Chapter Text
The town saloon was fairly lively. Drunk people were arguing outside, prostitutes paced back and forth looking for a client, a line of men was cheerfully pissing along the side of the building, turning the dirt into mud.
Arthur grimaced in disgust, stepping around the sludgy puddles. His boots were scuffed and worn, but they had never smelled of piss and they were not about to start now. Usually, especially when he was alone, he preferred to keep his distance from loud crowds like that, but that evening he had to meet Hosea to give him a hand.
The old man had left an hour earlier to scout the area and prick up his ears for possible jobs and scams.
As he pushed through the saloon doors, the revelry of a saturday night hit him like a freight train, along with the sharp smell of sweat and the cloying sweetness of cheap face powder. The pianist was pounding the keys as if someone had insulted his mother. Arthur knew nothing about music, but he did not think it was supposed to be played like that.
He moved up to the bar and ordered a whiskey.
Truth be told, Hosea did not really need a hand. That man swam through people like a trout in a river, but Arthur had seized the opportunity for a quiet evening, using Hosea’s age as a pretext and telling himself it was always better to watch his back, just in case.
Dutch had given him a nod and disappeared. He had seemed distracted. He might have his moods... well, his business. Arthur had his own. The burn of the whiskey chased Dutch’s dark look out of his mind for a moment.
He ordered another glass, his fingers drumming against the sticky counter. They hadn’t even argued, but Dutch had seemed restless these past few days. It was also true that the couple of jobs they had pulled had not gone particularly well.
But deep down, he felt that wasn’t the real reason for the sour mood. He didn’t know what had been going on with Dutch - lately they hadn’t been able to talk much - but as for himself, he could feel one of those particular spells coming on, when his mind would be crushed between black walls of words heard, of horrible thoughts he wouldn’t even dare to form in his bad moments. A shiver ran through him.
He needed Hosea’s easy laugh, his quick wit.
Arthur scanned the room, his gaze darting over the poker tables. Hosea was nowhere to be seen. He was probably getting someone drunk to squeeze some information out of them, or selling them a horse that did not exist, or whatever else that devil of a man had in mind. In that case, Arthur hoped he would not get dragged into it. Playing the part of Fenton made him feel stupider than he already was.
He downed the whiskey and started wandering around the saloon. He made his way between people talking and dancing, or rather swaying. Occasionally, Arthur snatched a glass left unattended on a table, with a finger or two of liquor still in it. Dutch would’ve shot him a look if he’d caught him slipping back into that habit. Maybe he was doing it just to spite him.
When Arthur spotted a head of silver hair in one of the booths, he smiled in relief and moved closer. Hosea was talking to a couple of strangers, laughing with them and gesturing, animated by some little story he was telling.
There were several glasses on the table.
That was the first alarm bell for Arthur, but he ignored it. There was no point in getting worked up now.
Arthur slowed his pace when Hosea’s sharp voice burst into loud laughter at one of the idiots’ jokes. The old man had had a few drinks... but he was still himself, right? Still sharp.
The closer Arthur got, the more that hope evaporated, and his mood kept sinking lower and lower, toward the filthy floor.
He placed a hand on Hosea’s shoulder. “Hey, old man, you’ve been drinking, huh?” Arthur asked, keeping his tone light, not breaking the jovial mood at the table.
Hosea looked intact enough, though his cheeks were more flushed. “Arthur!” he called out enthusiastically, “You came. Sit down... sit down with us”.
“Maybe we should go” he said, trying to get Hosea to stand, but Hosea grabbed his sleeve and pulled him down into a seat.
“Easy” Hosea replied with a laugh, “I made some friends here”.
One of the two men gestured for Arthur to sit “Your friend’s pretty funny” they said.
“So... I was... I was saying...” Hosea slurred. “I tried to catch it with my bare hands. But that bastard of a fish wouldn’t have it... no, wouldn’t have it”.
The other two slammed their fists on the table in a burst of laughter.
