of course. It'll be about twenty minutes. I hope that's all right." 

          Arthur waves a hand. He couldn't care less at the moment. Instead, he mutters that he'll be back and digs into his satchel as he wanders out into the street, staggering while he searches it for one of the money clips he pickpocketed off a couple fellers half a state back. 

          "Watch where you're goin', you drunken bastard!" 

          "Yeah, yeah," Arthur drawls in return, sidestepping with more grace than they likely expected and shuffling into the doctor's office several doors down the street. 

          The doctor clears his throat. "Sir, we're closing for the night. If you could-" 

          Arthur ignores the protest. "You got bandages?" 

          "Of course, but-" 

          "Swell," Arthur muses, dropping two bucks into the man's hand. "I'll take a roll." 

          The doctor fumbles a little, but he is a businessman, and two dollars is two dollars at the bottom line, and soon enough, Arthur meanders out of the shop and back to the saloon. Three knocks on his room's door later, he's back in the rental peering at the child. The shirt Arthur gave him goes down past his knees, something Arthur can tell ain't a real challenge since the kid found his feet to answer the door. Boy barely comes up to Arthur's hip. He wonders, once again, how he managed to get himself into this situation. 

          "Real genius, there, Arthur Morgan," he mumbles to himself, tugging out the bottle of whiskey and taking another small swig. "Real genius." Arthur shakes his head. "Boy. Come 'ere. Sit." 

          The boy limps over and sits, eyeing the bottle in Arthur's hand. 

          "You want a swallow, kid? Numb your throat a bit?" 

          Numb the rest of 'im, too. Damn, but he's in rough shape.

          Arthur takes his silence as a resounding no, figures idly that the boy has experience with drunks of some kind or another, and pulls out a rag to douse with the alcohol instead. "Have it your way. Now, hold still. This'll sting." 

          Despite the flippant words, Arthur does try to be gentle. The cloth passes tenderly over the torn flesh of the child's neck, and he holds the boy steady with his free hand when he bucks under the flare of pain. The scent of salt hits the air between them. Soothing words flow from Arthur's mouth before he realizes it, but the effect they have is instant. The kid slackens under his touch, tilting his head to give Arthur better access. 

          "You're doin' good, boy," Arthur murmurs, entirely too conscious of every flinch and hiss he receives in response to his ministrations. "Almost done." Once finished with disinfecting, Arthur tenderly wraps his bandana around the boy's throat. He'll put the bandages on after the bath, so they don't get wet. "How old is you, anyhow?" 

          Nine fingers go up. 

          Nine. Arthur swallows hard. This boy really is Isaac's age. Just a smidge older. The hell is wrong with folk? Killin' boys? "You know your letters?" 

          The kid meets that one with less eagerness, shaking his head. He can only count to twenty, is wary of drunks, and doesn't know his letters. Says a lot about a boy's Pa, given he ever had one. Arthur would know. 

          "That'll have to wait, then," Arthur muses. "Don't reckon you think you can walk over to the hotel? Seen that limp of yours." 

          Another headshake follows the question, so Arthur once again picks him up, making sure nothin' important shows beneath the borrowed shirt before wandering down into the bar. Clarence watches him go. His eyes linger long after they're outside. Arthur can feel it. Doesn't matter, he tells himself. Folk can think what they want.

          Within a few minutes, they're in the bathroom of the hotel, and Arthur lowers the boy to the floor. "Strip down. Get in." 

          A look of discontent blooms on the boy's face, then fades just as quickly. The kid doesn't seem quite sure what to think about him, which is fair enough in his circumstances. 

          "You ain't sportin' nothin' I ain't seen before, boy," Arthur rumbles. "In." 

          When Arthur goes to remove his bandana from the kid's neck, the child reaches for it like he wants it back, but he can't wear it in the tub. It'll just get soggy, and then he won't want to wear it anyway. Arthur nudges him closer to the bath, mindful of his limp. "Go on, now. Shirt off. You need cleaned up." 

          The kid chews his lip, peering nervously at the tub. 

          "I ain't gonna drown you in it, if that's what you're thinkin," Arthur grumbles. 

          A full-body flinch ripples through the boy's stick-thin body, and an inkling that something similar happened to him seats itself placidly in Arthur's mind. Everything he learns about this boy paints a remarkably familiar picture—minus the drowning. Lyle never tried to drown Arthur, just beat 'im 'til he were black and blue for weeks after the fact. 

          "You won't drown, boy," Arthur says, a little more gently. "I won't let you." 

          The child looks up at him then, imploring. 

          "I wouldn't go to all this trouble just to play mind games with a scrap like you. Get in already. Water won't stay warm forever, and you ain't gonna want to be in there by the time it's cold." 

          That seems to be the kicker, and the boy shakily unbuttons Arthur's shirt and climbs into the tub. He makes a faint noise when the water comes up to his shoulders, hiking them up as though it'll lower the water level. Child logic is something to behold. Arthur crouches beside the tub, reaching for the bar of soap and handing it over to the kid. While the younger of them works on his body, Arthur grabs a second bar and sets to work soaping up his hair. He fusses with all manner of mangled snarls, teasing them loose. 

          It takes a long time for Arthur to notice the boy staring at him out of the corner of his eye, frozen to the spot aside from his shakes. He'd hazard a guess no one ever did this for him before. No one did it for Arthur, either. 

          "You gotta rub the soap on to get clean, boy," Arthur prompts, snapping him from his frightened monitoring. 

          Despite the runt's best efforts to the contrary, his attention is drawn time and again to what Arthur is up to all the way until the end of the bath. Arthur helps him from the tub, towels him down with a little less of the rough efficiency he tends to opt for in a pinch and a little more of the ginger motions Eliza favored for Isaac when he was small. The pang such a fleeting thought usually sends shooting through his chest is interrupted by a mild observation. There's a nasty-looking bruise on the boy's ankle. Fracture, Arthur's clearing mind supplies. If it were broken, he wouldn't be on it at all. 

          "The folks who hanged you do that?" 

          The boy nods. 

          "And your face?" 

          Another nod serves as a response. 

          Arthur would really like to shoot several someones, although for entirely different reasons now. Been a long time since he's been angry on behalf of someone who weren't in the gang. He ain't dumb. If things that happened hadn't happened, Arthur likely wouldn't have spared the boy a second thought past shooting him down and dumping him at the nearest orphanage regardless of whether he wanted to go. 

          But now? There ain't a chance in hell of that happenin'. 

          Shrugging away the urge to bash someone's skull in, Arthur puts his oversized shirt back on the boy and perches him on the edge of the tub. He tugs the roll of bandages from the pocket of his coat and wraps them tenderly around the boy's chafed flesh, tying it off with a neat knot. A shiver goes through the child's gangly body. He reaches for Arthur's other pocket where he stuffed the bandana. Arthur ties it about the scrawny neck before him and effectively hides the fresh bandages. 

          "Better?" 

          Coughing painfully, the kid makes a motion of agreement. 

          When they return to the rented room, Arthur plops the boy on the bed and lays down on the floor. He feels eyes on him most of the night, hardly sleeping himself just to make sure the runt keeps breathing through the long hours. 

          The following morning sees them to the bar, the boy eating stew for breakfast and Arthur nursing a new bottle. He won't get too deep into it, he thinks, not now that he knows this town's tendency toward lynchin' small children at the drop of a hat, seein' as the one he picked up is hiding behind his knee under the bar. The only sign he's still down there is the occasional press against Arthur's boot and the soft clack of a spoon against his bowl. 

          One of the folks who grabbed him last night came through this morning and thoroughly spooked him. He's been down there ever since. Arthur lights up a smoke in the meantime, seein' as he won't be drinkin' all that much. His pleasant buzz will have to do. 

          "Any idea what you're gonna do with the kid?" Clarence asks. 

          "Not a one." 

          Clarence lets out a sardonic chuckle. "My wife always warned me against feedin' strays. Now, I spend my days doin' it. Least this way, I don't usually have to worry about 'em followin' me home." 

          Arthur arches a brow. "Usually?" 

          "There was one weird case, but it ended all right. Fellow was so blind drunk, he thought I were his long-lost love." The old bartender barks a laugh. "His wife were right there at home, not lost at all, when I dragged him on over there. Although, I think she was about ready to smack him upside the head with a cast iron skillet for comin' home blackout drunk. She still comes through sometimes, calls me her husband's mistress." 

          True amusement curls through Arthur for the first time in a long time. "Well, mine ain't mistaken me for nobody, I don't think." He shifts his boot against the boy's arm, tossing him a sideways look around his knees. "Has you, boy? Ain't think I'm your mamma or something, does you?" 

          As expected, said boy shakes his head. 

          "I'd say we's just dandy, then." 

------- 

          Somehow, the kid ends up sticking around him for two whole weeks. Weeks. He spent most of it sleeping or hiding at first, and when his lethargy from the noose wore off, he spent the rest dogging Arthur's every step, lingering around the bartop while Arthur drank. With some time to heal, his throat has scabbed. It's an ugly thing. 

          The shakes, however, have stopped. They had more to do with Arthur's questionable motives and the shock of that night's events than anything particularly wrong with him—a relief. 

          "Boy," Arthur calls, bringing the kid limping his way from where he'd been watching the barber work with wide eyes. "Get on up here." 

          His charge climbs onto the stool beside him, blue eyes watching him intently. 

          Arthur opens his satchel and pulls out his journal. He hasn't written a single word in it since Eliza and Isaac, but he really and truly doesn't want to keep callin' the boy 'boy' all the time. That means he should know his name. He rolls his wrist a couple times, his drawing coordination dulled by so much time spent curled around a bottle rather than a pencil, and writes out the alphabet. He writes another below it in capital letters. 

          "Know any of these, kid?" 

          'B', 'k', 't' and 'w' are on the boy's list of limited knowledge, but he's otherwise lost. That he points 't' and 'w' out on a bottle of Tennessee Whiskey doesn't help things. 

          The kid is sharp enough, though. He catches on fast when Arthur gives him the name of each letter, but Arthur wonders if he'd be so attentive if he didn't want to communicate so badly. Based on the attitude and lack of attention that flare up in him every once in a while, Arthur doubts it. 

          When they reach 'J' on the uppercase alphabet a second time, he looks up at Arthur, tapping the letter. 

          "That's you, hm?" Arthur starts thinking up names, writing them below both sets of letters and speaking them aloud to give the boy a feel for what the names look like compared to what they sound like. "Jarold." A head shake. "Jack." Another head shake. "Jedediah." A third. "Jude." A fourth. "John," he says, jotting down J-O-H-N on the page. 

          The boy, John, brightens. 

          "Well, good to meet you, John," Arthur chuckles, ruffling the kid's hair with an ease that makes him pause. He's not your son. Don't. "Nice to have a name to go with that pouty mug of yours, boy." 

          John points to Arthur, hardly soured by the offhanded comment after his accomplishment. 

          "Me?" Arthur considers lyin', considers tellin' the kid he ain't got a name, but he settles on honesty in the end. "I'm Arthur," he answers, spelling out A-R-T-H-U-R under John's name in the journal. For the first time in weeks, his fingers itch to sketch. He thinks to draw this boy, somehow saved, somehow learning at Arthur's knee in the place of a boy now a month and a half dead. His thoughts flash to the gallows, and his fingers ache. 

          "A-" John croaks, his little used words scraping from damage and disuse. There ain't much to be done for his voice, Arthur fears. "A-Arthur." 

          "That's right, Johnny boy. That's right. Arthur Morgan." 

Chapter Text

          Whatever Dutch and Hosea were expecting to come of Arthur's return to camp, it never involved a kidnapped nine-year-old. Ever. They'd gotten Arthur's letter six months ago that Eliza and Isaac were dead, killed, and they adhered to his wish not to be followed. Hosea was hours away from riding out to find him and making sure he wasn't dead in a ditch somewhere when Arthur wandered back into camp with a new horse and a scrawny boy tucked in front of him in the saddle. The horse came straight from the wilds, Arthur said. Boadicea, he named her, after a queen. The blood bay Hungarian Halfbred settled into line for him just fine while hating every last one of them except the kid. 

          Dutch hates her right back. 

          Hosea has no idea where he came from—the boy, that is, not the horse. He has no idea who he is, or why he's here, but he's grateful. He's so very grateful, because when Arthur kicks his feet up on something to catch the sunlight for a little while, he inevitably ends up with the nine-year-old, John, perched on top of his chest. 

          In his heart, Hosea knows that child saved his son's life. 

          Arthur may have been heartbroken after Mary, but this? Losing his family had to have devastated him. If that boy can brighten his life, then John should stay in it. 

          Dutch is... less enthused, thinks the boy is a distraction at best from the pain their son experienced. Hosea doesn't agree. He sees the way Arthur is with John, patient despite the child's occasional squawking, growling, and shrieking. John is wild, like Bo' is wild. This child is Isaac's polar opposite, a splotch of blazing fire where Isaac was quiet, calm, and soothing. Maybe that's why Arthur is so absorbed by the boy. 

          John is smart, too, smarter than he acts—much like Arthur himself. 

          "Maybe he's too smart," Dutch says one night after he finds John playing with his pocket watch. The child had pickpocketed him with nimble fingers, and it took hours for Dutch to notice. 

          But maybe Hosea is biased, seeing as how Arthur introduced Hosea as his Pa. 

          One thing that makes him a little nervous, however, is that Arthur decides putting a gun in the hands of a nine-year-old is a good plan. Over the next several months, he teaches John everything he knows. Dutch's estimation for John's stay in their camp falls into dust when those months draw on into a year, then two, then five. John and Tilly are the best of friends these days, and Miss Grimshaw harrows over the two of them like a stringent den mother. 

          All Hosea can think sometimes is that Bessie would've loved seeing Arthur raise John. One call of 'Johnny boy!' will have John scampering over to his side. John calls him 'Pa' in return, and Arthur don't seem to mind. 

          No matter what Arthur does, John won't stop dropping his shoulder when he shoots, so he does eventually call it good enough once John can reliably hit a target despite it. He's a little sloppy, even with five years of practice, but at least he can defend himself. That was the goal all along, Hosea realizes one day. The understanding comes with startling clarity, and a startling presence of O'Driscolls flooding the camp while Arthur is out on a supply run. 

          The fight is over in less than two minutes. They find John camped behind a tree, gun and knife in hand, a line of dead O'Driscolls just beyond, and blood staining his blade from a man at his feet that tried to grab him. He doesn't make a peep, his entire body slowly growing shaky. Hosea tries to speak with him, to assure him that everything is fine, but John won't have it. 

          When Arthur rides back in, having heard the gunshots, he hollers the boy's name with more desperation than either Dutch or Hosea have ever heard from him. 

          John springs from Hosea's tent. "Pa!" 

          Arthur scoops him up, gangly limbs and all. "You all right, boy? Not hurt?" 

