Chapter Text
Charles knew what the request was going to be before it was asked.
It had been nearly four weeks since Arthur rode in, over half dead and collapsed off his horse. Charles and John were given the gruesome task of holding him down while Grimshaw and Hosea took a hot knife to that shotgun wound, digging out pellets and debris and sickness. Despite three days of torture Arthur was still strong, fighting them with everything he had, not seeming to understand they weren’t his enemies.
He was delirious, and stayed that way for a week, running a fever that they struggled to keep under control. On one of the few reprieves Hosea took from Arthur’s bedside, Charles was asked to sit with him, to keep watch.
And watch he did. He watched Arthur’s eyes flicker under his eyelids, watched as small grunts and whines and slurred, unintelligible words and names passed his lips. He watched him sweat and shiver and writhe. Charles watched and mentally prepared himself for the very real possibility that he would be burying his friend.
Arthur’s fever would break a day or so later, and Charles felt immense relief at the news. Arthur was weak when he woke, and only stayed conscious for a few minutes before drifting back to sleep. For the next week he woke up in longer increments, but the heavy toll of his wounds and fever left him exhausted and prone to dozing off mid-conversation. For those first few days he was too weak to even sit up on his own, and every little activity left him pale and perspiring. But in true Arthur fashion, he got a little stronger every day.
Charles could tell though, that Arthur’s patience was worn thin by the third week. By the beginning of the fourth his frustration with the whole situation was becoming less subdued.
Three days ago Arthur was finally given the go ahead to start riding again. Three days ago Arthur politely nodded, climbed up on his horse and wordlessly left camp.
“Mr. Smith, would you mind finding Arthur, don’t want him wandering off too far this time.”
As if the last time Arthur was gone he was simply out wandering fields instead of being tortured and left for dead.
“Sure.” Charles answered before heading over to Taima, her ears pricking up as he approached, a low wickering in greeting.
“Hello my girl,” Charles muttered softly, offering her a treat before climbing into the saddle and turning to steer her out of camp.
“Hey Charles, hold up!” The distinctively raspy voice of John Marston rang out behind and Charles paused, twisting around in his saddle to see John jogging up behind him.
“You going to find Arthur?” He asked and Charles nodded.
“Mind if I come with?”
“I should be able to track him fine-”
“Never hurts to have another set of eyes though, right?”
Charles blinked before nodding slowly. “Sure...”
Charles waited, a little perplexed, as John saddled up Old Boy and together they left camp.
∘∘∘∘
They started in St. Denis.
“Arthur don’t like his hair getting that long, I bet the first thing he did was go to a barber.” John reasoned. Which left two options, the one in Valentine, or the one in St. Denis. Valentine was still hot from the bank robbery, which left St. Denis as the only logical option.
They rode quietly, cantering through Lemoyne’s dusty roads, Charles naively hoping that Arthur was just pampering himself in the big city, maybe staying in a nice hotel as a reprieve from camp. But the smarter, more logical part of his mind told him Arthur would almost certainly detest the city, and wouldn’t have hung around any longer than necessary.
They make it to St. Denis by midday, the rancid smell of smoke stacks, swamp and sewage made Charles' nose burn.
“Ain’t no way he’s still here.” John muttered, voicing Charles unspoken thoughts. “This place stinks.”
They trot through the cobblestone streets and after asking for directions, find the barber shop where they confirm that a man fitting Arthur's description had been there three days earlier, had his hair and beard cut.
“Did he say where he was going next?”
The barber itched his chin as he thought.
“Seemed like he needed a bath, maybe he went to the saloon.”
John scowled but the saloon was only around the corner and was easy enough to find.
It was swanky and Charles felt a little vindicated when the bartender said a man who looked like Arthur stayed there two nights ago and paid for a bath.
“He only stayed the one night?” Charles asked.
“Sure, he left pretty early in the morning, ain’t seen him since.”
This left them at a bit of a dead end, but there was one saving grace, Arthur's pride and joy- Sly - a flashy chestnut Missouri Fox Trotter with a broad blaze and four tall white stockings on each foot caught the attention of plenty of riders he passed.
Charles asked one of the farm hands on the outskirts of St. Denis if he saw such a horse recently, and while Charles struck out, John had better luck with a farmer further down the road.
“Hell of a horse, told him so. Looked like they was heading north, towards Van Horn.”
∘∘∘∘
By nightfall they decide to build camp in Roanoke Ridge. The folks of Van Horn were all too drunk to be reliable witnesses, though one man insisted a “Big Ole’ cowboy on a fancy horse” helped him find the train station, though the guy was soaked enough where Charles wouldn’t be surprised if he hallucinated it.
Deciding that they weren’t gonna find Arthur that night, they agreed to make camp. John gathered firewood while Charles caught a rabbit and they ate in somewhat awkward silence.
Finally, Charles cleared his throat.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, I’m happy for your company…but... why’d you choose to come along?” Charles asked. John grew silent, staring into the fire, and Charles worried he offended him. Maybe he should have worded that differently, or maybe he shouldn't have brought it up at all-
“Guilt, I suppose.” John answered eventually. Charles blinked but didn’t say anything, waiting for him to continue.
“Ever since I was a kid, you know, Arthur always shown up when I needed him. Always. Saved me from drowning, from getting beat up, from getting shot or hanged. Up in those mountains, even though he’s still pissed at me, he still found me in the nick of time.”
John fiddled with the fraying sleeve of his coat.
“And the one time he needed us…needed me...I didn’t show up. I didn't even look.”
Charles bowed his head in agreement.
“John, I think- I think a lot of us…feel guilty about it, I do, I know Hosea does, Dutch of course-”
“But none of you are his brother. I shoulda looked." John cut him off sharply. He bowed his head and went back to picking at his frayed sleeve. "I don’t think he’s in danger this time, think he just wanted to wander and clear his head, but…”
“You want to bring him home this time.” Charles finished. John looked up at him, looking mildly surprised.
“That’s exactly right Charles.”