Chapter Text
The sharp crunch of Taima’s hooves, breaking through the frost glazed snow beneath them, acted as Arthur’s only indicator that they were making any progress at all, as he and the mare made their slow trudge back to the caravan. Even though Taima had served him well since their escape from Blackwater, the sight of her charcoal mane, bobbing just at the bottom of his field of view, was a heart-sickening reminder of just how much he’d truly lost in the past couple days. Loss, it seemed, had become an unwelcome bedfellow to the gang as of late. Each of them were now experiencing a grief of their own. For Arthur, his was a complicated mix of several losses all jumbled together, causing his emotions to shift wildly from annoyance over having lost the majority of his worldly possessions, to all consuming guilt over poor Jenny, and then the crushing heartbreak of losing Bo- just as he thought they were both in the clear. We were so damn close, he thought achingly. As the unwanted memory played over in his mind, his thighs temporarily tightened around Taima, the thought of Bo's body going limp beneath him triggering the reflex. Attempting to swallow the lump that seemed to have made a permanent home in his throat, he bent down to lightly pat his borrowed mare in apology when she snorted in discomfort over the pressure.
“ 'm sorry girl, we're nearly there,”, he hummed softly, the faint glow of the caravan’s oil lanterns slowly pierced through the blizzard ahead of them as he did. “You’ll be back with your man soon enough.” His words reminded him he still needed to properly thank Charles for lending him Taima in the first place. In all the rush, and still rattled over the fresh loss of Bo, he was fairly certain all he managed was an appreciative grunt when her reins were handed over to him. He shamefully wasn’t all that well acquainted with Charles, he could probably count on one hand the number of occasions they exchanged more than a few short words in the last six months. Granted, when it came to Charles, that seemed about the level of familiarity he had with anyone- but still…. Arthur could appreciate the amount of trust Charles placed in him, regardless of their few interactions, for him to hand over his well beloved mount without even a second thought. As the caravan ahead of them creeped closer, Arthur drew Taima to a halt, giving her a brief respite. And it was just as the lead wagon came into view, revealing its lone driver, that all other thoughts that’d been swarming in his head, had come to a crashing halt. There was another loss he was intentionally blocking from his mind, and even as he looked at the empty spot next to Hosea, he quickly reminded himself it wasn't a loss. Dutch wasn't dead, he was wounded, they hadn't lost him, he was simply just out of reach.
“Arthur!” Hosea’s voice hoarsely shouted over the howling wind, as he slowed the shires leading the caravan to a stop just as they reached him. “How did you fair, son?” He sounded years older than he normally did, and looked just as worse, as he squinted up to look at Arthur from under the rim of his hat.
“I found a place where we can get some shelter,” Arthur replied. Shelter was probably a generous term for the decrepit, half blown down, mining town he’d discovered during his brief scouting mission, but it was better than continuing any further in the damn blizzard they seemed to have rushed into during their escape. “We can let Dutch get some rest,” he added a beat later. Rest really was all Dutch needed, Arthur thought, before he'd be back at the head of the pack once again, likely laughing at how silly everyone was acting while he was laid up. Hosea’s gaze briefly slipped from Arthur’s at the mention of the other man’s name, his eyes darting back to the interior of the wagon behind him, where the man in question currently laid under a mass of blankets and pelts. Arthur could just see the slow rise and fall of Dutch's chest from where he sat upon Taima, and he held on to that image like a drowning man gasping for oxygen. Dutch dying had never been something he’d considered- strange, he knew, since the man was over twenty years his senior. But Dutch always seemed untouchable. Over the last two decades Arthur had seen him get into many a close call, but all of which Dutch managed to walk-or even strut away from, completely unharmed. It seemed simply unfathomable that this would be the end of the great and infamous Dutch van der Linde, to die bleeding out from a nasty gut wound in the middle of the Grizzlies.
No, he wasn’t going to die. Rest, he just needed to rest.
He shook his head as the very idea dared to cross his mind. This was Dutch, his Dutch- their Dutch. All they needed to do was get somewhere warm, let Swanson and Susan do what they did best, and then move the hell on. To place the thought even further away from him, he turned Taima around, giving her a small kick to urge her back on their previous path.