          The thirteen-year-old shakes his head, then dissolves into the tears he didn't want to show Hosea. Arthur carries him back to Hosea's tent. At thirty-three now, all those soft planes of his face have hardened, cutting an intimidating figure as he asks Dutch what the hell happened. John stays wrapped around him the whole time. Arthur might've raised him to use the gun he fired today, but John ain't never killed nobody before. He never had to participate in a real shootout, and never had to stick a knife in someone's neck. 

          Now, he's done all three, and he can't stop shaking. 

          And Arthur? Hosea doubts he's ever seen his boy so angry. The growls of his clipped speech travel through camp as Arthur goes after Dutch for starting shit with Colm again. There was a time Hosea doubts Arthur ever would've snapped at the gang's leader like so. They're a small bunch, tightly knit, and after Dutch took him in, he was hard-pressed to disagree with the man. 

          Raising John has made him braver and more protective than ever. When little Tilly crashes into his side as well, he holds her close, curbing the snap of his tone. She's wormed her way into Arthur's shielded heart almost as far as John by now. 

          "It's not as though he's wrong, Dutch," Hosea cuts in, lifting a hand Arthur's way to let him know he has things under control. "All this feud between you and him has done is endanger folk." 

          "He killed Annabelle," Dutch hisses, his voice cracking over her name. 

          Arthur curls his lip. "And you killed his brother. You both lost someone, but if this don't end one day, we'll lose more than that. He's got numbers on us, Dutch. Always has. We can't be toyin' with that man with Johnny and Tilly." 

          Dutch clicks his tongue. "In case you've forgotten, Arthur, we rob from folk who've got too much, and we still need to eat." 

          "Colm ain't the only name on that list." 

          Opening his mouth to continue, Dutch is shocked when rather than sticking around to hear the rebuttal, Arthur instead walks away. Hosea isn't surprised. Arthur has done more honest work than any of them to keep camp fed, keepin' a low profile better than he ever had in the years before John. He helps folk, runs bounties that pay high prices, and builds homes. It's all he can do to balance the work they do as outlaws. 

          Hosea starts wondering if maybe Arthur should take his boy, maybe Tilly too, and leave the gang. 

          But he never does. 

          Folk come and go. They pick up a pair of reckless ruffians known as the Callander boys, both hot-headed and rambunctious. They get on okay with John—a little older, a little meaner, and a whole lot less intelligent, but they get on okay. The two of them get up to no good plenty. 

          And, as if to make up for his lacking health in younger years, John grows. By the time he's sixteen, his head comes up to Arthur's chin, and he's long since adopted his Pa's surly scowl as his own. He's as stringy as ever, limbs long and uncoordinated. His mind is sharp, and his stormy blue eyes are bright. Stubborn as an old ox, he spends his days either lining up work or wrestling with Arthur. If they was brothers, Hosea is sure they'd be black and blue by the time they was done. John makes up for his wiry frame with cunning, but Arthur has too much experience behind him to fall for much of anything. He's bigger, stronger, and will wrestle the boy to a stand-still every single time until he's forced to give up. 

          When John turns eighteen, they pick up a drunken old man with no name off the deck of a bar. 'Uncle' he says they can call him. 

          A weasel of a man named Strauss comes shortly after, but when Arthur gets one look at the folk he lent money to, he storms back into camp and damn near whips the man where he stands. Arthur didn't like the idea of usury to begin with. Hosea can't blame him. The phrase 'You can't squeeze blood from a stone' comes to mind, and Arthur abides by cleaner rules these days. 

          Strauss goes, and he goes with his tail between his legs. He's replaced by a man named Pearson, a much better fellow overall, and a passable cook to boot. 

          Hosea sees it as the days pass; lines are being drawn. Arthur puts his foot down more and more with Dutch as the man's schemes get more and more dangerous. Miss Grimshaw sides with him about as often as Dutch, and Hosea finds himself siding with Arthur more often every week. The Callander boys will do just about anything, so they don't count. Uncle is too drunk most times to care, but he don't pander to Dutch's dogma, neither. Pearson doesn't get involved, most times. Tilly and John, though, are firmly on Arthur's side. It won't be terribly long before Dutch finds himself outnumbered in his own gang. 

          The first time John gets shot, Hosea fears for Dutch's life. Arthur spends every spare moment in his boy's tent, wiping sweat from John's brow and nursing the hole in his gut. It takes weeks for John to get back on his feet. He tires easy, spending most of his time slumped against Tilly while she does the mending. 

          A part of Hosea thinks that if it wasn't for his old bones, Arthur would've been long gone by now. He and those kids live as close to honest as it gets while still robbin' folk in the dead of night. 

          The following months are rife with fights between Arthur and Dutch, and it only comes to an end when Dutch gets himself shot, too. They may not agree on much these days, but Arthur loves Dutch. He loves the gang of folk they've cobbled together, and he loves living in the open world. Often, he'll roam for a couple weeks at a time. John tends to follow his Pa, and the boy always returns looking more grounded and happy than when he left. 

          However, if there's one thing he's learned from Arthur Morgan, it's how to fight with Dutch. He has a wicked tongue when it counts, that raspy voice of his finally dropped and creating one hell of a viper's hiss when he's seething and a hackle-raising holler when he's pissed. 

          After one particularly memorable loss to the boy's sharp rebuke, Dutch says, "Just like his Pa." 

          It's not a compliment. 

          The following spring, Arthur rescues a couple women, Karen from a beating after she robbed a client and Mary-Beth from the folk chasing her for stealing a necklace worth two-hundred dollars from a traveling duchess. 

          It's an accident, Hosea is sure, but their addition to the gang puts Arthur's position at the very top. They're hardly a gang anymore, more of a wandering family that pulls an odd con here and there, but Hosea doesn't mind. It's almost what he might've imagined if Bessie had lived. Every job is planned carefully if they take it at all, and they keep an eye on the law in each new town they visit. It's almost... peaceful. 

          Almost. 

          Until Dutch finds the paper one sunny day in March of 1894 and reads, 'VAN DER LINDE GANG DISAPPEARED?' with such a scowl carved into his face that Hosea nearly shivers. Arthur's influence over the gang's activities has never been clearer. It lights a fire under Dutch, one Arthur doesn't bother to entertain for a moment when the older man begins urging them to take on something high-profile—to remind folk who they are. 

          But that ain't what the gang is meant to be about. It's about helping folk who can't help themselves, robbing folk who've got more than any one person could need, and divvying out what they earn to anyone they see who could use it. 

          Dutch is forced to relax, to settle himself from distemper when all a twenty-one-year-old John Marston does in response to the man tellin' him to find them some dynamite is arch an eerily familiar brow and go back to cleaning his guns. Hosea suggests he take a ride to clear his head and think. He feels bad for being surprised when Dutch takes the advice. 

          He's more surprised when the man returns with a drunken ex-army man on a downtrodden heavy horse. Bill Williamson—apparently, Dutch met him the previous year, had nearly been robbed by him if not for the fact that Dutch had just laughed at him for it. 

          Ain't like Bill knew who he was robbing at the time. 

          In June of the following month, things change once again, and Hosea watches John fall ass over tea kettle for Abigail Roberts, a working girl who's a better thief by far than Karen. Karen is an actor. She never intends to go through with the working girl shtick, but Abigail is a master. She's young and beautiful, and she knows it, and she takes every advantage possible. But for John.... 

          John can make her blush prettily just by looking. She hates him for it. Or, at the very least, she pretends she does, but that doesn't stop her from takin' him to bed free of charge. 

          Hosea wonders how well it'll end, hoping his pseudo-grandson doesn't get his heart broken. 

          Arthur, on the other hand, takes a more hands-on approach to things, checking on her when she seems to be having it rough, keeping watch over any hotel she stays in with a stranger, and nearly coming to blows with a feller for catcalling her after a hard night. Abigail assumes he wants something from her at first, an idea he swiftly puts to rest when she tries to kiss him. 

          He stops her, tugs her into a warm embrace, and tells her he ain't after a damn thing. "Just be kind to my boy," he says. 

          "Your boy?" 

          "John." 

          After the shock wears off about the revelation, she is. She's kind to John, kinder than he deserves sometimes with that mean tongue of his, but she's mean to him right back. 

          The gang doesn't do all that much after that, brought firmly to a quiet halt by Arthur's insistence upon stability. He keeps them fed, keeps them healthy, and runs the poker tables with Hosea for a few days each week to fill the lull. If a wallet from a well-dressed visiting man ends up in Hosea's pocket every once in a while, he can't be blamed. One should be more careful where they leave their belongings, after all. 

          "So, Arthur," Hosea begins. The afternoon is quiet as they smoke on the balcony of a saloon, basking in the sunshine. "What're your plans these days? We've been here an awful long time. Thinking about settling the gang?" 

          "Should do." 

          Hosea puffs leisurely on a cigar, tilting his head. "But?" 

          "I don't think I'd ever hear the end of it if I did that without Dutch's say-so." Arthur scratches his scarred chin, nose wrinkling. 

          "Dutch's say-so don't seem to matter much to you these days." 

          Arthur snorts. "Guess not." 

          Hosea smiles, feeling a little bad for it. His son is stronger than him. Hosea has stood beside Dutch so long, it's hard to disagree with him, but Arthur is a different story—has been ever since taking John under his wing. Once, if not for the boy, he might've stumbled back into the gang and fallen into line just the way Dutch would've liked, loyal and unwavering. Arthur Morgan would've been a man with nowhere to go, nothing to protect but the gang and its leaders. 

          "I'll start looking for some land, then, shall I?" Hosea asks. 

          "Sure." 

          "Farther south, I think." 

          Arthur shrugs. "I ain't picky. Ain't like I asked to be in charge of all these plans." 

          Hosea barks a laugh, because that might be the biggest lie he's ever heard, and as a professional conman, that's saying something. "My boy, you don't ask much at all, it's true, but this? You've all but demanded Dutch's surrender at this point. Folk look to you. You make 'em feel safe." 

          "Only because half Dutch's plans are pipe dreams these days. He's been real angry ever since that paper a few months back." 

          "Oh, he was angry before that, son." 

          Sighing, Arthur lifts his hat to run a hand over his hair, replacing it with a disgruntled hum and a puff of his cigarette. "I know, but we've got a camp full of women to look after. We can't just be blowin' things sky-high, no matter how much Dutch, Bill, and the Callander boys want to. And.... Well, we ain't spring chickens no more, 'sea. Gettin' a little too old to be outlawin', don't you think?" 

          Hosea makes a small noise of agreement. These days, Arthur sports subtle streaks of gray-blonde at his temples, and Hosea's been fully gray a long time. Dutch would deny it until his dying breath, but he puts charcoal in his to keep it black. 

          "High time we got out of this business. World's changin', anyhow. Gettin' civilized. Dutch's got a price on his head in three states. You and I've got the one as well. We ain't careful, we'll end up on the run. Or hanged. Likely both." 

          Hosea blows out a column of smoke. "True enough, that." 

          "I don't know about you, but I ain't eager to see my boy back on the gallows. Or any of the gang, for that matter." 

          "That, too," Hosea agrees. "I best get to preparing, then. We'll need to pack up." 

          "Finish your smoke, 'sea," Arthur says sagely, seeming far older in that moment than his forty years. "We'll be busy a while. Might not be able to enjoy another one for some time." 

          Hosea settles in again, smiling. "I suppose you're right, my boy. Suppose you're right." 

          When they get back to camp, after spending several weeks researching properties farther south, they broach the topic of quitting the life with Dutch. The gang's—frankly, far outgunned—leader explodes. He's yelling at Arthur something fierce, and it brings John out of his tent in seconds. He doesn't approach, but his eyes never leave his Pa's back as he stands firm and tall in front of Dutch, broad shoulders squared to make use of every inch of his height. He's been taller than Dutch for years, but rarely seems it until they fight when Arthur is fighting to win. 

          When Bill tries to interject, Arthur's hand strays to his side, fingers twitching as he snaps, "This ain't your business, boy, so stay out of it." 

          "I-" 

          "Bill, enough. You want out so bad, Arthur, then go," Dutch says, his voice tight. "The gang ain't a prison." 

          "If he goes, I go," John rasps. 

          Bill sneers. "Daddy's boy too scared to be outlawin' without him around?" 

          "Too smart, more like," John scoffs. "I ain't takin' criticism from a feller who spends half his time at the bottom of a bottle and can't hardly see straight. You couldn't outdraw me on your best day, and I ain't half as good as Pa." 

          "Wanna test that theory, bastard?" 

          Arthur's brows come down and his eyes narrow, focused. "You turn your gun on my boy and I will put you down." 

          Hosea raises his voice. "Everyone, just relax. This ain't a matter needin' guns. Bill, John, don't kill each other. Arthur, Dutch, let's talk inside the main tent. Shall we?" 

          "Doesn't seem Arthur thinks there's much to talk about." 

          "'Cause there ain't," Arthur bites back. "World's changin', and if we don't change with it, we'll die." 

          Dutch's nose scrunches with disgust. "We will survive, Arthur, the way we always have. You might be aimin' to disappear, but I ain't about to let the world forget who we are." 

          Arthur shakes his head. "That all you care about? Your name in some paper?" 

          "I care, son, about bein' true to my nature," Dutch says coldly. "I've spent my whole life fightin'. Be it the law, the rich, or change, and I ain't about to let the world crush us into dust. I ain't about to let some fatcat in an expensive suit at a desk somewhere determine how I- how we live!" 

          "But you'd let the law hang us for bein' what we are?" 

          Dutch scowls, but after a beat he raises his hands. "You know what, son? I'm done. I'm done havin' to explain myself to you. You want to stay, then stay. You want to go, then go. I leave it up to you." 

          This was not how Hosea wanted this to go. 

          "John!" Arthur barks. "Pack up, boy." 

          There's a moment of silence that hangs over the camp, but then, all at once, it comes to life with bodies tying up bundles of clothing, filling crates, and taking down tents. Miss Grimshaw orders the women about in a hurry, and John helps Abigail collect all of her things. Karen, Tilly, and Mary-Beth collect wash bins and percolators and blankets. Pearson's pots and utensils clink and rattle as they're picked up and stored away. Even Uncle slinks along, banjo in hand. 

          "What the hell is going on here?!" 

          "Well, Dutch, it looks like you've finally found the limits of Arthur's patience," Hosea answers. "He's certainly tried hard enough to tell you how it was going to be if things kept up the way they have been." 

          Dutch works his jaw, watching the camp fall in around him, packed once more into the wagons they've all traveled in for years now. "But the rest?" 

          Hosea doesn't get a chance to answer when Arthur's voice calls, "Hosea, let's go!" 

          The betrayal on Dutch's face cuts Hosea to the core. This wasn't how Hosea wanted things to pan out. He'd hoped, on some level, that Dutch would accept Arthur's judgement. He wanted them all to stay together. 

