Chapter Text
"'Cause I can make you every inch a king
Before I do it, tell me, tell me what's in it for me?
I need someone young, willing, and able
You need someone old enough to know better”
-”Dirty Work”, Halestorm
Arthur crouched down at the edge of the cliff, its rocky surface overhanging the valley below. Pebbles dug into his knees and embedded against him, but he paid it no mind, his focus unwavering from where he peered through the scope of his rifle.
Through it, he could see Dutch and Hosea, off the road that wound through the valley, hidden by a hill that ruptured through the sandy plane. It was striated, shale marking the earth in different tones of red and orange and white. Stories embedded in the earth itself from across centuries. Dry shrubbery was gathered at the top of the hill and snagged around the horses hooves as the steeds waited patiently for a command.
Gliding his rifle further down the road, taking care to keep his aim steady, he watched the stagecoach move forward, unaware of the ambush that lay ahead.
It was some wealthy family moving westward, looking to set up another factory or other after the success of the first factory they established in Philadelphia. Dutch had called them parasites, exploiting immigrants and the poor while their fortune grew, and it was only their right to steal what they could from the traveling coach.
And then he asked Arthur to take position on the cliff, discreetly and expertly shooting the private guards that escorted the family and their valuables. It was an important post, perhaps the most important post, and Arthur had to stop himself from turning to the man with wide-eyed wonder to ask “you want me to do it?”
He was pleased to bite back on the childish question, asking instead in a voice that he hoped didn't seem too desperate, “you sure?”
And Dutch had grinned, praising Arthur in the way that made something flutter in his chest. Of course, son. I think you may even have the cleanest shot of us all.
Maybe it was a lie to bolster the boy, make him feel confident enough for the task at hand. It didn't particularly matter, because it was still an important position, and Arthur was determined to do it right.
He didn't tremble or move his arm carelessly, forcing himself to remain still, his aim precise. He held his breath in his lungs, as though even the simple act of breathing might throw him, and he recited the plan over and over in his head.
He would do it right.
He would do it perfect.
He didn't want to let Dutch down or for the man to reconsider the sort of tasks he gave to him. Or worse still, for Arthur to be a liability, someone so poor at their job that they made everything worse.
He thought once more of the word parasite and swallowed his doubt back down.
He wasn't a liability.
He wasn't useless.
The stagecoach approached the hill, and Arthur exhaled, slow and steady. Pushing out all of his thoughts and every unkind thing he might think of himself. For the moment, he wouldn't think at all.
All that existed was the scene stretched before him, through the lens of his scope, and the plan that Dutch had forged.
Stop the carriage.
Kill the guards.
Tie up the family.
Steal everything they could carry.
It played on loop in his head, a mantra, and his finger sat on the trigger of his gun in anticipation as the carriage moved past the hill and Hosea and Dutch jumped forward.
The horses of the guards came to an abrupt stop, whinnying at the two men and rearing back while their riders reached for their guns. But Dutch had raised his hands in surrender, his palms held flat and outward as he began to speak. Words Arthur couldn't hear, but he could imagine what they were. Effortless, charming lies that would lower their guard just enough, guns slowly falling nearer and nearer to their laps.
All that was left was to wait for Dutch’s signal, the cue for all hell to break loose.
It came not a moment later, the man reaching for his hat to hold it against his breast.
Arthur shot the driver of the carriage first, ensuring they wouldn’t run off in the ensuing fight.
It was a clean shot- perfect, even. Blood erupted in a spray as the bullet entered the driver's skull and he slumped over, dead.
Before the guards could react, or even process what had happened, Arthur shot the one nearest to Dutch, knocking the hat from his head. Another clean, perfect shot, and the horse startled, running off before its rider had dropped to the ground.
Dutch reached for his own gun now, his draw quick as he aimed and fired at the remaining guards, the scent of gunsmoke hot and bitter in the air. Three more shots between them was all it took to pick off the guards, their limp bodies dropping heavy and silent to the ground.
Hosea reached for his bandana, covering his face as he leapt from his horse and made his way to the carriage.
Tie up the family, Arthur recited to himself, and he pushed up from the ground, his body aching. He'd held the position for too long and his back protested when he straightened his spine, his knees numb. He ignored it, returning his rifle to the saddlebag where it belonged as he jumped onto his horse, patting his blond neck.
“Let's go, boy,” he commanded, snapping the reins.