“It’s an old mining town,” he called behind him, referring to their new home for the moment, “abandoned.... It ain’t far. Come on.”
—--
It was the slow rise and fall of Dutch’s chest that was the focus of Arthur’s attention once again, as he and Bill carried their fallen leader through the doors of one of the few remaining homes in the small village.
“I told Susan to herd everyone else into that old meeting house across the road,” Hosea’s voice cut through the silence, while Arthur and Bill lowered Dutch onto a bed in one of the home’s back bedrooms. Molly hovered behind them, eyes bloodshot but never leaving Dutch, before she quickly took up residency on a small stool next to the bed. All four of them lingered in silence for a moment, seemingly each wrestling with their own thoughts. Dutch looked like a small shell of the larger than life man he was, Arthur thought, as he glanced down at him in the old tattered cot. Most would probably call it stupid that they never had come up with a contingency plan for the possibility of Dutch dying getting injured- but for Arthur, and seemingly everyone else, it never felt like a possibility. Dutch's unwavering confidence in being able to always outrun their pursuers, and his dream of one day finally finding the freedom he'd always preached to them, seemed like the only possible way this all could end. Sure they'd hit hurdles along the way, but those hurdles would only serve to make the end all that more worthwhile. Arthur just had to remind himself this was simply another one of those hurdles, and that keeping faith in Dutch was more important now than ever.
“Bill,” He rasped, breaking the silence that'd fallen over them, his gaze finally tearing away from Dutch to glance up at the man in question. Out of the five of them in that room, Bill was the only one who felt like an intruder, and Arthur would prefer that whatever words he and Hosea shared next, would be long out of the earshot of loud-mouth Bill Williamson. “Go help the others unload the rest of the wagons, I’m sure Miss Grimshaw could use an extra set of hands.”
Bill looked like he wanted to argue with him for the briefest of moments, likely wanting to throw out the question of when did Arthur have the authority to tell him what to do. But for once in his miserable life, Bill Williamson seemed to have a lick of sense, and let his annoyance drop with a few choice words grumbled under his breath before he sulked out of the cabin. He was lucky, Arthur thought grimly, because if Bill had given Arthur a reason to hit him, he wasn't sure he'd be able to stop.
“Has he woke up at all yet?” Arthur asked once Bill was gone, watching Molly as she smoothed back a stray strand of Dutch’s peppered black hair. She looked like she hadn’t had a wink of sleep in days, none of them did, but at least Hosea and Arthur had the benefit of having the gang to look after to help keep their minds busy. Molly, on the other hand, had little else to do but be completely consumed by Dutch's current condition.
“Swanson said he was mumbling earlier, but nothing coherent.” Hosea replied solemnly before adding, “he should be here soon, he was looking through the wagons for any more medical supplies we had left, last I checked.”
“We sure he ain’t shootin’ himself up with what little we have left?” Arthur asked bitterly, and sure he knew it wasn't fair- at least not in that moment. Swanson was a miserable bastard, but Arthur had seen him turn himself around in times like this before, or at least times similar to this. No one in the gang had ever experienced something like Dutch getting mortally badly wounded before, Arthur and Hosea included. Hosea simply shot him a cutting look as a response, one that he usually saved for when Arthur was being particularly exhausting.
“We need supplies,” Hosea said soon afterwards, and Arthur was grateful for the chance to get his mind on something else. He wasn’t as strong as Molly, if he’d been left with nothing else to do but worry about Dutch, he’d already be blacked out drunk or seeking out the drugged out bliss provided by the vile in Swanson's bible.
“Micah and John went out scoutin’ for some,” Arthur replied, choosing this time to keep his bitter thoughts about both men to himself.
“You sent ‘em out in this ?” Hosea’s features began to slip back into a look of disapproval, but Arthur cut him off before he had a chance to scold him.