“My boy” Hosea was saying, “You got any more money? I’ve run out”.
“How much did you spend?” Arthur asked, counting the bottles and glasses on the table “You didn’t buy them drinks too, did you?”
“Drinks don’t pay for themselves” Hosea replied, then added with a sly smile, “when i was young, all it took was a wink at the right lady, if you catch my meaning”.They burst into loud laughter, as if he had told the funniest joke in the world.
“’Sea, you’ve already had a lot”.
“I asked you to help me, and you don’t give a damn. They’re more gentlemen than you” Hosea said, pointing at the two strangers.
Arthur was starting to lose his patience. “Good for them. I was never much of a gentleman” he said, flashing the couple a sarcastic grin.
“We were having fun” Hosea shot Arthur a glare, “You ruined the mood, like you always do”.
“Come on, let’s go” he ignored the accusation and took the glass out of his hand.
“If we’d known you were such a sourpuss, we wouldn’t have brought you along”.
It’s just the alcohol talking, Arthur told himself, trying again to get him to stand.
Something in Hosea broke like a dam. His strength was no match for the younger man's, but when he shoved Arthur's arm, he managed to throw him off balance, sending him stumbling back a step.
Arthur's eyes widened for a moment, and he cleared his throat. He hadn't expected Hosea to hit him. It didn't hurt, and yet the muscle seemed to throb as though it had slammed into the ground after a fall from a horse.
“You piece of shit” Hosea shouted, grabbing a glass and throwing it to the ground near Arthur’s foot.
The saloon sank into a roar of silence. The two strangers shouted that they didn’t want any trouble and vanished, leaving only the crunch of glass under their boots.
The pianist’s fingers hung over the keys for a moment before plunging back into the chaos of notes and chatter.
Hosea had seemed calm until then, or at least manageable, and now he was on his feet, swaying as his voice rose higher and higher.
“What the fuck do you want? Fuck off!”
“’Sea, calm down”.
“Don’t tell me to calm down”.
Arthur glanced at the other patrons who had turned to look. Some bastards were snickering, jerking their chins toward them, hoping the show would turn into something more interesting. Others moved away, frightened or scandalized. He felt his irritation rise against the whole saloon.
“He doesn’t need a nurse” some drunk sitting nearby said, “Leave him alone”
“Mind your fucking business” Arthur growled. He tried to put a hand on Hosea’s shoulder again, but Hosea knocked it away immediately.
“I drink at camp too, idiot” Hosea spat, “You’re just a piece of shit... useless, not even... good for fertilizer. Damn Dutch, damn all of you!”
Arthur managed to keep his face stoic, despite the scrapes Hosea was inflicting on him. The grating sound of the music, mixed with all the chatter, was hammering at his head.
Hosea’s insults were splitting his skull open. The night was going so badly; how had it gone so badly?
He grabbed him by the arm and steered him toward the exit. Hosea complained about the pain of the grip, but Arthur tightened it even more.
Most people stepped aside in time, but a few caught Hosea’s kicks or punches as he struggled to break free.
What the hell.
Let the old man have some fun.
You want a hand, buddy?.
What a disgrace.
He was sweating under his hat, and with every comment he heard, the room seemed to grow more stifling. Hosea doubled over coughing and slammed into a table, sending several bottles crashing to the floor.
“Get that goddamn father of yours out of here!” the saloon owner shouted.
Arthur threw a punch at his nose. He felt the cartilage give under his knuckles, blood smearing his skin. The man choked back his curses, hands clamped over his bleeding nose.
A few men were getting to their feet to deal with the commotion, but Arthur was faster. He hooked Hosea under the arms and dragged him outside, amid a whirl of laughter and mockery from the other patrons.
Arthur did not help him by holding his head. He waited instead, sitting on a rock and smoking. He had changed brands some time ago. These were darker, more bitter. He liked the nasty taste they left in his mouth.