          "Hosea...?" Dutch whispers, his voice weak. 

          "I'm sorry, Dutch." Hosea rasps. His chest feels tight, and not tight as it usually does from his affliction of the lungs. "Truly, I am, but I have to do what's right for our boy, for all these folk. Arthur is right. We can only rob and run from the law for so long before it catches up to us. People think we're gone. Now is the perfect time to disappear." 

          "We... are outlaws, Hosea. You know that." 

          "Once," Hosea replies. "But now we need to try something else, or we'll all be lost." He rests a hand on his oldest friend's shoulder. "Please, Dutch. I implore you to think about this, to join us." 

          Dutch pulls his arm free, stepping away. "I cannot believe you." 

          "Can't?" Hosea asks. "Or don't want to? Just because the reality before you isn't to your liking doesn't make it any less true. We can't con our way out of a noose. A cell, maybe. The hands of the law, sure, but not the noose." He tries again, even knowing the effort is useless. Dutch has always had too much pride. "This could be the last chance at a clean break we ever get. Please, my friend. We're too old for this life." 

          "You've just given up," Dutch argues. "You and Arthur used to have faith in me." 

          "Try to understand. Arthur already lost one family." Hosea's eyes drift to Arthur where he's helping Abigail out of a wagon as they pack. "Can you really blame him for fighting to save the one he has left?" 

          "Save them?" Dutch takes a breath, his expression creasing. "From me?" 

          Hosea's heart clenches. Dutch isn't listening, is too betrayed for reason, but Hosea holds firm. "From this life, Dutch. It's not that he wants to leave, but John.... That boy was the only thing that held Arthur together after Eliza and Isaac passed, and if he died because of this life, Arthur would never forgive himself, or you." 

          Dutch grits his teeth. "That boy has always been a distraction. Arthur's done nothing but argue with and doubt and undermine me since the minute John showed up." 

          "He didn't distract Arthur, Dutch! He saved him," Hosea says, censure in his tone. "John gave Arthur a reason to fight, a reason to live and live better. If he'd come to camp alone, we wouldn't have gotten back the man who left. He'd have been an empty shell, and that's if he came back at all!" 

          "Well, the way things have been, maybe he should've stayed gone." 

          Hosea's breath catches. That's it. No more. "How dare you. We raised that boy!" 

          "Exactly!" 

          "But you forget," Hosea scolds. "He's given you everything, everything you have ever asked. If it's a debt of gratitude you're concerned about, he's more than paid it. Arthur gave almost thirty years of his life to you and this gang, and now, when all he asks of you in return is the safety of his family, you can't even give that back to him. Arthur has kept us fed, clothed, and protected more times than I can count, and I won't see you spit on that like it's nothing." 

          Dutch clenches his jaw tight, dark eyes flashing with ire as he crosses his arms. "You tried to leave this life once, Hosea. We know how that turned out. You'll be back in the gutter with me before too long." 

          Any sympathy Hosea felt for his friend is washed away in that moment. "Don't you dare use Bessie against me." 

          "I know who you are, Hosea. And so did she." 

          "Fuck you," Hosea hisses. 

          Dutch arches a brow of faux patience. He might look calm, but beneath the surface, he's fuming. "Run along, then. Play house with Arthur and that boy of his. Soon enough, you'll come crawlin' back the same way Arthur did. Both times." 

          Hosea's mouth curls with disdain and he finally walks away. "Goodbye, Dutch." 

          It takes a long while to finish loading up their belongings, but the camp is near bare by the time they've got it all. All that remains is Dutch's tent, Bill and the Callander boys' bedrolls, the campfire, and what little of the food wasn't provided by Arthur and John. It ain't much. They even packed the chickens. 

          "I'm sure we'll be seein' you boys real soon," Dutch says lowly, casually smoking a cigar as his three remaining men pick around the remnants of their camp. 

          It could be imagined, but Hosea swears he hears John mutter "I sincerely doubt it" from the other wagon. He and Dutch rarely got along, likely for the very reasons Hosea brought up. Dutch never appreciated Arthur the way he should've. 

          Hosea wishes things were different, wishes Dutch had listened, but he didn't. Leaving behind the man he's run with for the past forty years is firmly on the list of the hardest things he's ever had to do, but for Arthur, he does it gladly. Dutch even helped him in some regard with his final decision to leave for good, his colors showing through more and more with every word Hosea spoke to try to convince him this was for the better. He thought he knew Dutch, knew there was greatness in him not many folk possess, but that cunning sparkle has finally dulled. 

          The gang is over. For them, at least.

Chapter Text

          Turns out, Pa had been saving a long time for this—got them set up with land, water rights, and a farmhouse all within a few weeks with plenty to spare. It took all of them to get things up and running, several more weeks on Pa and John's part to dig a well and plumb the sink in the house and the hydrant near the barn. 

          This far south, winter ain't too bad. They work through it to bring up a pair of barns, one for cattle and one for horses. They raise another small shed for extra hay, and a smaller one yet for the chickens.  

          Miss Grimshaw is always somewhere on the place, checking out every little thing to gauge its perfection before looking for more. The girls tire of her quickly, but she don't mean nothin' by it. Uncle spends most of the buildin' process either playin' music or drinkin', and when he's not doing that, he's doing both. Pearson keeps them stocked up on food. Hosea manages their finances with Pa and works on keeping the horses ready for whatever sudden trips need takin'. It's gotta be a good place if Hosea can still be outside in the winter. 

          The following spring, however, is when things get interesting. 

          "John?" 

          John looks up from the fence he's building out back of the outhouse, finding Abigail behind him. She looks a little pale. "Somethin' wrong, darlin'?" 

          "I...." She chews her lip, fussing one of the few strands of hair that have escaped her bun. Her eyes flick toward the rest of the land before settling on him again. "I got somethin' I need to tell you. Just.... Please, don't be mad. Promise me you won't get mad." 

          Mad? 

          "John?" 

          John clears his throat, shaking his head. "Course, darlin'. I promise." 

          "I.... I didn't notice, not right away," Abigail starts, wringing her hands. "There was so much goin' on, but I.... I missed my monthly. A while ago, actually, an' it ain't been back since." 

          Blinking, John tilts his head. "Your what?" 

          Abigail works her mouth without sound for a moment. "My-.... My time, John." 

          "Darlin' you ain't missed your time on nothin'. You're beautiful." 

          A bright red blush colors her cheeks, but against how pale she looks, it only makes her look sick. "That ain't what I mean, John. You-.... Hell, you don't know nothin', do you? Didn't your Pa teach you about... 'bout bodies, an' women, an'... times?" 

          John thinks back, struggling to come up with an answer for her. Hell's she mean, 'about times'? "Uh.... No?" 

          "You sure?" 

          "Hell you mean, am I-.... Oh." When it finally occurs to him what she's talkin' about, his hammer falls out of his hands. He barely cares that it lands in the can of nails he were usin' and makes a huge mess. "Abigail, you ain't-" John fumbles his words. "You're pregnant?" 

          Abigail nods, peering up at him with quiet desperation. 

          "Pa's gonna kill me," John rasps. 

          "Pa already knows," Pa chirps, waving amusedly from his perch against the outhouse when John nearly jumps out of his skin at the sight of him. "An' I ain't mad, but I'm gonna be if you ain't about to say somethin' reassurin' to your lady there, boy." 

          "You told Pa before you told me?!" 

          Abigail flushes brighter. 

          "Focus, Johnny." 

          "Right, right. Sorry." John hops to, taking her hands in his. "Course I ain't mad, Abi," he assures her. "Just... real, real surprised, is all. I.... You're sure that it's mine-?" 

          Pa whops him upside the head. "Get your foot out your mouth, boy. Hell of a thing to ask a lady when she's barin' her soul to you." 

          John nods again, almost frantic, trying to course correct and failing horribly. He glances down, finding his hands shaking where he's holding her. "Sorry," he starts again. It's hard to breathe. "Sorry, Abi. I-I'm fucking this up. I.... I don't know what to say. Course he's mine, a-and even if he weren't mine, I'd.... I'd still help you care for 'im an' all. I just.... I don't know... know how to... how to-.... Pa." 

          Pa straightens up at the breathless plea and gently extracts Abigail's hands from his, tugging John in against his chest. This used to happen to him a lot after the noose. He'd wake up gasping, choking on nothing and unable to catch his breath. Sometimes, the event would be ushered in by a nightmare, other times not. No matter how long it lasted, Pa would stay with him until his breathing evened out again. John didn't think it could or even would happen here, far outside the reach of his nightmares. He hasn't had one of these in over a year. Why is this happening now? Abi needs him. She's having a baby. John can't be doing this kinda shit if she's having a baby. His baby. She needs to be able to depend on him. He's-... cold? 

          His forehead's cold. Real cold. And his face feels damp. 

          "-at's it, Johnny boy. Breathe," Pa's voice soothes, swimming into focus in John's ears. He sounds muffled. "You're all right. Just breathe. Open your eyes." 

          When had they closed? 

          Groaning faintly, John does as he's told anyway, squinting against the sun above him. Above me? "M' on the ground." 

          "Yeah, boy," Pa drawls. "You are." 

          "An' m' damp." 

          Pa hums in agreement, and John feels the heavy weight of his hand on his chest, a calloused palm rubbing circles into his skin. "Think you can sit up for me, boy?" 

          John tilts his head toward his Pa's voice, frowning heavily when he sees Abigail knelt beside him. He shudders. Why am I still so cold? "She shouldn't be here. There's.... There's nails. Lots'a nails." 

          "She's all right, John. Come on. Sit up," Pa urges him, pulling him part of the way up by the front of his shirt and propping him up in his arms. "Gonna be honest, Johnny boy. Thought we was mostly through the woods with those now, hm?" 

          "Me, too." 

          Abigail shuffles her skirts, peering up at Pa with worry on her features. "What do you mean? Is he all right?" 

          Pa nods. He shifts his other hand, and the cold source of damp on John's forehead shifts with it. Must be Pa's bandana, soaked through with water from his canteen. "He's fine, for the most part anyhow. Was hanged as a kid, I'm sure he's told you. He's had these fits ever since. Although, it's been a long time since he's had one. Before you came into the gang. Even longer since he's had one flare up while he were awake." Pa removes the bandana, looping the damp article around the back of his neck. It helps with the clammy feeling there. "Look here, boy. How many fingers." 

          John tilts his head back against his Pa's shoulder, heaving a tired breath. "Two." 

          "Good. Drink." 

          Obediently, John drinks. The water slithers into his stomach, deeply refreshing. For a long while, John rests there on the ground, Abigail holdin' his hand and his head tipped against his Pa's shoulder. He swallows hard and tries to smile for his lady. "M' sorry, Abigail." 

          Abigail scowls. "Oh, stop your apologizin'. Just... shut up." 

          "Yes, ma'am," John drawls glibly. 

          Pa huffs a soft laugh and starts helpin' John to his feet. He corrects the small resulting stumble with an arm behind his back. "Let's go, boy." 

          Soon enough, he leaves the two alone in John's room, givin' them time to talk. It's still a bit surreal to have a room to call his own. It's surreal to have a roof over his head intended to be permanent in the first place, but it's nice. Pa wanted John out of the outlaw life a long time ago. 

          Now, they're focusing on building a new one. One that involves a child.

          It doesn't take long for Abigail to decide they can tell folk after John and she have talked everything through, and Miss Grimshaw nearly blows the roof off the house with her joyful crowin'. She's been happier since they settled, harping less and less. Hosea shed a few tears, though he tried to deny it. Tilly practically jumped on John, giggling as he spun his sister around. Karen and Mary-Beth both cheered and hollered and started making plans for sewing baby clothes. Pearson contributed to their celebration with a meal, breaking out the good seasoning and throwing together a dinner of rare taste. Uncle's banjo was hardly silent the whole night. 

          Jack Marston is born during a much-needed rainfall in the middle of May. 

          At first, John ain't sure he can handle it. There's so much screaming and crying all the time, and the second time he ever held the kid, he nearly dropped Jack on his head. Now, he tries to pass him off to Hosea or Pa, but Pa simply adjusts John's hands until the kid is tucked neatly into the crook of John's arm, his head supported on his bicep. 

          "There, Johnny boy." 

          "How's it feel, Pa?" John rasps, smirking up at him. "You're a grandpa, old man." 

          It's rare for folk to have grandparents, especially in the life they lived before. Most people don't live to be that old. They die of disease or sickness or any number of things before old age gets 'em. 

          Pa narrows one eye at him, playfully insulted, but rather than teasing him, he rumbles warmly, "Pretty good, boy." 

          "Good." 

          Reaching over to pull Abigail under his arm with great care, Pa kisses her forehead. She's still exhausted from the birth a week ago now but came through just fine. "You did a good job, sweetheart." 

          Things are simpler from there. They ain't easy, not by any means, but they're simpler. It's nice not havin' to worry about the law showin' up in the dead of night or O'Driscolls tearin' through and killin' everyone. All John worries about these days is wolves eatin' the cattle, foxes sneakin' into the chicken coop, or Jack wakin' up wailin' at ass o'clock in the mornin'. 

          That explains why one night, in late October, he thinks nothing of the sudden squawking in the middle of the night. It's cold out, so he almost doesn't bother, but the last time he let the chickens make enough noise to wake Pa, he heard all about it the following morning. Pa paid him back with doubled chores and forced him to learn how to mend socks with Miss Grimshaw. He never wants to accidentally poke himself with a needle ever again.

          "Mm? John?" 

          "Be back in a minute, darlin'," John rasps. "Damn chickens again." 

          Abigail shudders when he leaves the bed and curls the blankets closer. "Hurry back." 

          John lights a lantern and grabs his gun, trudging out into the yard with a big yawn. Usually, he can just make a little noise and the foxes and rats scurry right on off, no big deal. He only ever shoots one if they've got ahold of somethin' they shouldn't. "All right, ya' furry varmints," John scrapes out, his voice still laden with sleep. He opens the door to the coop and lifts the lantern. "Out you go- Oh." 

          That's not a fox. Or a rat. 

          That's a willowy person. Said person flinches back, curlin' up against the wall. There's nowhere for him to go. Even as skinny as he is, there's no way he can fit through the trapdoor the chickens use. 

          "Uh...." John blinks, tilting his head. If he wasn't awake before, he is now. "Hell are you doin' in our chicken coop?" 

          "Perdón, perdón," the man—kid, maybe? His voice sounds plenty high —says, his hands raised in surrender. "Por favor, no dispares. Perdón." 

          John doesn't understand a single word of what he says aside from maybe a plea in there somewhere. He shifts a bit, unsure if leavin' the feller alone is a good option but figurin' some backup would be good about now. After a moment of indecision, he takes a big breath and hollers over his shoulder toward the house, "Pa!" 