“No, Micah took that part in his own hands,” he rolled his eyes, because of course Micah fucking did. Dutch was out of commission for more than a couple days and suddenly the jackal thought he could do whatever he wanted. In the grand scheme of things it was probably for the best though. Arthur was pretty certain with how foul his mood was, all it’d take was one wrong look from the slimy bastard and he would be punching his lights out. “John left soon after.” Since running away when shit gets tough is basically second nature to him, he thought harshly, but again made the wise decision to bite his tongue. If only Hosea knew just how much self restraint he was actually showing.
“Once we get settled in we should go after ‘em, the last thing we need is either of ‘em dyin’ of exposure in this storm,” Hosea sighed, going to already move for the door before Arthur stuck his hand out to stop him. He already had one father in his death sick bed, he didn’t need another.
“No, you stay here and get warmed up,” Arthur urged, he’d hogtie the old man if he had to. He wasn’t deaf, he’d heard Hosea's cough was only getting worse in the last few months, and going out in subzero temperatures to go searching for Marston and Micah was the last thing he needed to do. “Just try to keep everyone in as good of spirits as they can be in this fuckin’ mess,” he added, hoping that with a job of his own, the older man would be easier to convince.
“Dutch is the speech giver, not me,” Hosea chuckled weakly, Arthur pretended to not see the small wince the older man gave as his mind wandered back to the man in the bed next to them. “But fine, fine. Just take someone else with you, won’t you?” He patted Arthur’s shoulder in surrender.
The moment Arthur stepped back outside, he immediately moved to the side of the cabin’s exterior walls, collapsing against them with a small thud. He needed… well, he didn’t know what he needed just then, other than for Dutch to live. Everything else just seemed to be background noise until then. For now he’d just have to make due with stealing a moment away for himself, to let out the lung full of air he hadn’t realized he’d been holding in ever since they carried Dutch off the wagon. Everything was going to be okay, it had to. Hosea would hold the fort down, Arthur would go find Micah and Marston, and in a few days time Dutch would be back to his old self. In order for that to happen he just needed to focus on his main goal of keeping everyone safe until Dutch was back up on his feet.
“Arthur?” Arthur’s back stiffened the moment the familiar voice called out to him. Clearly he wasn’t as out of sight as he’d thought, he cursed himself.
“Charles,” He greeted in response, just barely making out the other man’s broad shouldered form as he trudged down the road ahead of him, appearing to be leading Taima and Silver Dollar to the barn down the road. Charles looked at him questioningly for a moment, before glancing at the closed door of Dutch’s cabin. Arthur held his breath as he waited for him to speak, hoping he wouldn’t ask him how the older man was doing. He didn’t have it in him to lie just then.
“You need to borrow Taima again?” Charles asked instead.
“Um... yeah.... If that's okay with you. I gotta go track down Micah and Marston. They went scoutin’ for supplies. I doubt they had much luck in all of this though”, Arthur paused for a second to look between the man and the two mounts on either side of him. Hosea had asked him to bring someone else along with him, and frankly Charles seemed to be the perfect companion for such a task. Out of all the others he'd be the least likely to ask Arthur questions he wasn't ready to answer yet. Looking down to the other man's bandaged hand, he chewed his lip in indecision. He still wasn’t sure how the burn happened, in all the chaos of their escape he’d never thought to ask. But now didn’t exactly seem the right time either. “Hosea asked me to bring someone along, you think you’d be up for it?” He nodded his head towards Charles's injured hand in question.
“ 'Course,” Charles replied quickly, before looking between the two mounts he was guiding in hesitation. Arthur could see the internal struggle in Charles’s features, but waved him off before he had the chance to offer up Taima to him again.
“I’ll be the one to deal with the old man’s wrath, should somethin’ happen to his horse.” He’d already taken Charles's horse once, he wasn’t going to do it a second time, especially with his hand the way it was.
“You ever ridden him before?” Charles asked as he handed the reins over, before swinging his leg up and over Taima’s back. Even with his injured hand held to his chest, Arthur was surprised by just how graceful Charles still was in completing the action.
