Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Charles was selfish, but he just couldn’t help himself. 

He knew he should be with the Tribe. After everything the tribe had been through, partly at the fault of the gang no less, he promised to help them make their way north. He knew how bad it was. He remembered vividly when his mother had been taken by the same government the tribe was hiding from. He made a promise to help them. Yet, here he was, legs burning as he climbed a mountain. He had left his horse a few cliffs back, as it was getting too steep for even his sure-footed Taima to get through safely. Still, he pushed on. 

He wasn’t sure how far up the mountain he needed to go. There was a violent turning in his guts when he thought of what he would find long before he reached the top. He steeled himself and forced his feet forward. One in front of the other. He knew, one way or another, he was going to have to drag a corpse off of this mountain side.

A sick part of him hoped to find greasy blonde hair, gnarled and scarred features, and a look of hate that persisted after death. An even deeper, darker part of him would even take clothes that were no longer pristine and a corpse that still smelled of cigar smoke. Anything besides bloodshot blue eyes, shaggy blonde hair, and lips that had long since gone pale.

He wished more than anything he had been there when the plan failed. If there had ever been a plan at all. He hoped that there was a plan. He hoped that Dutch had, at one time, had a plan to get them all settled again. He hoped Dutch had meant the promises he had made. Charles had had his doubts after Blackwater, sure. He would admit that his faith was shaken when Dutch got involved with the tribe. Still at one point in time, he had trusted as wholly as the rest of their makeshift family. He hoped his trust wasn’t completely in vain.

Charles was a fool.

The sun caressed his face as he made it to another cliff. He took a moment to see past the blinding morning light. Then, he saw it. His heart clenched in his chest, he was certain it would stop entirely.

At that moment, he would have been okay if it did.

Arthur’s body lay beaten and bloodied on the stained rock face. Charles felt his throat close up, his eyes burned as he forced himself forward. He collapsed to his knees next to the body. He wanted so badly to touch him, feel his warmth, prove to himself he wasn’t dead. His hands hovered because he knew he would be disappointed. 

“Arthur...” he choked on the other's name. He should have been here. He knew Arthur was sick. He knew John was trying to escape with his family. He knew Micah and Dutch no longer had good intentions. 

He didn’t know what happened, but the camp in Beaver Hollow still smoldered at the bottom of the mountain. There was little left but ash and the cast iron pot. People he had cared about, lived with, now scattered or dead. The only one left was Miss Grimshaw, her body singed but not lost in the flames, who he had covered to protect from the animals that had already tried at her body until he could give her a proper burial. That was enough to know everything had gone wrong. He should have been here. Charles felt his resolve break as he dropped his head and hands to Arthur’s chest, allowing the tears to soak into the dusty coat. “I’m...” He couldn’t make the words form. 

He didn’t know what to say. Sorry? ‘Sorry’ didn’t bring back the man he cared for. ‘Sorry’ didn’t honor the sacrifices the other made for the people he loved. ‘Sorry’ felt like an insult to his memory. Still, Charles felt the words boiling in his despair. 

“-arles?” 

Charles froze. He held his breath. Every muscle in his body tensed. Had he really heard it? Was it just his imagination playing tricks on his already shattered mind? He was scared to look up, to lift his head and see nothing but a death-still expression. 

“Du-...” Charles felt the body beneath him shift as the weak, broken cough disturbed the quiet around them. He could barely hear it over the blood rushing in his ears. 

“Arthur?” He raised his head and saw those blue eyes, bloodshot and wet with tears, shifting as if trying to find him despite their closeness. “It’s alright, I’m here. I’m going to get you down and find you help.” Charles knew it was the wrong choice as soon as the words left his lips. The best thing to do would be for Charles to lay his coat over his body and lay with him. That way, the outlaw didn’t have to die cold and alone. He should run his hands through Arthur’s hair and wait for him to pass quietly. 

Charles had always been selfish. 

Instead, he gathered Arthur’s body as gently as he could and hoisted him off of the cold ground. He was far too light, sickness taken more than its toll on the once strong body. Part of him knew Arthur probably wouldn’t make it to Taima. Still, he had to try. He had to try and save his friend. 