          Their surprise guest flinches and covers his head, trembling—cornered. He hardly takes up any room as it is. 

          It doesn't take but a minute or two for Pa to saunter out of the house in his union suit, muttering under his breath the whole way. He plops his hat on his head, scrubbing at weary eyes. "All right, Johnny boy. Hell's the fuss about?" 

          "There's a feller in our chicken coop. Don't think he speaks a lick of English." 

          Pa pauses at that, his brows furrowing under the brim of his hat. He puts his hand out for the lantern and takes a look-see for himself. "Well, I'll be damned." He sets the lantern down inside the door and squeezes his large frame through the gap, crouching down to get a better look. "Clothes are done for. Looks half-starved. Go on back to the house, boy. Find some of Hosea's tea, the ginger one, I'm thinkin'. If his stomach can handle that, we can try feedin' 'im." 

          "You'll be fine here on your own?" 

          "Reckon so. Go on." 

          John does as asked, cautious of leaving Pa alone with a total stranger but knowing that if anyone could handle a half-naked, starving kid, it'd be him. It takes a little while for John to get around the kitchen in the dark, but he manages. By the time the kettle boils, Pa is leading their visitor into the house a few weak steps at a time. He sets the lantern down in the middle of the table and seats the stranger. 

          "Arthur?" the kid says, his mouth working oddly around the word as his eyes once more land on John. 

          Well, at least they somehow got around to introductions out there in the coop. 

          "Not Arthur," Pa replies. "This is John." 

          Frustrated confusion grows on the kid's face, but he makes an effort. As bad as he looks, he has no other choice. If he doesn't get help, he'll starve. The newcomer points to Pa. "Arthur." 

          "There we go," Pa praises. He points to John with a casual jut of his thumb. "John." 

          "John." 

          Pa pats the young man's shoulder. "All right, and how about you?" When he gets another confused look in response, he points to their guest. "Your name, boy?" 

          Looking pained to be reduced to one-word responses, their guest says, "Javier." 

          "Good to meet you, Javier," Pa says warmly. 

          Whether or not Javier understands is subject for debate, but he smiles tentatively. It's a start. John takes a whiff of the ginger tea. He's never been a fan, but he hopes he didn't steep it too long for Javier's sake. He pours a cup, fumbling a little less now with the light of the lantern in the room. They have power out here, but most of them find it rude to run the lights at this hour. He slides sugar along with the cup, unsure how much, if any, to put in it. 

          Javier stares at it, but when his stomach gives a beseeching gurgle, he curls over himself a little and reaches for the teacup with shaking fingers. He peers into the rim at the golden liquid. A tentative sniff tells John that the drink at least smells good if nothing else. 

          "Careful. It's hot," John says, forgetting momentarily that the stranger likely has no idea what he's talking about. 

          "Hot?" the kid parrots, sipping and immediately burning himself. He hisses, "Caliente!"

          John nods along and sits down beside his Pa. "Yep. Hot." 

          Pa waits for the kid to take another sip before clearing his throat. "How's that now?" he asks, shifting indecisively before resting a hand on his own stomach. "Okay?" 

          Javier smiles. It seems he knows that word. Or maybe it's the same? John doesn't know. "Okay." 

          "Well, all right, then," Pa drawls, standing again and ruffling John's stringy hair on the way by. "Let's see about gettin' some food into you, then. Johnny, go put your gun away. I don't think Javier here's gonna give us any trouble." 

          Doin' as he's told, John ducks back into his room. After lifting his gun into its rack above the dresser, he pauses to check on the room's other occupants, finding Abigail back asleep and Jack still out cold in his crib. He strokes the boy's cheek. "You be an angel for your mother, son," he rasps. "We're gonna have a busy one." 

          While he's still in the room, he grabs a fresh shirt for Javier. He's the only one in the house whose clothes will be remotely close to fitting, and even that's stretching it. He snags a spare blanket while he's at it. 

          John hears Pa muttering to himself as he rustles around in the kitchen, and when he steps back into the room, he covers a smile. Javier watches Pa with wide eyes, as if only just now having realized how big he is. The kid jerks when John knocks on the doorframe. Appeasing, John lays the blanket down and offers Javier the shirt. 

          "Here." 

          Shaking fingers delicately grasp the fabric. "Para mí?"

          "Yeah, for you," John answers, hoping that's at least somewhat close to the right answer. It certainly sounds like it should be. He folds Javier's hands a little tighter around the shirt. "Go ahead and put it on." 

          After a beat, as though ensuring John won't try to take it back, Javier shucks his own perforated shirt off to slip the other one over his shoulders. The lantern's light doesn't reveal much, but John catches sight of a few gnarly scars before the fabric conceals his punished skin. The collar of Javier's shirt had been higher, too, hiding behind it a nasty-looking scar along the front of his neck, as though someone tried to slit his throat. Curiosity and sympathy well in John at the same time. Ignoring the former, he unfolds the blanket and wraps it around Javier's shoulders. 

          "Better?" 

          Javier works his jaw a bit before croaking, "Thank you." 

          Well, if there's one phrase to know in English, that's certainly among the helpful ones. 

          By the time Pa turns around with Javier's food, the kid has finally stopped shivering from the cold of the night. They get him fed with some of last night's stew. John's quite certain Pearson will forgive them for adding such a thing as salt.  

          After they get a warm meal into his stomach, Pa heads for the bathroom to start filling the tub, and John suddenly is struck with intense nostalgia. Pa did this for him once—well, several hundred times, really, but John's never going to forget the first. It hadn't been long since his old pa died, months probably. The orphanage was almost a worse hell than his daddy had been, and John escaped at the worst possible moment. The first time, he'd been thrown back on the orphanage's doorstep by a stranger, caught, and punished severely. The second time, he didn't even make it out the door. The third time, he learned. John was more careful. 

          However, he weren't careful enough to keep from getting caught doing other things. Pickin' pockets, he could do. His hands were certainly small enough and light enough to avoid detection, but.... Well, the ham had been conspicuous. John never expected to be hanged over it, though. 

          The surprise had been unpleasant, to say the least. 

          But Pa had been there, as drunk as John's daddy had ever been but somehow kind through it all. He could smell the whiskey on Pa's breath, and he expected to be kicked out on his ass at the first possible moment—expected hollerin' at least once. After all, he had no obligation to John. John wasn't his real kid, the one he lost and rarely talks about, but he looked after the mangy street child he saved anyway. Pa never raised his voice to him if there weren't a good reason for it, and he never once lifted a hand intending to hurt John. 

          He still drank. He drank quite a bit, actually, but his tolerance had to have been a hell of a lot higher than John's daddy. Pa could be three beers deep and still shoot a target from twenty yards. 

          John's daddy would've been lucky to hit the floor with both feet. 

          "Johnny boy, hey," Pa gruffs, snapping his fingers in front of him. "You with me?" 

          Startling, John nods. "Sorry. Thinkin'." 

          There's something wryly amused in the curl of Pa's lip and the crease of his eyes. He fits John under his arm and strolls him toward his room. Unable to resist, he teases, "Sounds like a difficult process." 

          "Real funny, Pa." 

          The low chuckle he gets in response tells him Pa certainly thought so. "I'm just kiddin' you, boy. Now, go on. Get some sleep. I'll look after Javier." 

          "I know you will." 

          In all honesty, John isn't surprised at all that Javier becomes a more permanent fixture on the ranch. Hosea talks with him the most, knowing a moderate amount of Spanish himself—enough so to help Javier learn, anyhow. Through him, they learn Javier is John's age, which means he's Tilly's age, and they get on like a house on fire. The girls all check in on him, fawning a bit at how easy it is to make him blush. Miss Grimshaw mothers and frets, as is her wont. Once Pearson's sure Javier's stomach can handle real food, he tries to feed the kid constantly. 

          Uncle is a bad influence. Period. 

          Even with all that, John thinks it might be Abigail that surprises Javier the most, incredibly busy one afternoon. She says, "Hold this," in a hurry before brushing outside, leavin' a sorely confused Javier with a bundle of Jack Marston in his arms. John and Pa merely laugh and continue sipping their morning coffee while their new friend stares down at the boy in wonder. 

          By the time she comes back, both he and the baby are asleep in Hosea's rocking chair. 

          Pa likes him—can't hardly understand him half the time, but he likes him. It gets better the more English Javier learns, and even though Pa hates fishin', he takes the kid fishin'. In John's experience, Pa just doesn't have the patience for it. Javier, on the other hand, loves it. It ain't long before he and Hosea start taking trips down to various rivers every week. 

          Life goes on. It gets better, in John's opinion. 

          By mid-summer of the following year, Jack's walkin'. His first word, to John's horror, is 'Unca,' and John swears to never tell a soul, because he would never hear the end of it if his child's first word even resembled Uncle. Jack's second first word is 'Pa', and he says it to Pa, which is perfectly fine with John. 'Ma' and 'Da' follow close behind it. 

          Javier is talkin' almost as much English as Spanish now. He's a fast learner and a hard worker, and he's decided to stick around if Pa and Hosea will have him. 

          "Of course, we'll have you," Hosea says, waving a hand. "Don't be ridiculous, my boy." 

          When Javier saves Pa's life from their angry bastard of a bull, Pa puts his name on the deed with the rest of theirs. "Family," he says. "Not hired help." 

          Their new addition nearly comes to tears, huggin' Pa. John watches on, holdin' back a smile as his Pa stalwartly pretends he ain't gone utterly soft. He has. He'd gone soft years and years ago. No one minds. 

          Javier certainly doesn't. 

          Later that week, upon seeing that John's current wardrobe is comprised of as many stitches as whole fabric, Pa figures it must be time for a trip to the nearest big city. They have a tailor, and Pa took him when they first settled. He brings Javier along, and the younger man lights up at the offer. John wonders sometimes if Javier might be bored with normal life. He reacts the same way they do to sudden gunshots or fights, like he's been looking over his shoulder for years. Maybe he was similar to an outlaw where he came from. 

          It's midday when they reach town. Pa helps Javier down from Boadicea's back and hitches her in front of some breakfast parlor. John doesn't know. They don't end up in the city too often. As they walk, Pa slings out a familiar silver pocket watch from inside his coat. John gave that old thing to him years ago, thought it'd be nice for Pa to have one like Dutch's. He doesn't wear it overtly the same way Dutch did, keeping it close to his heart. 

          Although, today, he seems to be paying an interesting amount of attention to the watch's cover as they turn a corner. 

          "Somethin' wrong, Pa?" John asks. 

          Javier perks up. 

          "We're bein' followed." 

          "By who?" 

          Pa shrugs, putting his watch away and throwing a reassuring look John's direction. "Some kid, I think. Wiry. Red hair. Nothin' to be concerned about. Let's just head on into the store there and get you boys some new clothes." 

          “Boys?” Javier asks. “Thought the clothes were for John.” 

          "Well, some of 'em, anyhow." Arthur holds the door and motions them inside. "Figure if you're gonna stick around, you oughta have more than a basic wardrobe and a hand-me-down union suit that saw its last good day ten years ago." 

          Javier makes a face. "What's a.... a 'hand-me-down'?" 

          "It means passed to you by someone else, that it's been used before," John answers. "A lot of times in the same family, like if Pa gave me one of his shirts or gunbelts." 

          "I see. La prenda usada." 

          Pa shuffles the pair of them toward the back of the tailor's. "All right, Javier. Pick out what you'd like. John, you already know what you're after if I know you, so scram." 

          "Anything? Really?" 

          "Well, within reason. If you pick somethin' ridiculous like one of them fluffy pink scarves, I might have to set you straight in terms of fashion sense, but otherwise, yes, anything. Pick for quality, and at least two pairs of boots if you're gonna try any. One pair don't last too long gettin' sweaty all the time." 

          Javier glances down at his feet, John's old pair of ropers a little worse for wear. "I.... I pay you back. This is too much, sir-" 

          "One, it ain't too much. You already done me a favor savin' my sorry hide, so if you want, you can think of this as me payin' you back. Two, I've told you at least fifty times not to call me 'sir' or 'mister' or anything like that. It's Arthur, and I expect to hear it at least once before we get started, we clear?" 

          A slow smile blooms on Javier's lips. "Yes, Arthur." 

          "Good man." 

          Javier inspects the clothing with care. John keeps an eye on them out of the corner of his eye, amused. As it turns out, Javier really likes blue. Pa draws the line at blue boots. Dress shoes, sure, but the boots are only going to get ruined. 

          "Johnny boy, you stay here with Javier while Pierre works with 'im. I'm gonna go have myself a smoke." 

          "Sure, Pa." 

          Javier, looking deeply uncomfortable as Pierre wraps a tape around his throat to measure his neck, clears it. "Your Pa is nice." 

          John huffs a laugh. "Sometimes, yeah." 

          "I mean it," Javier says, eyeing the tailor when he moves the tape around his thigh. "He is." 

          "Nice to folk he likes, sure." John leans back against the wall, his own clothes folded neatly in his lap. "You ain't got much experience with folk Pa don't like. Well, maybe Uncle sometimes. I seen him beat a man's skull in more than once for lookin' too close Tilly or Mary-Beth's direction." 

          Javier licks his lips, seeking the words. "Yes, but Uncle is... lazy, I think your Pa calls him." 

          "That, he is." 

          "And it's... right," Javier continues, "-to stop the, um, attention... 'not wanted', is it?" 

          "It's 'unwanted', and it comes before 'attention', not after. You're gettin' real good at this, Javier," John praises, smilin' a little brighter when Javier beams. "I ain't sayin' I disagree with you about Pa, though. All I'm sayin' is that it's a different story when it comes to folk at home. He might tease and make a little fun, but he ain't mean to us. He's kind, but he ain't harmless, especially if someone gives him a reason not to be harmless." 

          Javier clicks his tongue, shaking himself when the tailor dismisses him. "An idiot can see. Those rustlers some time ago, they learned well." 

          John chuckles. "Guess so." 

          "Mr. Marston, we still have your measurements from your last trip through town," Pierre says. "Shall we use those, or should we take new ones for you? It has been a number of months now since your last visit. Your shoulders look a hair broader than they account for, I believe." 

          Waving a hand, John stands and offers the bundle of clothing to the tailor. He stands up on the raised platform with confidence, showin' Javier there's nothin' to worry about. "If you say so, Pierre. You've got a keen eye. I never had to try somethin' twice that you made last time. That's some memory you've got." 

          "I appreciate the compliment, young man." 

          With the clothes set neatly aside, Pierre gets to work, and when he measures the width of John's shoulders, they are, in fact, broader set than they have been in the past. His waist is still the same, somethin' his Pa always teased made him look like a starved coyote. Now, he probably looks even more ridiculous. His elbows and knees never quite got their roundness back, always the slightest bit too knobby to simply be considered boney. Bein' perpetually underfed for the first eight years of his life left its mark on him, no matter how hard Pa worked to put meat on 'im. 