“Oh I’ll be fine, Jack gets his riding lessons on this geezer,” Arthur huffed a laugh before swinging himself up into the saddle, causing a grunt to slip from the old Turkoman. Silver Dollar may have been no Boadicea or Taima, but he was still a solid old stallion despite his age. Giving him a soft scratch, Arthur pulled out an oat cake from his coat pocket, and gave it to his borrowed mount in thanks. “The only one here in any danger is you if you get downwind from him. Unless 'sea has been lyin’ this whole time, and it's not the horse who passes gas every ten yards.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Charles huffed a quiet laugh. Once it seemed like both were ready to head out, Arthur clicked his tongue, and urged Silver Dollar forward, heading in the last direction he knew Bell or Marston to go.
“I appreciate you lettin’ me take Taima earlier,” he offered once they’d slogged their way further down the road, the snow now reached both horse's knees as they kicked their way through the several feet of it beneath them. This was easily the most snow he'd seen in years, and he was eager to let another few slip by before he ever had to again.
“She’s a strong one,” Charles's replied, the adoration in his voice towards Taima clear. Arthur didn't know how long the two had been together, but it seemed evident they had just as strong of a bond as Arthur did with Bo. He found himself once again swallowing around the lump in his throat that always arose at the thought of his mare. The image of blood pooling around her crimson mane under the electric lights of Blackwater was seared into his mind now. If Charles picked up on Arthur’s solemn mood he thankfully didn’t comment on it.
—
Arthur couldn’t tell how much further he and Charles had traveled before they saw the faint glow of another rider’s lamplight, his sense of time completely obscured due to the storm and having gone nearly two days without a decent night’s sleep.
“Marston?” Arthur shouted over the howling wind, only to be greeted by the smarmy grin of Micah Bell as he trotted closer to them.
“Sorry, cowpoke,” he answered, his mocking tone milking each syllable for all they were worth. “Don’t know where Marston got off to, I’ve been too busy being the provider- as always .” Arthur wondered briefly if it would just be easier to shoot Micah down there and then while he had the chance, surely the snow would cover the body up within the hour. He doubted Charles would mind, but Dutch sure would once he woke up- which he was going to do .
“What’d you find?” Charles cut in, seemingly wanting to get the interaction over with just as soon as Arthur.
“A little homestead down thataway,” Micah nodded his head back in the direction he’d come from. Arthur glanced wearily behind Micah, although for what purpose he didn’t know, it wasn't like he could see more than a few feet in front of him with the snowfall creating a thick blanket of white haze around them.
“Anyone home?” He asked.
“Sure, place is blazin’ with light and noise… sounded like a party.” Looking over to Charles, Micah smirked, before he added, “A party, Mr. Smith, is this thing where people drink and be merry, screw loose women, share a few laughs, enjoy themselves.” Arthur rolled his eyes skyward, momentarily praying that maybe Charles would shoot Micah himself, but Charles being a better man than him, simply ignored the barb, and kicked Taima to head in the direction Micah had come from. Thankfully, the rest of the small journey passed in relative silence. It wasn’t until Arthur could just start to see the glow of lights coming off the homestead, did Micah turn to him and asked, “You find a place for everyone to haul up in I’m assumin’?” The fact that Dutch’s wellbeing wasn’t the first question out of his mouth didn’t necessarily surprise Arthur, even those back at camp barely talked about Dutch’s current state, as if the very mention of it could cause the worse to happen.
“Yeah, an old mining camp back up the hill,” he answered.
“Ah, I can see 'em now, all huddled around a fire, waitin’ for Daddy to put food on the table,” Micah sneered. Arthur wasn’t quite sure if the “Daddy” in his scenario was supposed to be Micah himself or Dutch, but he ignored him regardless. “Said it before, we got too many mouths to feed.”
“Well we got a few less now,” Arthur bit back bitterly, thinking of poor Jenny- and who even knew about Mac and Sean.
“Shut up, the both of you. We’re getting close” Charles spoke up from just ahead, slowing Taima as he reached the ridge that overlooked the small homestead.
“Calm down, big guy,” Micah huffed before leading them down the hillside, “Uncle Micah has this covered, you two just find some cover, let me do the talkin’ and before you know it, we’ll be walkin’ back into the camp, arms full of supplies. We’ll be the heroes of the night.”