...

Charles felt his eyes burn again as Taima came into view. She reared when she saw them, as eager to get off the mountain as he was. Arthur groaned pitifully as Charles set him upright on Taima’s saddle. He did his best to shush and comfort, but his voice shook and he worried he would just upset Arthur further. Charles settled himself behind Arthur, he grabbed the reins with one hand and kept Arthur upright with the other braced around him. It should have been calming to feel the outlaw’s heartbeat under the palm on his chest. The weak beating only made Charles feel more and more sick with each weak thump.  

Arthur had made it this far and it gave Charles a bitter, hot hope he couldn’t quite swallow. There was still a good chance Arthur wouldn’t make it down the mountain. At least now, if Arthur passed, he would go comforted against a warm body instead of abandoned on the cold mountain.

He didn’t know what he would do with himself if Arthur died. Images of their hunting trips and missions flashed in front of his eyes as he tried his best to get them gently down the mountain. Images of Arthur, the deep breath before he took a shot. Blood on his hands, not of a human life, but a kill he made to sustain them for the evening or the camp for days. The calm, peaceful look on his features as he sketched in his journal. Charles couldn’t help but be comforted in those moments - when the only sounds were that of nature around them, the other’s breath, and the rhythmic scratch of pencil against paper. 

He told himself he would only fight as hard and as long as Arthur did. That he would let Arthur rest when he gave up fighting.  

But he knew he was selfish. 

...

The relief when Charles saw their camp was palpable. His back and hips ached deep into the bone from keeping Arthur upright in the saddle. It was worth it, he told himself as he slowed Taima to a stop. It was worth it for Arthur to at least get the chance to die where he had called home. 

Charles scavenged a few bedrolls from the ashes and moved them over near the fire pit. He hoped it would be enough to keep the chill of the ground away as he laid Arthur on the makeshift mattress. 

His hands shook as he started a fire in the camp fire pit and settled next to Arthur. He fought with himself for a moment. He wanted to comfort the other, but part of him needed it too. He ran his fingers through shaggy, sweat soaked hair. How many times had he thought of this? Just the two of them, fire roaring, and deft fingers running through Arthur’s long hair. In the fantasies Arthur was drawing or telling stories, maybe even on the edge of sleep, not fighting for each breath. Charles was roasting their latest hunt, not barely keeping tears at bay.  

“Dutch-” Arthur’s voice cracked, still he sounded fearful. Charles’ eyes snapped up, he held his breath as he scanned their abandoned camp. They were alone, save for Susan’s blanket-wrapped body resting in what was left of Arthur’s tent where Charles had left her. 

Charles watched for a moment as Arthur tried to reach out, but he had no strength to lift his hand. Instead fingers twitched, begging for a father and a leader who wasn’t there. Charles couldn’t help but see a dying child, scared and alone, calling for the only father he had left. One who still wasn’t there when he was needed. Charles shifted closer and placed his hand gently on top of fingers still reaching. He used his thumb to rub, what he hoped, was soothing circles across the back of Arthur’s hand. 

Arthur mumbled something Charles didn’t quite catch, but a cough tore through his chest before he could repeat himself. Charles knew he had to be careful. Arthur had gotten the deadly disease from a cough too close. He needed to make sure he didn’t end up in the same position Arthur was in. The outlaw finally settled. Charles pulled the bandanna off of Arthur’s neck and used it to clean the blood from around his mouth. He didn’t speak other than the occasional reassurance when Arthur would stir - only half awake, fearful and confused as he mumbled out for his mentor. Instead, he hummed to himself. A song his mother used to sing to comfort him as a child. A song he often sang to comfort himself when he was alone. 

Once he knew Arthur was comfortable and asleep, he grabbed his bow off of his saddle and started toward the tree line. Part of him, that small nasty part that kept making his eyes burn, worried that he would come back and find Arthur gone. 