          He's strong, and he's healthy. That's all that matters in the end. 

          "Get in there, boy," Pa's voice says suddenly. "Go on." 

          John turns his head, careful not to move where Pierre is still working. His Pa is back, but it's the kid slinking along in front of him that has John's attention. Wiry. Red hair. That's what Pa had described earlier when they were on their way inside. 

          "Ya' don't 'ave to handle me that way, Englishman," the red-head chirps, his voice high, cracking, and thick with Irish brogue. "I'm goin'." 

          "Told you already, I ain't English," Pa gruffs. "Sit." 

          "This's coercion, kidnappin', ya' old brute-" 

          "Sit your ass down, boy," Pa growls, giving a self-satisfied nod when the kid's ass lands on the ground next to where Javier is standing. 

          The kid keeps his head down, picking at the mud on his tattered boots. The coat he wears is faded and patchy, and it smells like he ain't seen a bath in a long while. John can smell him from across the room. His red hair is longer than John keeps his, tangled and frizzy. Grime of unknown origin stains the knees of his pants; although, from the look of them, the stains have been long-standing tenants. 

          "What you in for, kid?" John asks, plopping himself down beside his Pa's latest victim. 

          The red-head glances up at Pa, sulking when all he does is raise a brow that dares him to avoid the question. "Robbery." 

          Pa snorts. "Attempted robbery, you mean, dumbass." 

          "Oh, shut up, ya' grumpy fucking shit-" 

          "And what a pathetic excuse for attempted robbery it was," Pa continues, far too entertained. The delight at the kid's expense only grows when the red-head hunkers low. "Comes in all hot like he thought I ain't seen him prowlin' with that hair of his bright as a fire." 

          John chuckles. "Damn. You've got some balls, kid. What's your name?" 

          "Sean," the kid says, then tacks on, "MacGuire." 

          Surprise pings through John at the name. "MacGuire? Like the outla-" 

          "Not so loud, boy," Pa rumbles. He turns to Pierre, heaving a heavy sigh. "Pierre, my friend, I'm gonna need another set of measurements for this dumbass." 

          Sean straightens, his mouth falling open in shock. 

          "Of course, Mr. Morgan." 

          Javier nudges John with his boot, laughing. "I tell you, John. See? Nice." 

Chapter Text

          Arthur didn't plan to take in the Irish kid. He really didn't, but he'd been so pitiful pinned up against the alley wall. It hadn't taken but a wrench of Sean's wrist and a grazing slap to completely disarm him. The kid's Pa had been famous, an international outlaw, but he clearly hadn't imparted his skills or too much wisdom to his boy, if he had any to begin with. 

          "Hell you doin', boy?" he'd snapped, and the kid all but cowered before finding enough spirit to grin like nothin' was wrong. 

          "Robbin' yer ugly mug. Ya' looked a dumb enough fucker for it." 

          "This 'dumb fucker' clocked your ass the second we climbed off our horses. I been connin', robbin', and outlawin' since before you was a drip in your mamma's clit, and you'd best believe I've killed fellers a whole hell of a lot smarter than you, boy." 

          The kid had thrashed, trying to push him off, but nothing came of it. Arthur's frame towered over the kid, and he far, far outweighed him. The boy stood tall enough, had clearly taken care of himself for a good while, but his clothes told the other half of the story—just skating by, barely fed, barely keeping that patched coat on his shoulders. Sticky fingers can only get a kid so far. Arthur knows that all too well. 

          "An' who the hell are ya', mister high an' mighty?" the boy grumbled, stuck with naught but his wits. "Some grouchy ol' gunslinger past his prime, eh?" 

          "Name's Arthur," Arthur had said. "Arthur Morgan." 

          The fire in the kid's eyes, fearless and brash, went out, and he'd been truly afraid in that moment. He'd fought harder to get loose, but Arthur held fast. First came threats. "I've- I've got a knife, a-and I'll gut ya' quicker 'an you'd believe! I-" Then came the apologies. "I-I'm sorry, mister. I'll- I'll leave ya' alone, I swear. Just let me go-" 

          And Arthur? 

          Well, he pitied the kid. In honesty, he reminded Arthur of himself. 

          "I don't think so, boy," Arthur growled. "I think I'll keep you right where I can see you." 

          How that translated to the boy now hoverin' in the middle of his living room, Arthur has no idea. At first, Sean simply stands there. John and Abigail loiter in the kitchen, and Javier's in his room changing into his new everyday clothes. John's stuff is going to swiftly return to his closet if Arthur had to have his guess. It was good to see the kid excited. 

          "So.... Ehm.... What now?" 

          "Not sure just yet," Arthur drawls. "Suppose I could kill you, but that'd be a waste of good money. Poor Pierre would've done all that work on you for nothin', and I'd hate to make a mess of my floors." 

          John snorts from the kitchen. "He ain't gonna kill you, Sean." 

          "Quit scarin' the boy, Pa," Abigail agrees, her words going straight to his heart in a way he's quite sure she's aware of. 

          "You know, you two sure like to take the fun out of everything." 

          "And you know damn well we don't do that no more," John shoots back, though he does look tickled by the goings-on despite his interference. "So, quit scarin' the boy when we both know you ain't gonna kill 'im." He meanders over with Jack in his arms. "Here. Hold your grandson while I go water the horses. Come on, Abi. Keep me company." 

          Arthur takes the boy as the two head out, settling him comfortably in his lap with a smile he can't help. The one-year-old's happy, gummy grin softens his resolve. He supposes he can stop tormenting Sean for a minute. "Hey, Jacky boy." 

          Hosea finally wanders back into the living room. He'd taken one look at Sean and sighed that they needed a bigger house. "Here's the estimation on the materials, son." 

          "Thanks, 'sea." 

          "'sea?" Sean echoes. "As in Hosea?" His face goes slack with awe. "Hosea Matthews! Yer the most famous conman in six states! Right next to Dutch in the Van der Lindes!" 

          Hosea chuckles. "Well, I used to be, I suppose. We're honest folk, nowadays." He makes a conceding gesture with half-hearted annoyance when Arthur throws him a sideways glance. "Mostly. If the opportunity for an odd con falls into my lap, well.... You know how it is." 

          "Hosea, why don't you gather everyone? Figure we can introduce Sean here to the family." 

          "All right. Might be a little while, yet. I know Miss Grimshaw was punishing Uncle for dropping wine on her new tablecloth with cleaning up the stalls in the barn. I'd hate to interrupt if he's actually working for once." 

          Arthur chuckles lowly. "If that's the case, take all the time you need." 

          Sean watches him go, still awestruck. After a moment or two, he finally takes a seat on the couch, his gangly legs folded underneath him. "So, you lot are retired, then? All you Van der Lindes?" 

          "If you've read the paper, you know the Van der Lindes are still outlawin'. Dutch didn't take so well to the idea of quittin' the life. Those of us here are just the ones smart enough to get out before the law knows our faces too well. Except Javier. He's brand new, wasn't a part of it, but he's family." 

          The red-head perks up. "So, ya' do this a lot, then? Just take in the first person t' swing a gun yer way an' take 'em home?" 

          "No," Arthur replies, checking on Jack's developing teeth with his thumb when the kid starts chewin' on him. "Most folk swingin' a gun my way get themselves shot. You?" 

          Sean clears his throat. "I.... Well, I can scrap, but me shot's shit." He frowns. "Wouldn't think ya' do much gunslingin', bein' retired an' all. Do ya'?" 

          This kid asks too many questions. 

          "Don't suppose yer rusty, eh?" 

          Huffing mildly, Arthur smirks. "Even on my worst day, I'd outshoot anyone on this ranch, boy. I keep in practice. All of us who know our way around a gun do. We need those skills more than you'd think out here in the middle of nowhere." 

          Sean licks his lips before venturing, "Don't suppose ya' might be willin' to teach a sorry bugger like myself?" 

          "Sure," Arthur drawls. "If, and that's the kicker, you stick around. I ain't trainin' anyone up with a gun so's they can run off and get themselves killed by the law. It's a damn waste. All you'll get is shot or hanged. Least here, you're only worried about the one option." 

          "Ya' mean work for ya'?" 

          "With me, anyhow. Ain't so fond of the idea of underlings. That's Colm O'Driscoll's business." Arthur taps Jack's little nose, chuckling warmly when it makes the boy giggle. "If you're gonna run off, now's the time. Keep the clothes if you like. I done as needed doin', and now it's your turn to decide what it is you want." 

          Sean fidgets. "Ya' didn't... really need to do anythin' for me." 

          Arthur hums. "True enough. But when we was in the gang, when it was young and Dutch cared more for folk, we had three rules: save who needs savin', feed who needs feedin', and kill who needs killin'." 

          "An'... which am I?" 

          "Guess." 

          The kid's stomach chooses that moment to growl, and Sean turns almost as red as his hair. "S'pose I don't need to, eh?" 

          "Depends. If you want to eat at my table, you can be the second. If not, the first will do just fine." 

          "An' just what is it you'd be savin' me from, Mr. Morgan?" 

          Arthur doesn't have to think very hard about it. Instead, he puffs a sigh, lets Jack take hold of his work-roughened trigger fingers, and meets Sean's eyes. "Yourself, I'd wager. So, this is where you should ask yourself what you want. You want to spend the rest of your life on the run from the law, countin' down the days until you find yourself on the gallows, or do you want a life?" 

          Sean picks at his new socks, eyes downcast. "Can I think about it?" 

          "Don't think too hard, boy," Arthur rumbles. "You'll hurt yourself." 

          "Fuck off, ya' ol' bastard." 

          Arthur clicks his tongue and stands, cradling Jack against his chest and bouncing him a little on his way to the kitchen. "Whatchu think, Jacky boy? You hungry?" 

          Jack wauls softy, cooing and holding fast to Arthur's shirt while he hunts through the cans on the shelf. He settles on a jar of blended pumpkin something-or-other. Abigail made it herself, which means it's sure to be questionable for adult consumption but should be just fine for a baby. Babies like odd foods. They don't really know any better. 

          "Ya' know, ya' really don't seem like an outlaw, English." 

          Snorting, Arthur sets Jack down on the kitchen counter and fishes in the silverware drawer for a spoon. "Ain't English. Besides, whatchu think I should do? Run through town wavin' a sign sayin' 'I'm an outlaw, hang me first'?" 

          "Ain't what I mean." 

          "I know what you mean, Sean," Arthur rumbles. "Like John said, we don't do that no more." 

          Sean stays quiet for a moment before asking, "An' it's worth it? Livin' like this? Seems rather... bland." 

          "My boy and the rest of 'em ain't getting shot at every day. I ain't gettin' shot at every day, and folk usually don't spend their mornings readin' the paper and wonderin' if I'll be the last thing they see. In my book, that's worth it." 

          "So... ya' didn't like it, then?" 

          Arthur considers that. "I grew up in it, hardly knew anything else. Can't say for sure whether I liked or disliked it as a whole. Liked connin' with Hosea, liked fightin' sometimes, and liked livin' out in the middle of nowhere. Disliked stormin' banks, goin' against rival gangs, and nearly gettin' dead anytime I so much as took a step. Got to the point where it felt like it was that life or my boy, so I chose my boy." 

          The way I should've chosen Eliza and Isaac. A quieter part of him whispers that if he had, he wouldn't have John in the first place, and he wouldn't trade him for all the gold in the world. 

          "But ya' said all these here folk came with ya' from the gang. How's about them?" 

          "Don't rightly know," Arthur muses. "I told John to pack, and they decided on the spot they was comin' with. Can't say I ain't glad for it though. A gang ain't no place for a bunch of women and it especially ain't no place for children. Jack deserves better than to be raised in the life the way some of us was." 

          Sean makes a small, uncertain noise. Like Arthur, outlawin' is all he's ever known. He wouldn't know what it's like to start over, to fight to change his ways, and to put down real roots. 

          Arthur spoons the dubious-looking paste into Jack's mouth, drawing another gummy smile to the boy's lips. "I know you lost your Pa years ago now," Arthur says, not unkindly, and when Sean's shoulders creep toward his ears, he continues. "He raised you in it, I bet, and while it may not seem like it, may feel like you've got some kinda legacy to uphold, you don't need to take that road. Outlawin' ain't all there is. You get a fresh start now, before folks know your face and your name, and you got a shot at a real life." 

          "By mornin', ya' say? To decide." 

          "Mm." 

          Sean fusses a bit with his clothes, gripping them tight as though he's afraid they'll disappear into smoke if he lets go. Right now, he's probably the warmest, driest, and cleanest he's been in a long time. That ain't nothin', especially for someone who's been alone for years. 

          "I'll.... I'll try it, just for tonight." 

          Arthur makes a low noise of approval. Then, he speaks gravely, "Sean?" 

          "What?" 

          "If'n you leave tomorrow and I find you've stolen somethin' off anyone here, I will chase you down and drag you back behind my horse. Then, this whole deal of ours becomes a lot less optional. Understood?" 

          Sean pales. "Understood." 

          In the end, Sean stays, and it doesn't take long for Arthur to regret his choices in life when the kid's mouth starts workin' and he asks a million and one questions over the course of dinner that night and breakfast the following morning. Thankfully, Hosea is there to mediate, because Arthur might've strangled him before the night was over otherwise. 

          One morning a month later, after a particularly long night of chasin' cattle around with John and Javier after they'd broken their pen's gate, he nearly throws his freshly brewed coffee on Sean for darin' to ask why it took them so long to fix it. 

          Instead, Arthur opens his journal and holds it firmly to stop himself, John stage-whispers, "You're tryin' Pa's patience, Sean. Just because he won't shoot you doesn't mean he can't whoop you." 

          "If Arthur Morgan here were gonna 'ave a go at me, he would've already. Right, old man?" 

          You brought this on yourself. It's too late to kill 'im.

          John laughs. "You keep thinkin' that, buddy." 

          Javier makes a noncommittal noise. His sense of humor, they've found as he's learned English, fits in perfectly among all the ex-gang members. "Perhaps do not try your luck, cabrón." 

          "Hell does 'cabrón' mean?" Sean asks. "Is it good?" 

          "It means 'friend'." 

          Sean's voice brightens. "I'll 'ave t' try that one sometime. Thanks, brother!" 

          A faint splutter comes from John's direction as he chokes on his coffee, but he does a good job of covering up the slip with a hiss, pretending he burned himself. He and Javier share an amused glance while Arthur carefully depicts the scene before him—John grinnin' like the young fool he is, Javier cozied up in a tasseled blue blanket Miss Grimshaw made for him, and Sean slowly finding his place in their house. 

          It's more than Arthur ever expected to have. 

