Chapter Text
He knew it was a bad idea. Dutch knew it too, he was just too prideful to admit it. Hosea and him had been arguing all night, the older man trying to convince Dutch what he knew deep down to be true. Colm O’ Driscoll would never agree to a treaty. He would fight with Dutch tooth and nail, despite the common enemy between them. Despite the fact that it will take both of them to an early grave. Dutch just wouldn’t listen. Last night, Hosea’s soft pleas turned to desperate cries begging him to change his mind. To not let their son come on this mission that was so clearly a trap. However, in the past few months Dutch has started to listen to Hosea less and less. His grip on his ideals loosening, growing ever more comfortable with revenge rather than safety. It seems these days he was more fixated on vengeance than anything else, clouding it in this vague excuse of doing what has to be done. But Hosea knows the truth. The gang knows the truth. It’s just nobody has the balls to tell Dutch themselves, nobody but Arthur.
“I don’t like havin’ eyes on us,” Arthur grumbled, glancing up at the men on horseback uphill. His horse was uneasy under his grasp. Friend had always been a little skittish, he isn’t the bravest horse, but Arthur knew him well. Spent time brushing and feeding and riding the stallion after he grief strickenly replaced Boadicea following Blackwater. His trusted horse was completely terrified, and in turn Arthur was too. He had learned to trust Friend’s instincts, as quick to fear the young stallion was, he was often right.
Dutch didn't respond. Whether it was because he was lost in thought or because he didn’t give a damn what Arthur had to say he doesn’t know. He assumes the latter. That’s how business's been going lately. Arthur speaking his mind and getting in shit, or worse, the silent treatment from Dutch. He knew not to tread the line too much, he was careful with his words with Dutch, always. It just seems now no matter what he does, there is a flaw with it. Like every word he says, every action he takes needs to be as careful and steady as his voice when calming an animal. That’s what Dutch was slowly becoming, an animal unleashed.
Instead, Micah spits out another disingenuous platitude about how Arthur will be the eyes soon enough. Then, he presses into this falsified empathy deeper.
“Maybe he’s right, Dutch.” Micah agrees with Arthur. For a brief moment he thinks it's belated caution, but then he continues, “Maybe I have pushed too hard. Got us into situations that… could’ve been safer. I just… I see all those mouths we got to feed, and I… I dream too big. Caring too much, that’s my problem.”
Arthur tries to stifle the laugh that builds in his throat. Although this is no time for laughing, Micah saying he cares about anything other than himself is a funny prospect. He thinks Dutch picked up on the insincere nature of Micah's words and will have something to retort, a single sentence that cuts deep enough to silence, something he does so well. But he nods along.
“Carin’ too much? There’s no such thing.” Dutch’s voice laced with pride. Arthur had seen their dynamic grow the past couple of months. Micah had that blind loyalty that Dutch loved so much, seemingly easily manipulated. But there was something hiding under the surface. An ulterior motive that Arthur just couldn’t place.
“This is horse shit. From the both of you,” He scoffs, the chuckle he was trying to bury surfacing alongside his words. Dutch wasn’t always this malleable yet hardened. He hadn’t noticed the change in his leader until it was too late.
“It might be! Micah might be full of shit. Colm O’Driscoll might be full of shit. The promise of this great nation, men created equal, liberty and justice for all… that might be nonsense too. But it’s worth trying for. It’s worth believing in. Can’t you see that, friend?” Dutch barks out. Speaking of platitudes, Dutch is full of them. He speaks like a lawyer, like the conman he is. Arthur can read through the lines, he knows what Dutch really means. Everything is bullshit. Just do this for me, son. Dutch’s words were gospel, and Arthur was his favourite apostle.
Arthur sighs, mumbling out a shaky “I don’t know”. Dutch asks him to try, and that’s the end of that conversation.
They reach the fork in the road and Friend screeches to a halt. Confused on why the loyal horse has stopped so suddenly, he gets off him and walks around to his snoot. Patting his nose gently and whispering comforts into his steed. There is a fear in the horse’s eyes that he’s never seen before.
“The hell are you doing, Arthur?” Dutch calls out. He knows this tone. It lacks patience, lacks empathy. Dutch is trying to wield Arthur like a weapon and the thing standing in his way is a skittish horse.
Arthur sighs again, lifting an apple into Friend’s mouth and mounting him, urging him to keep going. He does, reluctantly as he can. Micah explains the vague plan he has, and points to a cliff edge where Arthur is going to stand guard from afar. Arthur tells them to meet him at the fork in the road after, no matter what, and Micah flashes him a smile that doesn’t meet his eyes, “We’ll be there, partner.”
Arthur makes his way uphill to the cliffsedge. About halfway, his horse skits to a halt again. Not wanting to cause Friend discomfort but knowing that he needs to get to the top quickly, he tries to shoo Friend away. However he just stands there, whinnying and bucking like he’s trying to send Arthur a wordless warning. Arthur pats his nose one last time before jogging up the hill, turning to see his horse standing still with pleading eyes. It’s like he knows something Arthur doesn’t.
Arthur gets to the cliff and squats near the edge of it. He readies his rifle and tries to steady the scope, but his hands are shaking. This isn’t normal for him at all and he knows it, which just worsens his anxiety. He’s used to dangerous plots, used to fighting for his life with a bullet instead of words, but everything about this is wrong. For the first time, his body is trying to force him to choose flight over fight, but he can’t. He needs to protect Dutch. He knows their dynamic is changing and he can’t take it. That’s his father, his god, the man who saved him and the man he’s killed so many good men for. He’s the only reason he agreed to go on this suicidal plan, because for Dutch he would walk into a battlefield blindfolded.
His hands tighten around the gun, trying to steady his grip and shaking hands. His heart is pounding as he tries to read Colm’s lips, a playful smirk stretched across them. He is silently praying for them to finish up quickly, watching O’Driscoll’s movement like a hawk. He should just take the shot now, while he has the chance. Kill the man that has been taunting and tormenting his father for years. But two of his men have rifles aimed at Dutch’s head, and he knows he isn’t quick enough right now to get all three. If he had control of his nerves, he could do it, but his aim is too shaky right now and he can’t afford any mistakes.
Suddenly, he hears rushed steps behind him. He swings his rifle around, an uncharacteristic panic in his eyes, and gets met by the stock of a gun.