Charles shook his head. He would kill the first game he found and hurry back. He refused to let Arthur pass alone, but he knew he had to take care of himself if he was going to take care of the other. The first game he saw ended up being a rabbit. It was smaller than he would normally shoot, but it was good enough. He was quick with his bow and rushed back to camp. 

His breath hitched when he approached the fire. Arthur was still. Charles fought the urge to shake the other awake and demand he share the pitiful rabbit. He took a moment and forced himself to breathe before he dropped the rabbit and knelt beside Arthur. He pressed the less bloodied hand to Arthur’s chest. Relief washed over him when Arthur’s chest rose gently under his hand. His breath was weak and shallow, but steady. 

He was selfish. 

Charles gathered some of the cooking things Pearson had left behind. He found a few things that weren’t burned completely and sat back down near Arthur. He skinned and gutted the rabbit and secured it to a stick to roast it whole. He made sure to discard the remains and skin farther than camp then he normally would. They were alone, and he already had a corpse trying to lure in the wildlife. 

He winced at the thought. Death normally didn’t affect Charles. He knew his mother was dead, and he missed her dearly. He had watched his father mourn her for years as he drowned at the bottom of a bottle. He didn’t let himself feel loss, it was a natural part of life. There was no reason to fear something that would happen to everyone at some point or another. 

Still, if he was honest with himself, he knew he was ready to mourn Arthur as he climbed that mountain. It was that same bitter hope that kept him from mourning Grimshaw. If he mourned her, he didn’t know if he could keep himself from mourning Arthur too. 

He forced himself to sit still and think. He kept one hand on Arthur's as he watched the rabbit over the fire. He realistically had no way to take care of Arthur on his own. He knew natural medicine, and he knew how to survive in the wilds. He did it for so long before he joined the gang. He was sure that between the two strong, healthy men and their shared knowledge, they would be more than able to build a life far away from the civilization they both loathed. That didn’t help Arthur, who was riddled with tuberculosis and weak from whatever happened on the mountain. 

Charles tried to wrack his mind for anything that could be helpful. They needed a doctor, that much was obvious, but they were wanted men. He knew Arthur’s face was pinned to every bulletin in West Elizabeth. Which made getting a city doctor nearly impossible. They could go to Saint Denis but he was sure that posters would still be around after their failed bank robbery. 

He took a moment to check Arthur’s injuries while the meat cooked. There were marks across his skin, where bullets had grazed him in the gunfight leading up the mountain. He was bruised and healing at least a few broken bones. A fight? Micah, Charles assumed, but really had no way of knowing. If Micah and Arthur had fought - where were Dutch and John? He hoped John had escaped with his family. He made a mental note to write. He never had to write a letter where the gang was concerned. He wasn’t even sure where to send it so that John might see it. He sighed, knowing it was probably wishful thinking anyway. There was no way of knowing if John ever made it off that mountain at all. 

That selfish part of him wished John had come back. Had found them on the rock face. Between them, they would have a better plan. He would be able to care for John and his family while they cared for him and Arthur. He angrily brushed a hand over his face, clearing the tears he refused to admit were pooling in his eyes. It wasn’t fair, to John or his family. Charles knew he was relieved they made it off the mountain. He hoped they were safe. Still, that selfish part of him wished he wasn’t alone. 

Noise across the camp brought him out of his sulking. He smiled, almost amused as Taima had a fit over a squirrel being too close to her personal space. “Irritable old woman” Arthur had lovingly called her. Train, Arthur’s young Shire, had been bitten many times because he didn’t listen to Taima’s warnings. Everyone had told Arthur the horse was too young, too stubborn, to trust in this lifestyle. Arthur had refused, always ready to defend his bull-headed horse, apple in hand. 

Charles watched lovingly as Taima kicked toward the small creature. She missed her target, but she successfully knocked her saddle off its hitching post and spilled his saddlebags in the process. He sighed, too wrung out from his previous thoughts to have anything left in him to be angry. He stood to defend his princess from her assailant when something from the spilled supplies caught his eye. 

An old, worn down journal. 