          He basks in it a little, soaking up the warmth as Pearson clatters around the kitchen to make breakfast for the folk who didn't rise several hours before the sun. The urge to wander that persisted in his bones for so long is quieter these days but not absent. If he's going to head out a while, he takes one of the older boys along. If it's only a few hours or so, he'll take one or two of the girls. They go a bit stir crazy sometimes while cooped up in the house with Miss Grimshaw. She may not be the taskmaster she once was, but she still doesn't abide idleness. Arthur wonders sometimes what it must've cost her to choose him and John over Dutch. 

          Most often, he takes John, spending precious moments alone with his boy away from the bustle of their home. They take Boadicea and Bug out on the long ranges of their property, checking fences if the need arises but otherwise spending hours in comfortable silence. John's quiet, got a good head on his shoulders. 

          Other times, he takes Javier, chuckling warmly when the kid gets excited about rainbows, pointing giddily and talkin' a mile a minute in Spanish. Arthur sketches one such occasion, tracing the smile lines at his eyes and the dimples in his cheeks with care. The kid has his own full wardrobe now, and he takes pride in the fact that he earned the money to pay for it. Nowadays, he'll only accept gifts from Arthur on holidays. He takes special care with his things, polishing the silvery toe tips on his boots and keeping his knives sharp. 

          When ambushed by a particular red-head, Arthur takes Sean. 

          "Ya' know, Englishman, ya' still ain't taught me how t' be gunslingin'." 

          Hosea laughs softly from where he's brushing Silver Dollar. Boadicea wickers lowly, nuzzling Arthur's graying hair. Ol' Bo has mellowed in her age, gotten friendlier to other folk for the right price. That price usually resembles sweets of some kind. Arthur gives her a pat, massaging the muscle of her foreleg where she took a bullet years ago. She keeps still, head bobbing contentedly from the attention. 

          "You still ain't convinced me I can trust you to handle a gun, let alone shoot one." 

          "Oh, come on, old man," Sean chirps. "Don't ya' think I'd learn faster if ya' taught me?" 

          Hosea, sounding entirely too encouraging, says, "He has a point, Arthur. Besides, from what I hear, if you leave him to learn it himself, he'll shoot one of us by mistake." 

          Arthur snorts when Sean scowls. "You ain't exactly helpin' his case." 

          "Go on, son," Hosea coaxes. "You told him you'd teach him, and I know you're a man of your word. Least this way, he'll get taught right. Bring Javier and see where he's at. Hell, bring John, too. See if you can finally get him to straighten his back and stop droppin' his shoulder." 

          "That'd be the day." 

          "Arthur."

          Sighing heavily, Arthur pats Bo's flank and reaches for her saddle. "Fine. You win, old man." 

          Sean practically springs for the Standardbred in the far corner of the barn, hurrying to do up Ennis's tack and fumbling with it all the more for his excitement. By the time he finishes, Arthur has already saddled both Bug and Boaz. He hollers for the two others, knowin' they ain't far, just out repairing their cattle chute while the herd is out to pasture. 

          "Something wrong, Arthur?" Javier asks as the two of them shuffle inside. 

          "Nah. Takin' Sean out to teach him how to handle a gun a bit better. Seein' if I can get myself shot today, I suppose." 

          John scratches his head. "And we're goin' because...?" 

          "Because Hosea suggested I take you and see if we can straighten you out after all these years, boy," Arthur tuts. "Come on. You, too, Javier. The chute can wait." 

          Both older boys mount up, and when Sean finally gets his ass into gear, they've gotten bored. Arthur straps a burlap sack full of empty beer bottles to Boadicea's saddle and follows suit, leadin' the way to a secluded part of the ranch where people are unlikely to stray. 

          Arthur has Sean set up the bottles. After being told and witnessing for himself a few times that Sean's shot really is shit, he has no desire to be downrange of the kid. 

          "All right, now show me the ropes, eh? I'll have ya' old bastards shakin' by-" 

          "Fuck, Sean!" John yelps, snapping a hand out to direct the muzzle of Sean's gun to the ground when he waves it around with all flippancy. "Don't point it our way, you dumbass!" 

          Sean scoffs. "Now, me shot may be shit, but I'd not hit you boys." 

          "I'll believe when we go home," Javier mutters, waving a hand over his chest, "-with no more holes." 

          "Fuck off-" 

          Arthur rests a hand on his shoulder, cutting the protest off at the knees. "The boys are right to be nervous. You ain't a confident shooter, and you oughta handle a gun with more respect anyhow." He takes Sean's revolver away and steers him to stand in front of the three bottles he set up. "How close you think you need to be to hit somethin'?" 

          Sean turns red. "I, uh.... Well, ya' see-" 

          John swears under his breath and Javier pinches his nose. 

          "Sean...." 

          "About, um... fifteen." 

          Mulling the number, Arthur frowns. "Yards? I mean, I've heard worse-" 

          "Feet." 

          John curses. "Shit, Pa. How the hell'd you go and find the worst shot in the whole west and decide to bring him on?" 

          "Now, listen here!" Sean snaps, his lip curling. "Not everyone's da is Arthur Morgan-" 

          "Settle down," Arthur soothes. "John, you go ahead and line up. Javier, come 'ere a minute." When the younger kid joins them, Arthur whispers in his ear, "Go stick a fake gun in his back when we have him aim and see if that straightens 'im, would you? Don't touch too hard, though. He'll jump." Boy's always been ticklish.

          Javier grins. "I can do that." 

          John peers his way suspiciously. "What're you tellin' him?" 

          "Nothin', boy. Just line up." Arthur, still holding Sean's gun, points to his boy's shooting stance. "Now, Johnny's gonna do this nice and slow for you. See his feet? How he's got his weight spread?" At Sean's nod, Arthur prods his son's side. "His problem's always been back and shoulders. Boy wants to slouch, and it makes 'im sloppy." 

          "Thanks, Pa." 

          "Ain't like I'm wrong." 

          Snickering, Javier creeps around his other side and readies to do the deed asked of him. 

          "Now, John, you ain't gonna hipfire off the quickdraw for this. I want Sean to be able to see what you're up to. You'll pull all the way up and keep your eye down the sight. Don't fire. Got that?" 

          "Ready." 

          Sean makes a face, crossing his arms. 

          "Watch, boy," Arthur orders. "Pay attention, or I ain't gonna teach you. All right, John. Hold," he cues, letting the anticipation build a little bit and observing the eager smile tugging at John's lips. "Hold." When John shifts his weight, patient, Arthur barks, "Draw!" 

          John draws, quick as a hiccup. Pride blooms in Arthur's chest. 

          On the job, Javier immediately presses his index finger forward to touch John's mid-back. "Levanta tus manos, pendejo."

          The sideways curve to John's back corrects, all right, but the glare he shoots over his shoulder is poisonous. "What the hell, Javier?" 

          "Your Pa tells me," Javier shrugs, but he's smiling smugly. 

          "Stay right there, John," Arthur says, ruffling his boy's hair when that acidic glower turns on him instead of Javier. "Turn your head to look down your sights. Sean, come here." 

          Rolling his eyes, John does as asked. 

          "All right, now," Arthur explains. "Look here how he's got the gun held in line with his eye, bringin' it close to center as possible? He's only got the pad of his finger on the trigger, keeping the rest of his hand from forcin' his aim one way or another. Trigger pull's got a lot to do with where your shot goes. Understand?" 

          Sean nods. 

          "Let's start again," Arthur instructs. "John, I want the middle bottle there, and only the middle one. Javier, you keep your hand right where it is." 

          John smiles despite the tampering, holstering his gun to go again. 

          "Draw!" 

          The middle bottle shatters. 

          "Perfect, Johnny boy," Arthur praises, warmth flooding his chest at the smile John offers him in return. Even after fourteen years, seeing John do well brings him great pleasure. "All right, you want one more before I put Javier up?" 

          "I figure I'll have more time after you're done with him and Sean." 

          Arthur lets him go, and Javier steps up with a little uncertainty with regards to Sean. He ventures, only a little stilted from his nerves. "I warn, I am better with my knives." 

          "Really?" 

          Javier nods. Arthur already knows how Javier shoots, has come to expect his smooth confidence in stance even though his aim reflects a lack of practice. The kid can sneak up on a rabbit. Arthur would guess guns weren't something he preferred to use, attracting too much attention. Knives, however, are quick and quiet. Javier was on the run before he found them. Someone tried to kill him by way of sticking a knife in his neck. They know that much, but whatever his past, he hasn't quite gotten comfortable enough to share it yet. That's perfectly fine with Arthur. 

          His shot finds the mark regardless. 

          When Sean steps up, his shoulders are already up around his ears. He's prepared to embarrass himself. That won't do. 

          "First of all, relax. We ain't here to judge." Much. "We're here to improve." Arthur takes the rounds out of Sean's gun before handing it to him again, ignoring the insulted look on the kid's face. "Now, line up. Let's see what that draw of yours looks like. See what we've got to work with." 

          John and Javier both go deathly quiet, watching, which only makes Sean more tense. 

          "Breathe." 

          Sean jumps, nearly pulling his gun from his holster. 

          "The bottles ain't goin' nowhere. Relax. You ain't even got bullets," Arthur soothes. "Just draw at your own pace." 

          Sean draws. Sort of. If it can be called that. John and Javier both fight with everything they have not to guffaw when Arthur winces visibly at the poor show. 

          Arthur has no words for whatever the hell that was. "Who in the sandhill taught you to use a gun, boy?" 

          "Ehm.... Well, me Da didn't get the chance." 

          So, he's self-taught, and badly so. 

          "All right, well.... How about we skip drawin' for a minute and focus on gettin' you holdin' the gun straight. You hold it like you're expectin' it to try to get away. The shot's gonna go wide no matter what you do if you cant the frame like that. And when you throw your shoulder and gun hand forward and your opposite side back durin' the draw, you're pushin' your aim up and away. You'll fire either too early or too late to compensate. Here." Arthur steps closer, tilting Sean's wrist, coaxing him out of his near-squatted crouch and into a standing position, and pulling his gun arm toward front and center. "How's that feel?" 

          "Stiff." 

          Arthur hums. "That's 'cause you ain't practiced it." 

          "Feels easier my way, old man." 

          "If it were easier your way, you'd be able to hit somethin' from further than fifteen feet, wouldn't you think, boy?" 

          Sean flushes. 

          While Arthur works on bringing Sean's gun handling up to a standard resembling presentable, John teaches Javier how to make grass whistle between his thumbs. It takes hours for Arthur to mutter, "Well, now. That's slightly less of an embarrassment, hm?" 

          "I ain't even fired a shot. John shot." 

          "Johnny boy, how many times did I have you draw before I let you shoot as a boy?" 

          John blinks, tossing away a ruined piece of grass. "I dunno. A thousand? That don't include all the times you made me start from scratch with the gun disassembled. And that ain't includin' when you moved me up to repeaters, neither." 

          Arthur waves a pointed hand. "See, Sean? I ain't treatin' you any different than I would anyone else. In fact, you could say I'm bein' a mite kinder." 

          "Ya' know, English, all this fuckin' about an' I still ain't seen ya' shoot one target. How the hell am I t' know ya' ain't just blowin' smoke?" 

          "Oh, get his ass," John snickers. 

          Javier gives a cheer as well. "Yes, compadre. Show him the money!" 

          "Who the hell taught you that?" 

          "Miss Grimshaw." 

          Letting out a long breath, Arthur concedes. "Go set up ten more bottles then." At Sean's delighted look, Arthur shoos him away. "Go on. Hurry up, 'fore I change my mind." 

          "Do the twirls, Pa!" 

          Arthur chuckles. That takes him back to when John was a little boy, brand new to all of this and easily impressed.  "You want the twirls, boy?" 

          John leans forward, hopeful. "Please?" 

          "All right, all right. Go on, back up. This may be a game, but let's not play with fire." 

          "How many yards?" 

          Humming absently, Arthur starts walking, gauging about forty before turning around. "We'll call it here." 

          Sean calls bullshit almost immediately upon arrival. "Aw, don't play, Morgan. Ya' can't fool me, no matter how many times yer name were in the paper. No one's that good. Not without a rifle on 'em." 

          "Just shut up and enjoy the show, Sean. Sit." John yanks him down into the grass with them. 

          Arthur eyes the twelve bottles, checking that both his revolvers are loaded before holstering them again and setting his stance in a lackadaisical fashion. When his hands rest, relaxed, near his guns, a familiar quiet settles over his audience. He feels his boy's eyes in particular. His hat cuts the sun's glare, and down the way, that same light shines off each bottle like a sign. Blue eyes narrow, ready. 

          "Draw!" 

          In a flash, Arthur quickdraws. One bottle shatters, and he gives a controlled tug back and up to send the revolver over his shoulder in a neat arc. It lands pristinely in his palm on the other side and he easily pulls it back up into firing position with another whirl, shattering the second bottle. He gives the gun a bit of a twist to rotate it under his hand before hitting the third. A flip brings him to the forth, a spin to the fifth, and a toss to the sixth. Empty. He twirls the gun back into its holster. His off-hand revolver whips out in a flash of silver, and six bottles fall to pieces in a matter of seconds—two, to be exact—as he hipfires all six rounds. 

          John whoops joyously, Javier claps, and Sean sits there in the grass with his jaw in the dirt. 

          "Close your mouth, Sean," Arthur gruffs, holstering his second gun and reseating his hat. "You'll catch flies." 

Chapter Text

          "Seems we got out just in time, my boy," Hosea says late one night while they're out on the porch, the ranch is quiet, and most folk are asleep. 

          "Mm?" 

           The only other one still awake is Tilly, and she's knitting something new against Arthur's knee. He ain't sure what yet, but she insisted on staying up a while to get a good start on it.  

          "I read in the paper the government's got this new agency running now. Started last year. The National Bureau of Criminal Identification. I know you tried your damnedest to keep our names out of things, but.... Well. Dutch is still out there, toying with the law like nothing has changed. They know his name and his face." 

          "I try not to worry about it." 

          "I know. And I know things didn't end the greatest between us, but sometimes I still...." 

          Miss him.

          Arthur sighs. "I know." 

          Tilly shuffles against Arthur, dark eyes peering up with gladness in them. She's the closest thing to a daughter he's got aside from his daughter-in-law. "If it helps, I'm happy you got us out. It's nice havin' a home." 

          "It is, sweetheart." 

          Hosea hums in agreement with the pair of them, though something wistful lingers in his eyes. He takes a long drag off his smoke, coughing slightly into his fist. His affliction that caused him to wheeze and hack so terribly at times has hardly reared its ugly head since they settled. Hosea says it's likely the warm, dry air out here that keeps him hale. Arthur's inclined to think part of the solution is that he's no longer running around after Dutch. 

          "Only three years to the new century now," Tilly murmurs. "If we'd stayed, do you think we'd have made it?" 