Arthur was just about to open his mouth in protest before he felt Charles’s hand fall on his arm, not having realized Charles had moved up close enough to even reach him. Which he supposed was proof enough he needed to quit focusing on Micah, and pay better attention to his surroundings. Glancing over to Charles, he saw him shake his head, giving him a look that read, just let the dumbass have his way. And have his way, he did. While Charles and Arthur found cover, Micah strolled up to the front door of the homestead, acting like someone just elected him mayor of all god’s creation, his fingers looped through his belt loop as he grinned up at the opening door.
“Uh, Arthur”, Charles whispered to him, while Micah greeted the man who answered the door. Arthur tore his eyes away from the fool Bell was about to make of himself, to see a piece of canvas Charles had lifted with the muzzle of his shotgun, revealing a fresh corpse in the wagon beneath it.
“Shit.” He hissed. Leave it to Micah fucking Bell to lead them straight from one god damn disaster directly into another. But before either of them could come up with a plan, Micah had whipped out his dual pistols and started his next descent into violent madness, as he began shooting wildly at whoever and whatever was in his path. At least Arthur knew whoever was in the cabin weren't innocent folks, although he doubted Micah knew that. Knowing Charles was going to be slowed with only the one good hand, Arthur focused on downing as many men as he could, which turned out to be a whole lot more than he was counting on being in the cabin. Party indeed. After the shots finally died down, Arthur thanked whatever god was listening that the only dead men on the ground were those that had poured from the house.
“Tell me Micah,” he huffed as he worked his way through the snow, kicking at a dead O’Driscoll as he did. He hadn’t known when the shooting started that they even were O’Driscolls, but the green bandanas he now spotted on all of them seemed to confirm as much. “Did you know them were Colm’s boys before you started shootin' 'em like a goddamn maniac , or did you just feel like shootin' up a bunch of farmhands?”
“I’ll go get the horses,” Charles cut in with a sigh from behind him, seemingly not wanting to be around for a second round of bickering between the two other men.
“Does it matter?” Micah threw his hands up. “Let’s just see what they left behind and get the hell out of here.” Figuring at that point it was just better to let the matter rest, Arthur let him have the last word, and followed him into the house in silence. Once they stepped inside, Arthur couldn't help but let out a low whistle. From the state of the place, the O’Driscolls must have been there for a good couple days, debris and empty bottles littered nearly every flat surface, and there was a massive pool of blood near one of the doors to the side. Thankfully there were still a few cans of food scattered about, and some blankets that weren’t completely soiled, so at least there was something they could bring back with them.
“You think Colm is close by?” Micah asked somewhere behind him, as Arthur began digging through the kitchen cabinets, stowing away as many cans as he could in a burlap sack he found among the O’Driscolls’ goods. He paused only momentarily in his search, chewing over the question. Colm’s crew was far bigger than their own, there was really no telling just how far away Colm would be from this lot. From his own experience, the gang never seemed to stray further than a day’s ride from wherever their leader was camped out, so he supposed it was certainly possible.
“Maybe,” he shrugged, looking back behind him momentarily to watch Micah as he shoved some jewelry he found into his coat pocket. “Don’t know what in the hell they’d be doin’ around here. Definitely didn’t seem like they were expectin’ us.” It’d probably been a year since the last time the gang had run into any of Colm’s lot, Arthur thought, easily months before Micah or Charles joined up. All Arthur could do was hope against hope that their sudden reappearance had nothing to do with the Pinkertons hot on their trail, and was simply a coincidence. On top of everything else going at the moment, he wasn’t sure if the gang could handle O’Driscolls added to their seemingly never ending list of problems.
“Well, seems like you have everything handled here, Morgan,” Micah let out a sigh, seeming to grow bored of the search already. He kicked an empty bottle across the floor as he strutted over to the fire, warming his hands near the still roaring flames. “I’ll go check out the barn, see if there’s anything worth our while. I’ll let you finish your grocery shoppin’.”