It felt as if someone had punched him, all the air suddenly leaving his lungs as he stared at the old journal. He recognized it immediately, but had no idea how it got into his saddle bag. How many times had he sat still, watching the water or birds in the distance, pretending not to notice Arthur sketching him into that same journal? How many times had he really not noticed? How many times had he watched Arthur go that beautiful shade of pink when he got caught, pencil in hand? 

He bent down, saddle bags forgotten, and held the well-loved leather in his hands. He fought with himself. Arthur was private about his journal, and wouldn’t want him to look while he was still alive to protest. Charles cast a look back over his shoulder, toward the fire. 

Selfish. 

He leaned against the hitch post, squirrel forgotten, and gently pulled the cover open. The first page was about Blackwater, a replacement from the journal lost in the chaos of leaving after the job-gone-wrong. Charles flipped to the last used page. The picture was his face, but the lines shook from an unsteady hand. Charles realized that he wasn’t there when Arthur drew this one. He would have been with the tribe. Which meant the last thing Arthur had drawn was his face, by memory, with a short paragraph underneath.

“This is it, I think. I’m not too sure what is gonna happen next, but it won’t be good. I know I have some tough choices to make, and some choices that ain’t so tough.

The doctor I saw said something about a will. I laughed at him. I ain’t got nothing worth keeping. I know Charles will take care of Train, if Taima will let him. I think I’m going to throw this in the fire pit. The drawings of Charles in it - well, that French artist would have been proud. Charles wouldn’t want anyone else to see him the way I did.” 

Charles read the paragraph again. Then reread it. He couldn’t stop his hands from shaking. He couldn’t stop staring into his own eyes. The shaky lines still held warmth. It made Charles’ heart tighten to know that despite all of the chaos their lives had been in the last months, Arthur trusted him till the end. 

He tried to remember an artist from Arthur’s stories. The only thing he could remember was talk of an art show in Saint Denis months ago. He remembered Arthur had laughed, but hadn’t said much else. He quickly flipped through the pages, trying to go the months back and find anything about the artist. Instead, something else caught his attention.

“Heard a rumor about some secret room at the doctor’s office in Valentine. I’m considering looking into it, see if there’s some money to be had there.” 

He remembered, months ago, Arthur had mentioned an O’Driscoll hideout in the doctor’s office in Valentine. It wasn’t ideal. Valentine was too small to have the medicine Arthur would need to get better. Still, it was better than adding to the number of corpses in Beaver Hollow. 

It was decided. He would take Arthur back to Valentine and either pay off or threaten the doctor. He cringed. Money was going to be its own problem. After Arthur was settled in Valentine, he could take bounties, but that would mean leaving him alone for days at a time. Charles shook his head. He checked the saddle bag, a desperate search for the few dollars he had left to his name. Instead he found a fur covered satchel that definitely didn’t belong to him.

He glanced up toward the slumbering outlaw again. That same part of him, the nasty voice in the back of his mind, knew he was desperate enough to use Arthur’s money if it meant he got better. Against his better judgement, he opened the satchel. 

Selfish. 

Charles felt himself gawk at the thick money clip and jewelry at the bottom of the bag. He knew Arthur was on his own a lot. But according to Arthur’s stories, he didn’t do much robbing while he was out on his own. Charles lifted a large, deep green gem out of the mess of rings, buckles, and watches. He had never seen an emerald that size. Where the hell did Arthur get it? 

He put the gem back and counted the money clip. “There is enough here to pay off your bounty in Blackwater and then some,” Charles said out loud, knowing Arthur wouldn’t hear him. Part of him considered it. He could pay off the bounty and get him a city doctor. He could sell the jewelry and pay for medicine. 

After a long moment, he shook his head. He had no guarantee that they wouldn’t take the money and hang them both anyway. That was too close to the Pinkertons. He was good with a gun, sure, but protecting them both with Arthur in this state was enough of a challenge without unwanted heat from Blackwater. 

For now, he had to get Arthur safe in Valentine and allow Miss Grimshaw to rest.

Chapter Text

Warmth. 