          Arthur exhales a plume of smoke. "Likely not." 

          "You think Dutch and the gang he's got now will make it?" 

          There was a time, many years ago, that Arthur would've said yes in a heartbeat. He never would've fathomed that Dutch wouldn't lead them through. It was a hard inkling to stomach back when Arthur realized all Dutch wanted was noise. He didn't want to protect the people he'd brought under his care. He wanted to live however he wanted, do whatever he wanted, and die by his own rules. Arthur didn't. Arthur wanted their people, the folk that had become his family, to live. 

          And here they are. They're livin', all of them—even Hosea, who claimed he'd likely die in the gang. He's fifty-three and has regained the strength an outlaw's life couldn't afford him. Arthur is forty-four, a number higher than he was certain he'd ever reach. Those left behind, well.... 

          "Likely not," Arthur says again. "Think the time for folk like us has passed." 

          "You did a brave thing, Arthur." Hosea looks his way, pride shining in his expression. "There aren't many who would be able to turn a new leaf like this, to forsake all they'd known." 

          Arthur snorts. "Wasn't brave. Just didn't want to see folk hanged, shot, or blown up." 

          "I'd say standin' up to Dutch was pretty brave, Pa." 

          Turning his head, Arthur finds John leanin' in the doorway to the house. He looks ruffled, as though recently roused from dead sleep. "Hell are you doin' up, boy? It's late." 

          "Jack was fussy. Heard voices and figured I might see who was up." 

          Humming, Arthur waves a hand and John helps himself to the chair Miss Grimshaw vacated hours ago. The boy kicks his bare feet up in Arthur's lap and stretches, tipping his head over the back of the chair and sighing contentedly in the pleasant chill of the night. Arthur pats his knee. 

          "Your feet stink," Tilly complains. 

          A smile curves John's lips as he proceeds to wave one of said feet in her face. "Oughta be used to it." 

          "I'm holdin' knittin' needles, John. I will stab you." 

          "You won't." 

          Tilly slaps his foot away. "You know I will." 

          Unsurprisingly, John pushes his luck, and Arthur merely laughs when John gets jabbed for his trouble. When he yanks his foot back and pouts pitifully, he whines, "Pa-" 

          "I ain't exactly filled with sympathy for you, boy. You pretty well earned that. She warned you," Arthur chuckles, pulling his boy's foot into his lap regardless and checking to make sure no blood was drawn. When he finds none, he smirks at him. "She warned you twice. That's more than you'd get from a snake in the brush." 

          "You're no help." 

          Tilly snickers. 

          Hosea has himself a quiet laugh at their childish antics and takes a leisurely pull off his smoke, flicking the ash off the end with a thoughtful tap. "All these years and neither of you have grown up." 

          That's fine with Arthur. 

          Before too long, the door to the house creaks open, and a familiar face pokes out from the dark of the building. "Am I interrupting, mis amigos?" After two and a half years of constant practice, Javier's English is leaps and bounds from where he began. Sometimes, he spends hours practicing alone, reading Hosea's books and absorbing everything he can. He nigh obsessed over tenses, wrestling with the amalgamation of adapted words and origins in the language. The effort has paid off. Now, he speaks better English than most native speakers do. "I heard laughing." 

          "Have a seat, boy," Arthur ushers. "Plenty of room on this porch for all of you." 

          Another figure slips out just behind Javier. 

          "Ah, Sean," Hosea greets. "Sorry if all the shuffling tonight woke you." 

          Sean creeps out onto the porch, his pale face flickering with shadows in the light of the lamp. The gaunt look he first had has improved some since he joined their household. He seems less haunted these days, less anxious, though it still rankles him to be the youngest of Arthur's motley bunch. "It's all right. Could hardly sleep with Pearson's snorin' next door anyhow." 

          Arthur huffs an amused noise and tugs out his journal as the two sit, Javier against his other knee, and Sean across from him. There ain't much to sketch in the low light, but he manages. 

          "So, why are you and Hosea still up, mis viejos?" Javier asks. 

          Hosea offers up a sardonic chuckle. "Sleep when you're young, children. Sleep when you're young. By the time you're my age, everything aches too much for that." 

          John pokes Arthur with his foot, prodding with a sly smile. "Your old bones achy, Pa?" 

          "Not as of yet, but even if they was, I could still whoop you." Arthur offers the boy a playful glare. "Pesky kid." 

          "Think so?" 

          "I know so. Don't think that just because you're grown you can get one up on me." 

          A grin grows on John's face, wolf-like, but he doesn't challenge Arthur's words. They both know Arthur would win. The look on Arthur's face promises the boy a wrestle at some point, and that's all John needs to see before he's back to lounging comfortably in his chair. His boy always has liked a good tussle, a game with no stakes. 

          The six of them end up sitting on the porch throughout the night, chatting with one another and enjoying the silences in between. 

          Around them, the world spins on. 

          The ranch grows in size alongside the nearby towns. They watch in silence as the papers fill with headlines of gang leaders being caught and hanged. The Van der Lindes get bolder, pulling off high-profile jobs the way Arthur always tried to avoid after taking John into his heart. He loves John in a way his own Pa never loved him, and he wouldn't see John killed nor force John to see him swing the way he had his own father. Lyle couldn't have swung soon enough, but a part of Arthur still aches for it. 

          The first time they see new faces in the paper beside Dutch's, newly identified and wanted for murder, they know things are coming to a close for the old gang. Bill's face isn't a shock. It had been beside Dutch's for a couple years now. The man was always loyal to Dutch, and he'll do as told. Davey and Mac aren't quite so prevalent, but their names have come up a time or two alongside a few others Hosea and Arthur don't know. 

          "It's fixin' to be a harsh winter in the mountains. We'll have to plot a different route to that auction in Blackwater this spring if we want the prices they're offerin' for the horses we bred this year. Racin' stock." 

          "Doesn't bode well," Hosea murmurs on a chilly morning at the tail end of the year. 

          "No, but the horses will more than pay for an extra week of travel, and folk down there will pay top dollar for the mustangs Johnny and I broke in, too." 

          Hosea hums. "I want you to take Javier with you." 

          Arthur arches a brow. "What for? He can handle the place just fine. You know that." 

          "I do," Hosea agrees. "It's just.... Well, this." He taps the most recent newspaper. "Dutch and his gang are being chased to the southeast. I'm worried you and John might run into trouble and need more manpower. If you found Dutch, I.... Well, I ain't sure what he'd do. Right about now, he's likely feeling cornered." 

          Sighing, Arthur squeezes Hosea's shoulder. "You worry too much. Chances of us running into Dutch are slim. But," he concedes, "-if it'll make you stop worrying, I'll take Javier. In return, I want you to keep Sean, Tilly, and Karen on watch at night. Keep everyone armed. We don't need any trouble with poachers or strange visitors while we're gone." 

          "I can do that." Hosea smiles faintly. "Please, be careful." 

          "We will be." 

          So, in spring of 1899, Arthur, John, and Javier take twelve horses down to Blackwater. They didn't know that, as they were leaving town, freshly paid, the ferry in the port would go up in smoke and flames. 

          John and Javier are both at different stalls, checking out various wares while Arthur lights up a smoke and watches over them. Their horses are down at the end of the street, too far away to reach as people start running and screaming. The law pours toward the docks. 

          "Get off the street!" Arthur snaps. 

          Javier and John both duck away alongside regular folk, helping a child or two get hidden and redirecting screaming mothers into cover. Gunshots sound over the water, echoing down the street. Soon enough, the robbers emerge onto the cobblestone and people begin dropping like flies. Smoke, ash, and glowing embers billow out around them, shrouding the street.

          "They're getting away!" the lawmen holler.

          "Fire!" screams another. "The ferry's on fire! Don't let it spread!"

          Arthur slips into the alley he thought he saw John disappear into, his heart leaping into his throat when he hears a rough holler of pain. John. As he steps into the next street, he finds terrified people running everywhere, coughing and choking on the smoke the same as he is. Seeking Javier and John desperately, Arthur runs. A fleeting glance toward a dead-end alley freezes Arthur to the spot. John is on his back, a blond man standing over him as he clutches his thigh. His gun lays several feet away. No one else is there, likely knowing the town well enough to avoid the closed passage. Arthur approaches, his gaze never leaving the pair as the bigger of the two chuckles lowly in the face of his prey trying to drag himself away. 

          "Pa!" John howls. 

          "Your Pa ain't gonna be able to save you, cowpoke," the man jeers, a laugh in his voice. "Thought you was gonna get brave on me, didn't you? I admit, you're quick, but I'm quicker." 

          Aiming without a second thought, Arthur drops him with one shot to the back of the head. He hustles to John's side. 

          "Micah!" 

          A shot clips Arthur's arm, hurried and messy, and he whirls, gun up. John calls to him, but Arthur stays put. He has to. Hosea was right, his mind supplies almost hysterically as he comes face to face with Dutch van der Linde. "Stay back," he hisses. 

          "Well, I'll be damned," Dutch croons darkly, and Arthur senses the moment John realizes who found them. "Look who we have here. My son and his bastard." 

          John shifts toward his gun. 

          "No, no." Dutch trains one of his Schofields on John. "Not a move, either of you, or the boy gets a bullet." Something wicked and amused glimmers in the older man's eyes, sadistic in a way Arthur can't remember him being. What the hell happened to you? "Another one, that is." 

          "Fuck you," John spits. 

          "Pleasant as ever, John, but I unfortunately have a more pressing engagement." He hefts a leather sack a little higher on his shoulder—the take, if Arthur had to guess. Or part of it, at least. He steps closer. "What do you think, Arthur? You want to shoot me? Risk me pulling the trigger when I fall? Or are you gonna let me go?" 

          John stifles a whine and rasps out, "Just— ah! —shoot him, Pa!" 

          "Think, son," Dutch cajoles. He glances over his shoulder at the sounds of the law getting close, but his aim stays pinned to John's chest. "Waste much more time on me and your boy's gonna bleed out." 

          "Go," Arthur growls. 

          "What was that, now?" 

          Of course, he'd make me admit I can't shoot him. "Just this once, Dutch. You saved me, years ago, so consider my debt repaid. Go." As Dutch starts side-stepping to go around them to get to the leather sack on the corpse and slink to the ladder at the end of the alley, Arthur keeps a bead on him. "Go on! Git!" 

          A few moments later, Dutch is gone. Arthur goes to his knees beside John, moving his hands further up his thigh and asking him to put pressure on it. "Hold still." 

          "Pa-" 

          "Hush, now. You're gonna be all right." He digs in his satchel for a roll of bandages. The clean fabric soaks through in a minute, and Arthur hurriedly undoes John's belt to use to stem the blood flow to the wound. 

          The law finds them soon enough. "Which way did they go?!" 

          Knowing the lawmen don't care one lick about John, Arthur sends them the wrong direction. Once they've gone, he hefts John over his shoulder and carries him back into the town's center. John doesn't complain, panting and sweating while clenching his teeth against the agony flaring in his leg with every step Arthur takes. The town's doctor nearly refuses to come out into his operating room, but when Arthur assures him he'll keep guard, he takes John into his care. At the sound of more gunshots, Arthur sidles up beside the door. 

          "Did you see Javier, Johnny? Was he okay?" 

          "N-No. I don't know," John croaks. He yelps as the doctor inspects his wound. "We got separated." 

          "Shit." 

          The doctor gives them a moment to breathe before saying, "Your son is very lucky, sir. The bullet didn't hit anything vital. It won't be but a few minutes while I remove it, and then I can stitch him up." He moves to grab supplies, clattering audibly and shakily glancing toward his broken windows every few seconds. Gunfire, farther away, fills the air again, prolonged and interspersed with suffering yowls. "Sir?" 

          Arthur looks the doctor's way. "What?" 

          "It will be safer and easier for him if I give him a little morphine. Is that all right?" 

          "Yes, that's fine," Arthur replies, swallowing hard to battle back the urgency in his tone. "Just get the bullet out of him already. I need to look for my other boy." 

          John starts sitting up on the table, straining. "Go, Pa. Give me your off-hand. I'll guard the place." 

          "You need to lay down, sir-" 

          "What I need is to know Javier's okay. Pa, your off-hand," John demands. Though pale and sweaty, the resolve in John is clear for all to see. He makes a reeling motion with his hand. "Give it to me. Go find Javier. If it was the other way around, he'd look for me." 

          Arthur draws his second gun, handing it over by the barrel. For a long beat, he doesn't let go. I don't want to leave you. He tries to memorize John's face, his scruffy, age-hardened jaw, his stormy blue eyes, and his spirit. "Boy...." 

          "I know, Pa." 

          Nodding once and forcing down all the worries and protests in his throat, Arthur goes, holstering his main gun so the law won't shoot him on principle. "Javier!"  

          Blood and bodies litter the ground, sprawled everywhere without discrimination of civilian or lawman. His feet take him toward the alleys once more and he calls again. Curled on himself on the sidewalk on the other side is Mac Callander, riddled with holes. There's a tear in his windpipe, likely what finally done him in. Pushing aside a pang for a man he once knew, Arthur continues. Halfway down that same block, among a pile of dead lawmen, lies Davey. 

          How many other people were in Dutch's gang? How many survived? Surveying the street only increases his worry. People are starting to creep outside now, doing the same as he is as they look for their loved ones. Already, the wailing has begun. It was a massacre. How many dead?

          "Javier!" Arthur calls. "Javier, say somethin'!" 

          "Arthur! Mi viejo! Over here!" 

          Arthur picks up the pace, rounding the corner of the street and finding Javier peeking out of a dark alley. "Come 'ere, boy," he breathes. 

          Javier steps into the embrace, glancing around when he pulls back. "John?" 

          "Shot." 

          "What? Where is he? Is he okay?" 

          Walking back the way he came, Arthur leads him the proper direction. "Doctor's office. He'll be all right. Practically had to bribe the doc to work on 'im with everything goin' on, but he'll be all right. Come on. I'll take you." 

          "Espara! One second, wait! These people, they.... They need help." 

          Arthur turns. Javier doesn't say anything else, instead motioning for Arthur to follow him. Curious, Arthur goes, and what he finds in the dark little alcove surprises him so much, he's speechless. Two people sit, tucked against one wall, one older and cradling his hand and the other very young, peering out at him with caution. They both look exhausted, coming down from the panic of the ferry robbery. Behind the panic lies guilt. 

          "Who're your new friends, Javier?" Arthur asks; although, an inkling already lurks in the confines of his mind. 

          "Charles Smith," the older one answers, his voice soft and low without being meek. "My friend's name is Lenny Summers." He hesitates a moment, then says, "We're...." 

          "Van der Lindes, I figure. Dutch's brood," Arthur finishes, crouching down and putting out a hand to examine Charles's. When the man offers it to him, Arthur notes the nasty burn, flips open his satchel, and pulls out a salve comprised of ginseng, yarrow, and burdock root. "Hold still." 