Raising his own bandana to cover his face, they rode down the slope of the cliff, dust kicking up in his path as they approached the carriage. Blood, bright red, bloomed out around the dead guards who had dropped to the ground, staining the dirt and saturating the earth. Arthur stared at it for only a moment, blinking twice before he returned his focus to his companions and steered Biscuit to a stop. He slid from the back of the horse, a hand resting on the handle of his revolver.
“Now, now, everything will be alright,” Hosea assured the crying woman pressed into the corner of the carriage, her arm slung around another woman- younger than her, their pale green eyes and fine blonde curls the same. Her daughter, Arthur surmised. Hosea had them held at gunpoint while Dutch pulled a man- the family’s patriarch- out from the carriage, tossing him effortlessly to the ground with a grunt. His own gun was trained on the man’s back, a silent threat to accompany his directions.
“Get up and sit on the side of the road,” Dutch said, his tone calm despite the brutality of the moment. Despite the acrid scent of gunsmoke and blood pooled on the ground. Arthur found himself in awe of the older man’s command, the authoritative arch to his words that demanded the world’s attention without once needing to raise his voice.
It was a dangerous skill, one that had left more than a few men dead, and Arthur could appreciate it; the way he killed without even needing a weapon in hand.
The father did as he was told, his voice wavering in fear as he twisted to look over his shoulder to his wife and daughter. “P-please, my family. Don’t hurt my family!” he begged, the sentence punctuated by a sharp puff of air as Dutch kicked him in the gut. He fell to his bottom with a wince, hands flailing out behind him to brace his fall.
“No one will be getting hurt,” Hosea began, guiding the daughter out from the carriage now, the muzzle of his gun in her side. “So long as you do as you’re told.”
“Arthur,” Dutch called, snapping the boy’s attention to him. “Tie ‘em up.” He tossed a bundle of rope across the distance between them, which Arthur readily caught, and began to unwind as he approached the father.
“Come here,” he ordered, wrenching the man’s hands to twist them behind his back, hoping his voice didn’t sound too high-pitched, too child-like. He would never command a room like Dutch, but he’d at least like to not be laughed out of it.
The man bowed forward, spitting out pleas that went ignored as Arthur began to roughly tie his wrists together. The rope prickled beneath his hands, fibers digging painfully into the flesh of his palms as Arthur pulled it tighter, looping it around his wrists.
But the man, who had trembled with fear and crumpled beneath Arthur’s hands, lips slick with spit and prayers for mercy, suddenly lurched back, swinging himself up and over until the crown of his head smacked against Arthur’s face.
Arthur grunted with the collision, his vision turning black as stars burst across it. He stumbled backwards, losing his footing, and fell on his back with a grunt of pain. He felt something pull at his belt, and when his vision cleared, the world shifting back into place, he was staring at the barrel of a gun.
His gun, he realized, eyes widening at the man that held it. It quivered in his terrified grasp, but he clocked the hammer all the same, and set his finger on the trigger.
A gunshot boomed, and Arthur squeezed his eyes, not wanting to see the bullet that would kill him. Maybe it was cowardly, but it was all he could think to do, pinned beneath the smoking muzzle of a gun.
His ears rang with an echoing cry and the world muffled, a dull and undulating hum enveloping him. His heart beat a staccato in his chest, rabbiting against his ribs with the utter fear he felt in that moment.
The realization that he was as good as dead.
But the sound returned in slow increments; the ringing in his ears became less fierce, less demanding, and he could make out the shrill sobs of another. A woman, crying out garbled sounds that he soon realized were words.
“NO! Frank! Frank, please!”
He opened his eyes, blinking at the clear blue sky.
He was alive.
“You killed him! You said you wouldn’t hurt us and you killed him!”
Slowly, Arthur pulled himself up, blinking at the scene before him. The man- Frank- was slumped on the ground beside him, his eyes still wide but unseeing, glassy with death. Blood seeped from the bullet wound lodged in his forehead, spilling across the ground and staining Arthur’s jeans.
Someone reached for him, tugging at his shoulder. “You’re alright, son.” It was Dutch, his voice a familiar and stabilizing comfort that he could clutch onto, even as the woman continued to wail. “Get up, get your gun.”
He did as he was told, the world still out of focus, like his head was swathed in cotton. He gritted his teeth through the pain and the discomfort, reminding himself not to be a liability.
Not to be useless.
He found his gun and pulled it from Frank’s limp fingers, swiveling back around to face the carriage. Hosea had pressed himself against the entrance to the carriage now, his arms stretched wide on either side to hold back the two frantic women, their faces wet and ruddy with tears. Dutch stood beside Arthur, his gun still smoking and focused on the carriage.