It felt good against his skin.

The cold had been nearly unbearable, but it was over now. 

He couldn’t remember what he had been doing, but he sat in an open field. His journal sat open in his lap. He flipped back a page, trying to remember what he had been writing, but it was blank. He didn’t have it in him to care. Instead he pulled out his pencils and let himself enjoy the sunshine. He hummed a song he couldn’t remember learning, but he found comfort in it anyway. 

He sketched the deer as they bound across the open plane. There was one, a large, majestic buck with large antlers, that stood still. It stared at him as if trying to read him. Arthur knew he should probably be unnerved by such a big animal staring him down, but he wasn’t. He continued to draw. 

A noise to his right made him look up. A bison huffed as it leisurely made its way to stand next to the buck. He stopped drawing to watch them for a moment. The bison rubbed its head against the buck’s side, careful of its deadly horns, before laying down. The buck watched Arthur a moment longer before laying itself against the bison. 

Arthur smiled, he felt safe and warm, as if he could feel what the buck felt. He watched them a moment longer before he turned the page and started drawing again. This time, the picture as it should be. 

Chapter Text

It was awkward riding and he wished that one of the wagons from camp had survived the fire. Instead Charles held Arthur upright in the saddle and Miss Grimshaw’s body lay wrapped in a blanket across Tamia’s back. She was sure-footed, and they moved far slower than Charles would have liked. Even still, Arthur was restless the entire way. Charles wasn’t sure he was fully awake.  

They had stopped south of the Elysian Pool, in a beautiful clearing overlooking the Kamassa River below. He laid out his bedroll and laid Arthur on it as he buried Miss Grimshaw. Despite the crushing weight of Arthur’s sickness, he got his whittling knives out of his saddle bags and took time to carve her name into the cross he made for her headstone. He drove her headstone into the ground and bowed his head. He didn’t know if Miss Grimshaw believed in anything. He wasn’t sure if he did either. So instead, he and Arthur had a moment of silence to remember her as she was before the chaos. 

“I know she was important to you.” Charles said quietly to Arthur, who was still sleeping on the bedroll near the grave. “I didn’t know her long, but she was a big presence around camp. She was loyal to a fault and loved deeply in her own way. What happened to her wasn’t fair, just as the other recent deaths hadn’t been fair. She will be dearly missed.” 

He stood a moment longer before gathering them up and starting the journey to Valentine. As much as he hated to bury her and leave so quickly, they were losing daylight. It was risky to travel this way. He had to get Arthur to Valentine as quickly as possible. He didn’t want to dig another grave so soon. There have been far too many lately. 

What if he had to dig another? One last grave. One that would surely be his own final resting place too. Would someone find him before he was anything more than a broken skeleton above an unmarked grave? He clenched his fists at the thought.

No, not unmarked. To mark Arthur’s grave would be an honorable last act. Would he add a cross? Would it be simple? No, it would be bigger. Something he could sit down and spend time carving. It made his heart ache to think about sitting down on the mound of fresh dirt, to sit where his best friend lay beneath the soil. 

He knew one thing for sure. If it came down to it. If he had to mark Arthur’s eternal resting place, it would be with the nicest cross he ever made. It would have to be worthy of its place. Something that reflected who lay beneath it. Something that reflected who Arthur was at his best. Charles could think of only one word that would have truly meant something to Arthur in his final moments… 

Righteousness. 

...

They traveled through the night into the hottest hours of the afternoon, but they finally made it. Arthur was drenched in sweat, and shaking despite the heat settled over the farmtown. Charles carried him into the doctor’s office. Arthur slung as carefully as he could over one shoulder, his free hand resting on his holster. 

“How can I-” The doctor stared at him, wide eyed, and for a moment Charles worried he would run out the back. Could he put Arthur down gently and make it to the doctor in time before he got out and to the Sheriff's office next door? He honestly doubted it. His heart beat pounded in his ears for what seemed like hours as he waited for the doctor to either try to run or offer aid. 