Not wanting to shoot a gift horse in the mouth when it presented itself, Arthur waved the other man off. He was just about done, although he wasn’t going to let Micah know that. He might as well take a closer look around, he figured, and give himself the chance to have a few moments of peace before he had to suffer through the ride back with Micah, all puffed up over the “score” he found. After setting down the second and last sack of goods by the front door, he swept his gaze across the cabin once more. There was no telling how long they’d be stuck in Colter, or when the next chance they’d have to head out for supplies, so he wanted to make sure he milked this particular cow for every last drop.
“Now how did I miss you?” He mumbled to himself when his eyes caught the edge of a cellar door in the flickering candlelight. A place like the one they were in, and with the weather the way it was, the cellar should be full of jarred goods, he thought. Pulling a couple pillowcases off the bed, he took the butt of his cattleman, and drove it down hard on the padlock of the door until it cracked open. “Alright, let’s see what else you got hid–”. Before he could finish his sentence, a some small but mighty force barreled into his gut, sending him crashing back into the wall behind him, and effectively knocking the wind out of him. A feral scream accompanied the blow, piercing his eardrums. It was no scream of fear though, oh no, but one of pure rage. “What in the sam he-” he started to cough out, before the same small mass- a woman, he quickly noted, leapt onto his gut, knocking the wind out of his lungs again. The glint of broken glass shining in the firelight caught his eye just in time, before the shaking hand grasping it could plunge it into his jugular.
“I’m going to kill every last one of you disgusting pieces of shit,” the woman on top of him roared, her eyes wild, as she fought against the hold he now had on her wrists. His grasp was the only thing preventing her from digging the broken mason jar in her hand into the hammering pulse in his neck.
“Ma’am, ma’am !” He rasped out, his lungs struggling to refill with her weight still crushing into his diaphragm. Ordinarily he would have been able to easily throw her off of him, but with the surprise of the assault, and with her knees still pressed sharply into his gut, he struggled to free himself. “I ain’t one of ‘em. Just…” he grunted out as he managed to push her arms back, furthering the distance between his neck and the razor sharp shard of glass still in her grasp. He could see blood spilling down her arm from the death-grip she had on the makeshift weapon, joining the pool of dried blood that was beneath him.
“Arth-” Both Arthur and the woman straddling him froze in place as they twisted around to see the newcomer. Charles must have finished gathering the horses and had come back to the house to see what was going on, Arthur thought, as the man now stood in the middle of the doorway, eyes darting between the two figures on the floor. Charles’s hand momentarily went for his sawed-off in its holster, before he seemed to think better of it, and raised his hands instead, palms open and empty, as he slowly walked over towards the woman, his feet barely making a sound as they gently carried him closer to the scene in front of him. “It’s okay, ma’am,” he said soothingly, his voice barely above a whisper, as he stepped closer. His eyes only briefly darted over to Arthur, his gaze quickly sweeping over his body, seeming to check to make sure she hadn't gotten a stab in, before he looked back to the woman. "We’re not here to hurt you.”
“Don’t you dare fucking touch me,” the woman snarled, like a she-wolf snapping at an intruder to her den. With her focus off him, Arthur carefully tried to extract himself from below her, moving just as slowly and quietly as Charles had.
“We won’t,” Charles assured her, stopping his advance when he made it just out of arm’s reach. His gaze locked on her as he slowly extended his working hand towards her, glancing at the broken jar briefly where she still kept her grip on it. “It’s okay, I promise,” he quietly urged, his voice softer than Arthur had ever heard it, as he took one small step towards her, reaching his injured hand out slowly to rest on her shoulder while his other one went for the shard of glass. Arthur could feel her tense above him briefly, her chest heaving for breath, as if she were readying herself to pounce again. For a second he thought to grab her before she could, but something inside her seemed to break at Charles’s gentle demeanor, and she soon released the broken jar, letting it clatter to the floor before she heaved a deep sob. “That’s it,” Charles soothed, still keeping his distance from her as she slowly stood, extracting her knee from Arthur’s abdomen, allowing him to finally take a proper breath once his ribcage could fully expand. Arthur still couldn’t take his eyes off of Charles though, momentarily forgetting the danger he was in, too entranced by the other man's calming demeanor while he continued to speak softly to the woman. Arthur wasn't quite sure just why he seemed so drawn in to Charles in that moment, but his soft gaze and gentle voice seemed to be as much a balm to his frayed nerves as it had to the woman's. “We’ll get you out of here, okay? If that’s what you wa-”
“Hey, fellers look what I found!” Micah’s voice rang out from outside the cabin, slicing through the calm trance Charles had placed Arthur and the woman under. Instantly, he saw her tense up again, this time managing to grab a knife from the table next to her, gripping its handle in her hand that was still oozing blood. Micah soon crashed through the door, with a writhing O’Driscoll in his grasp. He didn’t seem to notice the woman’s presence at first, too caught up in manhandling his captive forcefully onto the table, slamming the man’s head off its surface with a snarl as he did. When he did finally notice her, it took everything in Arthur’s power not to pound the grin off his face as Micah looked between the woman and his two fellow gang members. “Well, well, well… looks like you boys found something to pass your time with while I been at work, huh? You gonna share?”