“Ladies, please, no one else needs to get hurt!” he said, his voice raising now, spiking upward in a threat.
They didn’t listen, and the young girl pressed against Hosea reeled her boot back only to strike him in the groin, her underskirt fluttering with the kick. Hosea buckled, pulling away just enough for her to slip through.
She ran, hoisting herself up on an abandoned horse, its rider dead on the ground beside it.
“Son of a- Arthur, get her before she makes it to town!” Dutch ordered, retraining his gun on the woman who remained in the carriage, crying out a different name now.
Charlotte.
His ears still ringing, Arthur did as he was told, pulling up onto his own horse to give chase.
“Don’t shoot her!” he heard Hosea shout, but the demand was interrupted, cut short by Dutch’s booming voice.
“DON’T LET HER GET AWAY!”
Arthur chased Charlotte, pushing his horse to move faster and faster, squinting his eyes against the plume of dust and debris that was kicked up by the horse in front of him. His heart thudded in tandem with his horse’s thumping hooves, the world still distorted and fractured as he tried desperately to regain control of his senses. Something tugged in his gut, the panic that he was failing, that he’d messed the whole thing up by letting that man knock him backwards, his head still aching from where he’d been thwacked.
He leaned forward, one hand fisting the reins while the other raised his gun, the silver body glinting beneath the afternoon sun. He could see the town, not too far off now. The church steeple rose high, piercing the sky and casting long shadows over the buildings. Houses and businesses- a sheriff’s station too, he was sure, and Dutch’s words reverberated in his head.
Don’t let her get away.
He pulled the hammer back and shot, jerking back with the ricochet of the weapon.
The horse in front of him whinnied and stamped, kicking back on its rear legs.
A body slipped from the saddle, dark red saturating blonde hair. The horse, free of its temporary rider, ran, striding across the valley and away from the town.
Arthur tugged on his reins, pulling Biscuit into a stop, and stared at the girl splayed before him.
Green eyes, the same as her mother, were open, staring up with an unseeing gaze.
He didn’t know how long he stayed there, staring down at her while his heartbeat thrummed in his head and the world trembled into focus. But he was snapped back into focus by the sound of a gunshot, twisting his head back around to the carriage.
“Let’s go, boy,” he said, turning his horse to retrace their steps.
When he returned to Dutch and Hosea, the two men were arguing as they rifled through the carriage, working quickly to abscond with everything they could. Another body- more blonde hair and green, unseeing eyes- was sprawled on the ground, tossed across her husband’s corpse as if in a perverse tableaux.
Arthur stared at it.
“What, we was just supposed to let him kill Arthur?” Dutch growled, working a lockpick into a metal tin. It popped open with ease, jewelry and gemstones shining brilliantly within the case.
“We didn’t have to shoot them!” Hosea countered, a tremor in his voice.
Dutch lifted his head to respond but fell quiet when he caught sight of Arthur, still astride his horse. He offered the boy a nod. “You did well, son. Now get down here and help so we can be off before lawmen start poking around.”
And, like always, Arthur did as he was told, glancing only once at the distraught expression that wrinkled Hosea’s brow as he repeated the words in his head: You did well, son.
~X~
The drawer slid open with a croak, Hosea prying it loose when it jammed on the track. He grabbed the clothes that were folded inside, unconcerned for their contents or what they even were, and dropped them into the trunk on the floor, its lid tossed back. His room in the cabin they’d been staying at, the former occupant a hunter who’d been mangled in the backyard by wolves, was small, and he made quick work of his luggage.
Shouts rose from the lower level of the home, Susan arguing with Dutch for the mess they’d made of the stagecoach robbery, her yells punctuated by the clatter of dishes. Though she’d only been traveling with the group for a few months, her relationship with Dutch had proved to be less stable than Hosea might have liked. When they were sweet on each other it was all well and good, and she added a presence that was much needed- a stern figure to keep their camps in order and maintain the daily tasks that quickly became too much for the three men. But they clashed often, and though Hosea suspected there was genuine fondness and even love between the two, he knew in time the relationship would run its course, and he could only hope that Susan Grimshaw wouldn’t toss them all away from the lover’s quarrel.
She really did have a much better handle on things than any of them could manage, and it would be a shame to lose her.
Besides, it was good to have a woman around for Arthur. He was too young to recall much of his mother before she died, and the absence of a nurturing figure had been all too noticeable in the boy. Especially for one so sensitive, Hosea thought.