“He needs a doctor.” He broke the silence, his hand tightened on the grip of his gun, but he didn’t pull it. The doctor looked between the man on his shoulder and his hand on the sawed-off shotgun. 

“He looks like he needs a morgue, son...” The doctor leaned around his desk to look toward Arthur’s face. Charles growled. He knew how bad it was. He didn’t need this man to tell him that. He had wasted too much time. He knew that, but it made his heart ache to leave too quickly. Now, Arthur was wracked with fever. He could feel the outlaw’s sweat soaking through the shoulder of his shirt. Heat radiated off his body in waves that made Charles feel light headed. 

“I know about the gang hideout in the back, the one that was cleared out months ago. Consider it occupied again.” Charles wasn’t sure he was as intimidating as he hoped, not with his voice and hands shaking. He did not want to hurt this man. He needed him. Still, he couldn’t have the doctor going to the law either. He already proved himself weak under the O’Driscoll’s, Charles needed that weakness. 

“I’ll pay good, but you have to help him.” 

Charles set Arthur down as gently as he could on the couch with the fewest stains. “You can’t just walk in here and start moving furniture around like you own the place.” The doctor demanded as he moved the patient’s bed into the backroom. 

“Yes, I can. He is your biggest concern now and I need to be able to keep an eye on him.” He moved all of the equipment and supplies, at the doctor’s begrudged instruction, into the backroom around the bed. Next he moved one of the stained, threadbare couches between Arthur’s bed and the back door. He considered moving one of the spare furniture pieces in front of the door, but decided against it in case they needed a quick escape. 

“Son,” The doctor, Calloway if Charles remembered right from the sign up front, started as he examined Arthur. Charles set the end of the couch he was moving down and stretched his back as he listened. “I know ya want me to tell ya I have some magic cure-all to fix your friend here, but such a thing just don’t exist. His TB is too far along. He’s dyin’, and fast. On top of that, he’s got more broken bones than I know what to do with.” 

Charles tried to keep the hate he felt off his features. It wasn’t fair to the doctor, after all, he knew how bad it was. Still, he didn’t drag Arthur off that mountain, didn’t drag him all the way to Valentine, just to immediately give up. 

Selfish. 

“I know it is bad, but your one job now is to keep him alive.” Charles tried not to growl, but judging by the way the doctor flinched, he did not succeed. 

“I can give him enough morphine to keep him down and help with the pain until he passes. He won’t feel any pain.” The doctor pulled out a large syringe, ready to administer the morphine at Charles’ word. 

“No. You can give him enough to keep him comfortable, but I want him to wake up.” Charles insisted and lifted the end of the couch again, finally settling it into place. This would be where he slept, he decided. Close enough that he could easily hear if Arthur called out for him, but between him and the door should something happen. 

“Son, I just don’t have the kind of resources you would need to help.” 

“Who would?” Charles dropped to the couch. His muscles ached. His head throbbed from his vain attempts to keep his anger contained. His back and hips hurt from the extended ride from the mountain to Valentine while also keeping Arthur upright. Not to mention the grave he dug while he let Taima rest. He had traveled through the night before as well, trying to get back to camp - and then up the mountain - as quickly as he could. His body was starting to feel the exhaustion. 

“The doctor in Saint Denis or Blackwater might have something better.” The doctor hesitated, his hand rubbed nervously at the back of his neck. Charles watched his eyes shift between the sawed-off gun in its holster and the back door. His muscles tightened, ready to draw if he had to. More likely, ready to tackle the man if he tried to bolt. “Really... if he is goin’ to have any chance at all... he needs one of those new sanitoriums. I got a few pamphlets for the one in California.” 

The words echoed in Charles’ skull for a moment. He knew there was a decent amount of money in the satchel, and he could get more if he sold the items at the bottom. Still, he doubted he had nearly enough to get Arthur into a sanatorium that was good enough to help him.  Even if he could. His heart ached at the prospect of shipping Arthur off to some facility to live out the rest of his days in a hospital bed. That is the last thing the cowboy would have wanted. 

“Why so far away?” Charles choked out.