“Fuck off,” Arthur growled, as Charles slowly placed himself between the woman and Micah. Whether it was for her benefit or Micah’s it was hard to say, considering how capable Arthur already knew her to be.
“Hey, hey, just look at me, okay” Charles' soft voice pulled Arthur’s attention once again, as he watched Charles turn to block the woman’s view of Micah and his victim. It seemed to work, thankfully, as Arthur soon saw her shoulders slump again, her eyes focusing on Charles. Arthur couldn’t blame her, he thought briefly as he caught Charles's soft gaze over her shoulder. The other man was giving her a small encouraging smile when she looked back to him. “Let’s go outside, alright? You got something warm to wear?” Out of the corner of his eye Arthur could see Micah roll his eyes in annoyance at the display, while he continued to hold down the writhing O’Driscoll beneath him. Fortunately, the bastard kept his mouth shut for once, as the woman moved to the door with Charles, pulling on a heavy wool coat and slipping into a worn pair of boots by the front door before the two slipped behind it.
“Well, looks like Smith gets all the fun tonight, Morgan,” Micah huffed before turning his attention back to the man in his grasp, the annoyance in his features slipping back into that of dark glee as he slammed the O’Driscoll’s head against the table once again, a crunch of bone accompanying the hit as the man’s nose connected with its surface. “We’ll just have to find our own with this one.”
“What’chu gonna do with ‘im?” Arthur asked in distaste as he stepped closer. He had no qualms about killing O’Driscolls, not after what they did to Annabelle all those years ago, but torturing- or whatever else Micah had in mind, wasn’t to Arthur’s taste.
“Just gonna get some information, Morgan, calm down,” Micah replied while the man below him writhed again. The O’Driscoll was hogtied beneath him, his mouth gagged with his own green bandana, although it was more red than green, as the blood gushing from his broken nose drenched the fabric. “You gonna tell me now where Colm is?” Micah asked, slipping his knife from the sheath at his waistband before swiftly burying it into the table next to his captive’s head, causing the bound man to jump out of reflex. “Or do we need to start ripping pieces off you first? What do you think Morgan, should we start with an ear, or go straight for the ol’ blood sausage?” Making his point, Micah extracted his knife from the table, and pressed its sharp point against the O’Driscoll’s lower back with a cackle. The man screamed beneath him with blind terror. Gritting his teeth, Arthur stepped forward, although he kept his mouth shut. He figured it served them better to let the poor bastard think he was just as bloodthirsty as the maniac holding him down was, in order to make the interrogation as quick as possible.
“You hear that?” Arthur asked, “you better tell us now, boy, or else I ain’t too sure I can stop my friend here once he gets started.” Even though he was playing along for now, Arthur still wasn’t all too convinced seeking out Colm’s whereabouts was even worth the trouble. Lord knew they had plenty enough on their plate as it was, even if the sorry bastard did tell them was the truth, what were they going to do about it? Hunt down Colm O’Driscoll while they were still struggling for survival and hiding from an army of Pinkertons?