“Jesus” he muttered, listening to Hosea’s retching, which seemed endless. The smoke drifted away into the air, unlike his anger. With every minute they stood there, it only hardened into something solid.
Hosea came out of the bush he had ducked into. Arthur handed him his canteen without looking at him.
“Thanks” Hosea said. He did not seem as out of his mind as before, even if his steps still shook, just like his voice.
“You can keep it” Arthur replied when Hosea tried to hand it back.
“But it’s yours” Hosea said with a faint smile.
Arthur glanced at his untucked shirt, at his yellow vest now stained. Susan had cleaned it only a few days earlier, “I’d rather not have a canteen that smells like vomit”
The crack that had opened in the saloon deepened even further.
The canteen slipped from Hosea’s hand and hit the ground with a dull thud,“Not like you need it anyway, you said” he muttered.
Arthur bit his tongue, and his mouth filled with blood that mixed with the taste of smoke. His eyes stung with brutal remorse.
“If you want to destroy yourself, you do it at camp, ’Sea. You know the pact”.
The agreement had been born on a day when Arthur had woken up without the usual smell of Hosea’s coffee, only the burnt one Dutch made.
“Where’s Hosea?” he had asked.
“I was hoping you’d tell me” Dutch had replied.
They had looked at each other.
The answer had been a cell, after the old man had smashed a bottle over the sheriff’s head, thinking it was a prank and that he was not a real lawman. Looking back on it, it could have been a funny story, if they had not tried to hang him.
“Don’t treat me like a fucking child” The icy night air had drained the color from his cheeks, but Arthur’s remark was enough to make them flare up again.
“If you act like one” Arthur replied with a shrug.
“You only accept the pact because Dutch decided it” Hosea accused him “You’re an idiot. What difference does it make if i drink at camp, if I drink at the saloon, if i… if i drink…” His voice faded until it went out.
“At least you avoid putting on a show for strangers” Arthur said, squeezing Hosea’s shame even tighter.
“What happened… earlier” Hosea lowered his red eyes “I wasn’t feeling well… I was supposed to be prepared. Then I…” He slumped forward “If Bessie were here, she’d help me”
“Help you do what?”
Hosea looked lost, “You’d still have some respect for me” he said, without conviction.
Arthur laughed at the absurdity of it, while Hosea kept rambling excuses.
It was just a few drinks. We were just talking. I didn’t see them refilling my glass. You can’t understand how much pain i’m in...
“Christ, Hosea!” Arthur shouted. He kicked the canteen in anger. It was swallowed by the growing dark. The only sounds Arthur could hear were the rustle of distant tree branches and the furious pounding of his own heart.
Seeing Hosea reduced to this was like an act against nature. Wrong. Like a sun rising in the west.
“Don’t tell Dutch, he… he’d get angry”.
“At least did you pick up anything useful?” he said, the bite gone from his voice “Or did you latch onto the bottle the moment you walked in, thinking about Bessie?”
The instant her name left his mouth, he felt how unfair it was to bring her into it. Bessie had turned into a cane with a steel tip.
Hosea’s face hardened. They stood still. Then Hosea stepped closer, his pace calm. Once he was right in front of Arthur, he lunged, grabbed him by the collar, and yanked him hard.
“Don’t you dare” he hissed, teeth clenched with rage, “Don’t you dare talk to me like that, do you hear me?”
Arthur’s head rocked with the shaking. The collar of his shirt sawed into his neck exactly the way it used to when Lyle dragged him across the floor, toward the gun belt hanging on the wall.
It was a finely worked belt, thick, wide leather. Lyle could have shown it off in public, if he had worn it; but he preferred having only his son admire it.
Back then, Arthur would stay on his feet, not even trying to resist. He stayed on his feet now as well, saying nothing.
Hosea let him go only when he grew tired.
"I'm sorry..." Arthur managed to find his voice only after hearing Hosea’s short, heavy breaths turn into a coughing fit. He clenched his fist to stop himself from slipping into the old habit of rubbing the man's back.