But he was beginning to doubt that Susan would stay around for much longer, frowning at the sound of a sharp and barking laugh from Dutch.
Well, that certainly wouldn’t make things better.
As if on cue, the laugh came to an abrupt halt when Susan cussed loudly, preceded by the clatter of something large and metallic.
As if pointedly ignoring the arguing couple, Hosea returned to his packing.
He couldn’t blame Susan for her anger- the same rage simmered in his own gut, curling like bile in his throat. The stagecoach was meant to be a simple job with a payout tenfold its effort, only for it to become a brutal massacre. One that didn’t take long for the lawmen to sniff out. There weren’t any witnesses to point them or the bounty hunters in the group’s direction, though- Dutch had made sure of that.
And that was the crux of it all, really. They’d killed before, sure, sometimes even people Hosea wished they hadn’t.
But fuck.
That girl had been barely older than Arthur himself and Dutch hadn’t even flinched to send the boy out to kill her, tasking him to do the dirty work. She might have run off, but she was scared, her father had just been murdered. She didn’t deserve to die. Her parents’ sins weren’t hers, and contrary to what Dutch liked to think, being born into a wealthy home wasn’t a crime.
And to send Arthur after her?
Maybe it was hypocritical, but it didn’t feel right to send a kid out to do something like that.
Hosea suspected that Dutch just liked tossing out orders, knowing they would be followed, like a dog at his heels.
And then Dutch killed the mother, deciding it was easier that way. They’d already made such a mess of things, what was a little more spilt blood on their hands?
Hosea argued with him, only to give up when Arthur returned. He learned long ago there was little sense in arguing with Dutch. The man would do as he pleased and eventually they would make up- some grand gesture or apology offered like an olive branch. It was often just better to put some distance between themselves, returning when their hurt feelings were gone and they could move on.
So, that’s what Hosea was doing, his trunk packed with most of his belongings that had been spread out across the cramped room. He didn’t need to bring so much, but it was often easier in case the gang needed to leave quickly, before Hosea would make his way back. He’d lost more than a few expensive books and garments in the past, and he learned it was just best to always be ready to run.
A knock rapt at the door, drawing his focus from his packing. It swung open, Arthur standing in the frame.
He changed his clothes, the leg of his jeans stained red from the earlier slaughter, and his hair was smoothed, combed back from where his hat mussed it up.
“Hey, son,” Hosea greeted, offering a smile.
“You want to take a trip to town with me?” Arthur asked, stepping into the room and turning his attention to the mirror above the dresser. He frowned, examining his face and rubbing at a spot of dirt smudged across his jaw. “Miss Grimshaw asked for some things for the kitchen, figured we could get a drink. ‘Sides, I think she just wants me out of the place so she can yell at Dutch in peace.”
Hosea laughed. “I think you might be right.”
Arthur turned on his heel, his gaze and smile dropping at the sight of the partially-packed trunk. He blinked, his lips pushed into a strange expression- almost like a pout, Hosea thought amusedly. “You going somewhere?” he asked, glancing back up at the older man.
Something like guilt twisted in his chest, but he wasn’t entirely sure why. Maybe it was because this was the first real conflict the group has had since Arthur came to join them, and he hadn’t thought to tell the boy that he would be off for a few days. Maybe it was because he hadn’t even thought to offer for Arthur to join him, just in case he needed some space of his own.
But if anyone could tolerate Dutch in his worst moods, it was Arthur. Dutch coddled him like a favorite son, plying him with gifts whenever he had the cash to spare and taking him out on hunting trips, praising him all the while for being a natural with a gun. And Arthur adored the attention, even if he ducked his bashful smiles away, hoping no one would see them. He admired Dutch like a child did a long-time hero, and he brought out a better side of Dutch. He made the idealistic man more grounded, forced him to focus more on the present.
Hosea turned away, returning to the task. “Just for a bit,” he said, tossing a belt into the trunk.
“Where you going?” Arthur asked, stepping around Hosea to sit on the narrow bed.
“You remember Bessie?”
Arthur scrunched his face in thought. “That girl who was all over you in Oakwood?”
“Sure,” Hosea said with a chuckle. A generous retelling on Arthur’s part, but he wouldn’t correct him. “I'll be spending some time with her. A sweet girl like that needs a bit of courtship, don't you think?”
Arthur shrugged. “I guess.”