“He’s with the others!” The man- more boy really, nervously shouted beneath Micah as he tried to pull himself as far away from the other man as he could. “At an old mining camp southwest of here, n-near the lake.” The kid must not have been running with Colm for very long, Arthur thought, a bit surprised just how quickly he’d given up the location of his boss. Whatever loyalty he did have for Colm didn’t seem to run all that deep, at least not compared to the likes of some of Dutch’s boys.
“You fellers havin' a spring holiday up in the mountains, are ya?” Micah chuckled, pulling his knife away from the man’s back only to press its sharp tip near his groin. The O'Driscoll screamed again, as his feet scraped against the wood floor, trying to push himself away. Every muscle in Arthur's body screamed for him to walk away from the scene, but he also didn't want to just leave Micah to do as he pleased either, fearing just how he'd act when he didn't have someone else in the room. “Come on, what you boys doin’ up here? It’s certainly not for the scenery."
“W-we’re fixing to r-rob some train… g-gonna blow the tracks… I don’t know more than that!” He pleaded. “I swear!” Seemingly satisfied with the information, Micah grinned as he ruffled the kid’s hair while he put his knife away.
“See Morgan,” he beamed, “results! That’s the Micah Bell guarantee.”
“Yeah, yeah, let’s just get the hell out of here, alright?” Arthur waved him off, not feeling up to congratulating the man for extracting information, that in the grand scheme of things, was completely useless to them in their current predicament. They could at least try to avoid the camp the kid mentioned, he figured, and keep as much distance between them and Colm while they tried to piece themselves back together after Blackwater- and while Dutch recovered. Which he was going to. “You gonna let ‘im run back home?” He asked as he waited by the door, a stupid question, he knew. Micah Bell was never one to show an ounce of mercy. He waited regardless though, figuring his presence would at the very least grant the kid a quick death.
“You know what, sure, why not,” Micah said after a moment’s consideration. Arthur could only sigh as he watched the kid’s shoulders slump in relief, knowing all too well it was for naught. He watched as Micah pushed his weight up off of his captive, picking up the oil lamp off the table just before planting his boot forcefully into the boy's back, and sending him and the table crashing onto the floor below. “Go tell Daddy Colm that us Van Der Linde boys said hello,” but before the bound man could even reply, Micah smashed the lantern into the floor. The spilled booze that caked it served as an accelerant as the flames quickly spread across the boards like wildfire, “IN HELL!” Micah cackled as the O’Driscoll screamed in fear, writhing as the flames began to consume his clothes.
“You goddamn psychopath,” Arthur growled, backing away from the fire as it quickly engulfed the room. The O'Driscoll screamed in agony just ahead of him, causing Arthur to make the split second decision to raise his cattleman and fire a round into the poor kid's skull, giving him the mercy he'd stupidly hoped Micah would. Laughing wildly, Micah shoved past him as he strode out the door, leaving Arthur to follow behind him. The contents of his last meal surged up his throat as he gave one last look at the inferno that'd become the small ranch house.
“What the hell happened?!” Charles cursed breathlessly, alarm quickly overtaking his usually stoic features as he looked up at the roaring flames behind Arthur and Micah. Arthur couldn’t even look at Charles- nor the woman beside him, as he walked past them towards Silver Dollar.
“Results, Mr. Smith, results!” Micah crooned as he swung on top Baylock, a Tennessee Walker was hitched beside the stallion, weighed down with the bags of goods Charles must have grabbed when he exited the home with the woman minutes earlier. He must have been out there finishing up the job Arthur started, Arthur thought grimly, the shame clawing at him as he watched Charles help the woman up onto Taima’s back.
“My home…”, he could barely hear her speak, her face shifting from grief stricken to complete numbness as Charles slipped in front of her. Arthur watched her as she fisted her hands into Charles’s wool jacket, her eyes drifting from her burning home, to what was likely her husband’s corpse in the wagon out front, before she finally turned her head to stare at the center of Charles’s back.
“C’mon, let’s get outta here,” Arthur grumbled, kicking Silver Dollar to take the lead. He wanted to put as much distance between him and the scene behind as he could.
“You’re welcome,” Micah sing-songed behind the two other riders as they trudged on ahead of him, cackling at their grim silence as he took up the rear of their procession as they headed back.