He blinked to shake off the memory of a younger Hosea, the one from those first few weeks. A harder, more distrustful man, with a harsh tone just like so many others Arthur had already crossed paths with before.
When Hosea had lashed out at him back then, to teach him a proper lesson, he hadn't shouted but to Arthur, it felt as though he had. He had been shouting all damn evening. But he had deserved it. At fourteen, he used to cry like a pathetic child, but he was a grown man now.
He turned, swung himself onto Boadicea, and pointed down the road “Follow it. It’ll take you back to camp”.
“It’s dark, where are you going?” the old man asked suddenly, worried, perhaps afraid he wouldn’t be able to find camp on his own.
Arthur didn’t know, so he said nothing.
He had made camp in a quiet clearing. He hadn’t put up the tent, choosing instead to sleep under the stars. The fire crackled softly when he tossed another dry branch into it. Boadicea grazed nearby, lifting her head now and then to look at her rider.
Arthur tried to relax his shoulders, but the burning at the back of his neck lingered. If he'd had some water, he would've poured it over the spot, though he doubted it would've quenched the fire.
He had gone too far, he knew he had. For a moment, he had taken a grim satisfaction in seeing Hosea embarrassed.
He stared into the fire, turning the evening over in his mind. Don’t tell Dutch, Hosea had said, in that muddle of words. It crossed Arthur’s mind that nights like this had happened before, with the difference that it had been Dutch in his place.
For some unknown reason, Dutch hadn’t told him.
The year Bessie died, Hosea barely left his tent. He no longer smiled at Arthur, no longer spoke to him, no longer ruffled his hair. Arthur had felt so damn helpless back then. He’d watched Hosea crumble day by day, and he hadn’t known how to lift him back up. The man was disappearing right before his eyes, a process so slow that Arthur swore one day he’d wake up and Hosea simply wouldn’t be there anymore.
Back then Dutch would gently take Arthur by the hand and lead him away from camp. In his other hand he held Annabelle or John.
Arthur rubbed his face again, harder.
Arthur agreed that it was a humiliating arrangement, one that treated Hosea like someone incapable, but Dutch had imposed it as an unwritten law and no one had said a word. If Arthur had been subjected to something like that, he might have quit drinking altogether. Alternatively, he would have stopped caring entirely, driving everyone mad.
His hand went to his wrist to trace the fine scar, as if checking to make sure it was still there. Some days, it felt like the love he gave was no better than waste paper. But he had grown used to that thought; what scared him sometimes was the feeling that the love he received just slipped away, without even touching him. He wondered if it was the same for Hosea. Maybe on the days he dranks so much that he forgot the people he was talking to were dead.
Hosea had been right to call him an idiot. He was more useless than a dead horse. He could haul hay, grain sacks, cover someone’s back, shoot, fix a wagon wheel, beat the hell out of a troublesome man. Kill.
But he had never been any good at mending a head that didn’t tick right.
He looked at his hands, covered in scars and calluses. Too rough. They weren’t hands made to handle delicate things. They were fit only for gripping a pickaxe and digging into a person’s rock until he found their veins. Veins that turned into gold only for despicable men like him.
He wondered if Hosea had ended up in a ditch. The old man would have to die like everyone else anyway, it would be an undignified death, but what difference did a ravine or a bullet make.
That old weariness that had been dogging him more and more over the past few years, forced him to stay stretched out on his bedroll, even as anxiety screamed at him to get up and check where Hosea was.
He pulled out a bottle of cheap whiskey and drained it. It tasted like a sewer. He hoped there was something wrong with it, maybe mold, maybe some poisonous ingredient. With a bit of luck, he wouldn’t wake up the next morning.
He narrowed his eyes shut as if he had spotted a tick on a white sheet. And as if crushing the tick with the crescent of his nail, he crushed those thoughts deep into the white of his mind.