          "Listen-" 

          Arthur cuts Lenny off with a glower. "No, you listen. I ran with Dutch for near thirty years, and today, one of your boys shot my son. You're lucky I'm even entertaining this. It's only for Javier's sake that I do." 

          Charles nods. "I understand. You should know, we didn't have anything to do with the robbery today. Lenny and I, we tried to stop them. Tried to tell Dutch not to go through with it. He.... He saved my life awhile back, so I thought maybe he'd reconsider." 

          "Didn't really save mine, but he took me in," Lenny agrees. "We had nowhere else to go." 

          Scrubbing his brow and turning Charles's hand over to treat and dress the blistered skin of his palm, Arthur sighs, "Yeah, Dutch is real good at that. Takin' folk in, makin' 'em loyal. He'll lead you places, for sure, but whether or not them places are pleasant is a different story." 

          "I've only been with them for six months." 

          "Four for me. Dutch seems smart enough, but the two jobs we've been on with him, people ended up dead. He's insane," Lenny whispers, as though afraid Dutch himself might hear. "He and Micah been obsessing over this job for weeks, cased out every shopfront and timed every patrol. Whole time, they just looked hungry, like some kinda animals." 

          Arthur hums. "Well, Micah's dead. He's the one who shot my boy." 

          "Small favors. He was one twisted bastard," Lenny replies, not seeming heartbroken in the slightest. He pauses. "Dutch...?" 

          "I let him go. He's got the take, or most of it, I'd suppose." 

          After sharing a look between themselves, Charles draws in a deep breath. "The rest is here. Lenny snagged the third bag off the ground. Before that, we were busy trying to help people out of the ferry. That's how I burned my hand. I didn't sign up to thoughtlessly take lives." Wincing slightly as Arthur ties off the bandage, he bargains, "If you'll get us out of here, you can have the take." 

          Considering the offer, Arthur takes a long look at the two. He motions to the younger of them. "How old are you, kid?" 

          "Nineteen." 

          "Shit," Arthur sighs. Barely a man. "And you ain't hurt?" 

          Lenny shakes his head. "No burns for me." 

          "All right," Arthur mutters. "All right. We'll get you out. Either of you got somewhere you can disappear? A job to go back to?" When he gets a pair of headshakes in return, Arthur curses his soft fucking heart for the millionth time before muttering, "Guess you're with me, then. We can always use the help." 

          "We don't mean to impose-" 

          "You're bleeding, Arthur!" Javier bursts in suddenly, crouching beside him and grabbing the sleeve of his jacket. "Are you shot?!" 

          Arthur glances down at his right arm as Javier tugs his coat down. He'd forgotten in all the commotion that Dutch shot him, too. Now that he's looking at it, it kinda burns. "Certainly looks that way." 

          "Let's get you back to the doctor, compadre." 

          "Ain't no thing, but we should get a move on before John starts worryin'." Arthur casts a weary look toward the street. What a mess. "I should warn you, it's a bloodbath out there. What the gang did ain't pretty." 

          Charles climbs to his feet, helping Lenny up with his good hand. "I wish I expected differently." 

          As a group, the four of them pick their way through the blood-drenched streets, the take hidden under Charles's heavy coat. They were seen helping folk, and they didn't flee the scene. That should be enough to keep the law off their backs for the time being. Lawmen mill about at the docks as they emerge onto the main drag, picking through the bodies. Arthur waves a hand through the clearing smoke. Looks like the fire they were yelling about earlier was safely contained.

          Leading the group into the doctor's office, Arthur calls lowly, "John?" 

          "Here, Pa," John answers, his voice faint. 

          Arthur steps into the operating space and finds the doctor washing his hands while John leans tiredly against the now-angled head of the table. His gun rests over John's stomach, relaxed but ready for action. "Hey, boy. You still with us?" 

          John smiles weakly, pale-faced but alive. "Doc says I'll live. Says I can't ride a horse on my own, though. Mind if I hitch a ride?" 

          "Course not, Johnny boy," Arthur assures him. 

          "Good." John takes a slow breath, head lolling a bit. He's clearly on the good stuff. "You find Javier?" 

          Rather than letting Arthur answer for him, Javier steps forward and grips John's wrist. "Alive and well, my brother," he promises. "Though, you look like you've seen better days. A little uglier than usual. What's up with that?" 

          John laughs. "I'm just... peachy keen, Javier." 

          "Yeah, you sound it. What's Abigail going to say?" 

          "Oh, she's gonna kill me," John says cheerily. "I'd let her, though. You know? She's like... real pretty." 

          Javier snickers. "Can't say that I do." 

          "Well, doc, if you're done with him, we'll pay you and be on our way," Arthur ventures. "What do we owe you?" 

          "No, no, wait," Javier interrupts. "Let him stitch your arm." 

          Knowing Javier will only worry if he doesn't, Arthur relents with nary a complaint, answering John's anxious questions in a patient tone. So loopy is John that it takes him until after the stitching is already over to notice Lenny and Charles. 

          As Arthur's paying the doctor and accepting medicine for him, John drawls, "Who's that?" 

          "Charles." Arthur motions to Charles. "And Lenny. They'll be our new hands on the place. You can meet 'em formally when you ain't doped up." 

          "Oh." John blinks groggily, sniffing. "Okay." 

          "Come on, brother," Javier chirps. "Let's get you up. Let your Pa take your bad side." 

          As they halfway drag John down the street, Arthur asks. "You fellers got horses, or are we gonna need you to double up on John's? Mine's bigger, but she don't know you. Bo's mean to most, strangers especially. She'd be likin' to kick you as soon as let you ride." 

          Charles nods. "They're on the west side of town. Or they should be." 

          "Ours, too." 

          Taima and Maggie are lovely horses. Bo' snuffles John with concern when they approach, letting out a low wicker and blowing a breath in his face. John giggles like a child. 

          "All right, boy. Up you go," Arthur says, ignoring the pain in his shot arm to lift John up onto Boadicea's tall back. He climbs up behind him and holds onto his boy while he recovers from the jostling. "Breathe. I know you're hurtin', even with the morphine. Just breathe." 

          "I'm all right, Pa," John croaks. 

          Patting his shoulder, Arthur wheels Bo around and wraps Bug's reins around his saddle horn. "You ready, Javier?" 

          "More than." 

          The five of them head west, then north, spending several days on each leg of their journey to keep the pace easy for John. Whereas the first trip only took two weeks even while managing and protecting twelve other horses, it takes them three to return home due to a few nights in the beginning where they have to stop entirely because John develops a fever. One especially bad bout binds him in fever dreams, and he spends most of it curled against Arthur's chest, sweating profusely and murmuring panicked nonsensical ramblings. 

          John's not healed when they approach the long-awaited fence line of their land in the dim light of late evening, but he's better, a little stronger. He walks with a heavy limp. Bug has taken to nudging him, begging for his attention while they ride because John hasn't ridden her in so long. Javier trots quietly alongside them, content to remain so after the long trip. 

          "Who goes there?!" Sean's pipes up. 

          Unable to help his pleasure at finally being home, Arthur fires back, "Arthur, you dumbass!" 

          "Well, it certainly took ya' long enough, ol' man! Hosea's nearly climbin' the walls, an' I ain't 'eard a kind word from Abigail in weeks!" Sean strolls along to meet them at the gate, the encircled and overlapped triple-M of their family brand hanging overhead. "An' who's this ya' brought, eh?" 

          "New hands to make up for all the sleepin' on the job you do, Mr. MacGuire," Arthur teases, leaning down as they pass the gate to rap his knuckles on top of the kid's hat. 

          Sean scowls. "Oh, yer a real funny fuckin' shit, Arthur Morgan! Piss off!" Despite his apparent ire, Sean walks beside them, slingin' his repeater over his shoulder. "An' the hell's the matter with ya', Marston? Did yer Da take yer privilige t' ride by yer lonesome?" 

          "I got shot." 

          "Sellin' horses?" 

          John rolls his eyes. "Yes, Sean. I got shot sellin' horses, and next time I'll get my scars from fallin' over in church like every other poor bastard." 

          "Fine, then. Ya' want t' be a cheeky bastard like yer Da, we'll see how quick I come askin' after yer well-bein' the next time ya' get yer arse shot." 

          "Just be quiet, both of you," Arthur rumbles. He motions to their two newcomers over his shoulder, knowin' they ain't likely to speak up on their own in the new atmosphere. "Sean, meet Charles and Lenny. Charles, Lenny, this is Sean. Don't take him too seriously. Got guts, but most of 'em are kept on his tongue." 

          "Fuck off!" 

          Lenny, the more sociable of the two Arthur has learned, rides up to shake Sean's hand with a big smile. "Lenny Summers. It's good to meet you." 

          "Well, 'ey there, Lenny Summers!" Sean chirps. "Good t' see at least one of ya' has manners. Ya' know, me Da always used t' say manners would get ya' farther in life than bein' all piss 'n vinegar. Lookin' yer way, Marston."

          John scoffs. "Then, why ain't you got any?" 

          "Oh, I got manners a'plenty as for folks who deserve 'em." 

          "Does he always talk this much?" 

          Arthur barks a laugh at Charles's soft question from his other side. "When he's awake." 

          "It's incessant." 

          "I agree." Arthur shakes his head with more fondness than he'd ever admit to and Sean and John throw verbal jabs back and forth. "Give the kid a chance. You get used to him. Eventually." 

          Charles doesn't look entirely convinced. 

          As they approach the house, Arthur hollers, "Escuella, Marston, and Morgan on the home front!" 

          It doesn't come as a surprise to Arthur that Abigail is the first one out the door, Jack at her hip. "You're alive! What the hell took you so long?! Why're you ridin' with Arthur? Are you all right? Is Bug?" 

          As Abigail asks a questions at a mile a minute, John glances over his shoulder and rasps, "Help me down?" 

          The ex-gang members slowly trickle out of the house to welcome them home, and Lenny looks surprised to see so many people but happy. Arthur hops down, helping John off Bo's back and letting him limp to Abigail and Jack. 

          "Pa!" Jack cheers, giggling when John scoops him up with a strained groan. 

          "Hey, son," John chuckles, addressing the eagle-eyed look Abigail shoots his leg with a brief shake of his head. "Did you miss me?" 

          Jack nods eagerly. John's lips tip up affectionately and he and Abigail chat softly about the trip. 

          "For now, you can hitch your horses out front of the house," Arthur says, patting Charles's shoulder. "We've got plenty of stalls in the barn for you to choose from. I can show you later. For now, we'll be busy settin' up a campfire. We usually have one after folk get back from a long journey." 

          "What for?" 

          Before Arthur can explain, Hosea's relieved voice interrupts them. "To tell stories, of course. To cherish our days and strengthen our bonds." He draws Arthur into a hug. "It's good to see you home, my boy. And with new friends." 

          Arthur winces. "About that. We need to talk, 'sea." 

          Something knowing flickers in Hosea's expression. He lowers his voice and murmurs, "Later." He glances at Charles and Lenny. "So, Arthur. Introduce me to these two fine young men." 

          "This is Charles. Charles, this is my Pa, Hosea Matthews." 

          "I've heard good things," Charles greets, shaking his hand. "It's a pleasure." 

          "And Lenny-" Arthur turns, finding Lenny already making fast friends with the women. "Lenny! Hey. Come 'ere, kid. This is Hosea." 

          Lenny grins. "I know all about you, sir." 

          Unsurprisingly, the two bond over their shared love of books. How they got on the subject so fast, Arthur doesn't know. What he does know is that Lenny's an educated man, so he and Hosea should get along a treat.  

          As expected, the celebration of their safe and mostly healthy return takes place as soon as possible. Javier practically skips into the house, eager to get his hands on his guitar after so long away. Everyone else scatters to gather various camp supplies, heirlooms of a time most of them will never forget. 

          "I'm not much for celebrations," Charles says later, sitting a short distance away from the proceedings with his arms wrapped around his knees. It makes the large man look startlingly small. "I hope it's not offensive if I don't partake all that much." 

          "No offense taken," Arthur promises. "It's not always my scene, either, but it makes the kids happy, and it makes Hosea and Miss Grimshaw happy. That's enough for me." 

          Charles warms a little at that. He's a quiet man, but thoughtful. 

          "Arthur. A word, son?" 

          "If you need quiet, the house is open to you," Arthur says to Charles, just as an offer. "Guest bedroom's in the addition on the west side." He turns toward Hosea's voice. "Coming." 

          Away from the campfire, tucked in the shadow of their barn, Arthur tells Hosea the truth—that he'd been right to worry. He tells him how John was shot during a ferry robbery by the Van der Lindes and barely escaped with his life. He tells him how he let Dutch go, and he tells him how Dutch left behind two of his own men right there in Blackwater with hardly a second thought. 

          "Lenny's wanted out there in the Grizzlies and below. He ain't got nowhere to go," Arthur murmurs, his eyes flicking to the kid now making merry at the fire. "Charles ain't shared much, but wherever he came from, I get the impression he ain't lookin' to go back." 

          "Don't worry, my boy. I'm long since used to you bringing home strays." 

          Arthur wishes he felt like smiling at that, but he still has yet to deliver his more grim news. "Davey and Mac are dead. And some poor girl named Jenny, Lenny says." 

          Hosea sighs, his eyes closing as his face pinches with what looks like guilt. "Those two.... They were dangerous, sure, but it's sad they went out like that. They deserved better. I'd wished they had come with us, years ago, but a part of me thinks they'd never have adapted to this way of life." 

          "I doubt it, but... I still miss 'em." 

          "Me, too. We'll keep an eye on the papers, see how things turn out for those who remain. I don't suppose you know if Bill was there, do you?" 

          Arthur shakes his head. "Never saw him. Just shot the feller who shot John. Micah, Dutch called him." 

          "With luck, Dutch'll wizen up and disappear." 

          He won't. 

          They both know it. 

          Rather than dwelling on it, the two of them join the festivities. They focus in the following days on settling in their new residents, making them comfortable and ensuring they have all they need. Neither of them are hard to keep after, something Miss Grimshaw appreciates. It's enough that she yells at Sean at least once a day for leaving socks lying around. 

          Life moves on, and one day, cloudy but bright in June of 1899, the newspaper reads: DUTCH AND HIS VAN DER LINDES, CAPTURED BOARDING FREIGHTER TO TAHITI!

          Arthur tosses it in the fire with a snort. 

          Once upon a time, he might've chased Dutch, shot him down from the noose in dramatic fashion and run with him until the end, but he has no need for that anymore. Dutch didn't earn that loyalty. He shattered it like a stormy sea would shatter a boat upon the rocks. 

          In this place, surrounded by family with the boy he raised whole and strong once more, Arthur has found something worth fighting for until his dying breath. 

          This is what he's loyal to.