He was still too young to really understand the nuances of romance, Hosea supposed. Fifteen years old and living the life of a vagrant outlaw didn’t leave much time for such idle fancies, but he hoped the boy might eventually find a pretty girl of his own. Someone to soften him up.
Someone other than Dutch that he might devote himself to.
They were silent as Hosea continued to pack, Arthur watching him with a curious expression affixed to his face. There were moments where his mouth parted, hanging open for several seconds before he closed it once more, as if changing his mind about saying something. He didn’t speak until Hosea pushed the lid of his trunk closed, a fine layer of dust erupting with the movement.
“Is it…” Arthur began, his voice unusually soft. A wrinkle was pinched between his brow, and his gaze was fixed to his lap where he fiddled with the fraying hem of his shirt. “Is it ‘cause I killed that lady?”
Hosea didn’t answer immediately, pursing his lips closed against the correction that perched on his tongue. Girl, he thought. Not lady.
But such a correction seemed unnecessary, especially when shame and regret already seemed to creep across the boy’s face, coloring his cheeks and the shell of his ears.
Hosea shook his head. “You were just doing what Dutch told you to, is all.” It was a cowardly response, he knew. It skirted what he really wanted to say, the uncomfortable conversation that sat behind his teeth. That sometimes Dutch was wrong and if Arthur didn’t start thinking for himself, he would be wrong too.
Arthur frowned at the noncommittal answer, shrewd even if he tried his best to play dumb. “You didn't want me to kill her.”
Hosea shrugged. “I like to avoid deaths when it's possible.”
“Was it possible?”
They stared at each other, listening to the chirp of cicadas in the woods just beyond the property and the shouting that still rose from the floor below. He didn’t really want to have this conversation; he just wanted to leave, to give Dutch time to cool off. He would, of course. He always did, when the thrum of adrenaline had left his veins and he could sit with the quiet of his thoughts. Eventually, Dutch would always see reason and they would forgive and forget, as they’d always done.
But for now, telling the boy who adored Dutch like he hung the moon and sun itself that the man wasn’t always right seemed like it would only add fuel to the fire. And the last thing he wanted was for his anger with Dutch to create division between the two.
Conversations like that…they just made things more complicated than they really oughtta be.
“It's getting late,” he said instead, changing the topic none too subtly. He clasped his luggage and hoisted it up before he turned to Arthur once more. “You should run those errands before nightfall. I can ride with you to the train station, how's that sound?”
The younger man smiled, tipping his head once at the compromise, and pushed off from the bed. He took the trunk from Hosea without a word, hoisting it behind him as he began to descend down the stairs and out the cabin. Susan and Dutch were still arguing when they left, their words growing clearer before they could make it out the door.
“-and it isn’t right!”
“Don’t lecture me on right and wrong, woman! I know what I’m doing.”
“Do you?”
Arthur winced, frowning as he looked back over his shoulder at the cabin. “They haven’t fought like this before,” he mumbled, trailing toward the small cart beside the hitched horses. He dropped the luggage inside with a thud, grunting from its weight.
“They’ll be fine, I’m sure,” Hosea lied, another conversation he hoped to avoid. He wondered how much of their shouting Arthur had heard; if he realized how much of it about him. Susan didn’t think it was proper to have a boy running around doing the sort of things Dutch asked him for, and she often tried to convince the man to make Arthur stay behind and help around the camp. Dutch, of course, never listened, and the regular argument seemed to explode with the botched robbery.
But Arthur said nothing else, setting up Biscuit to pull them into town before he and Hosea hopped into the seat at the front of the wagon. “I’ll drive,” Hosea said, brushing the boy aside as he reached for the reins.
They took off, moving through the woods at a meandering pace, the wheels churning noisily across rocks and shale and snapping twigs.
“Promise me you'll take care of Moonshine while I'm gone?” Hosea asked, leaning over to nudge an elbow against Arthur.
“Course,” he agreed with a curt nod. “How long will you be gone for?”
He hummed. "Not too long, I think. A fortnight, maybe?”
“A fortnight?” Arthur repeated, his lips curling around the words.
“Dutch needs time to cool down. And so do I, I think,” Hosea said with a sigh. He lifted one hand and brought it to his brow, rubbing hard against his skin. As though he was trying to wipe away the memories of the family, limp and bloody on the ground. He dropped his hand back into his lap and offered a smile that didn’t feel sincere, even to him. “Take care of him too, alright? Don't let him do anything stupid.”
Arthur only grunted in response, turning away to stare at the road ahead.