“Sanatoriums are still new here. The one in Northern California is nice, the pictures look like a fancy hotel up in the mountains.” The doctor at least had the decency to look sympathetic. Charles couldn’t shake the feeling of guilt that clutched his chest. If he truly cared about Arthur, he would scrap up the money and take him to the sanitorium. But that felt like abandoning him.

“You can’t just abandon family, boy.” Charles cringed at his uncle’s voice in his mind. He had heard that line many times within the two years they lived together in the cabin out west. 

“We are more than just a gang. We are family.” Charles could see the leader of their make-shift family clearly in his mind. How the man had gone from pristine and well put together to desperate and paranoid. How quickly the family’s fall had happened. 

Family had never been something Charles kept long. They had fled the tribe before Charles was old enough to really remember it. His mother was taken from him when he was in his impressionable years. His father was taken from him by the bottle always in his hand. His uncle had tried to fill the gaps, but it wasn’t enough. The gang had been family for a short while, but he never allowed himself to get too close to anyone. 

Anyone but Arthur. 

God, he was a fool. 

He took a breath to steady himself. “I’ll go to Saint Denis. I’ll get as much medicine as I can and bring it back here. I have to think about everythin’ else. You keep the doors closed and keep him alive until I get back.” 

The doctor stuttered for a moment, “I- I don’t know what you think this is, Son, but I gotta make a livin’. I can’t just close my doors and protect your friend. Who will probably be dead by the time ya get back, anyway.” 

Charles couldn’t help the grunt he made as he stood, his muscles protesting the movement. He dug through the satchel and counted the bills from the money clip. Charles remembered when Arthur had come back to camp, seething after a debt collection run. He watched as Arthur packed up Herr Strauss’ things, counted out bills as Charles did now, and sent him out of camp. 

He dropped a stack of bills on the table and stared the doctor down, daring him to argue again. The doctor looked at the bills, eyes wide in disbelief, then back at Charles. “He will be alive when I get back and you will take good care of him while I’m gone. Otherwise, I will kill you and take the money back.” He left no room for argument. 

The doctor picked up the cash and thumbed through it, counting it again and again. Charles kept his grip on the satchel tight, in case the man’s greed got the better of him. “By god, Sir, there is a thousand dollars here.”

“Am I clear?” Charles did not want to hurt the man, but he knew the medicine would be expensive. He had to make sure this was going to be worth the trip. He needed the doctor to cooperate. “Yes, yes I understand. I’ll keep the doors closed - your friend will have my utmost attention. But, Son, you gotta know that he might not make it-”

“You took the money.” Charles cut him off. He stuttered a moment, as if trying to find the words to argue even as he held the money in a death-grip. 

“Let me send you with a list.” The doctor pocked the money before Charles could change his mind. “Give it to the doctor in Saint Denis and he will give you what you need.”

...

There was no cure, he knew that, but he would do what he had to if it meant Arthur might recover. It was selfish. Charles didn’t want to live without him. He tried to calm his racing mind as he rode as fast as Taima could move. He let tears stream his cheeks as he rode toward Saint Denis. 

He tried to prepare himself for the very real possibility that Arthur would be dead when he returned. He tried to picture his life without the outlaw, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t stop picturing his father’s face after his mother was taken from them - sunken and sweat soaked from the drink always in his hand. He had cared for his father as he grieved his mother. He tried to, anyway. He was selfish then too.

“Just end it, son, please. I can’t take the pain no more... I miss her bad...” 

Charles hadn’t done it, despite his father’s endless drunken begging. Instead he had left a note in his poor writing for his uncle to find and left. He had gathered the few things he owned and ran. 

He felt like he was running again. 

This time, though, he was going back. He wouldn’t abandon Arthur like he had his father. Like he had Dutch. He would go back to Valentine, with medicine, and Arthur would still be there. He might even be awake and asking where he’s been. 

He wanted nothing more then to see that rugged scowl looking back at him when he walked in the door. He wanted to hear that gruff voice demanding to know why he left. Why he was left in Valentine of all places. When they were leaving. He was okay with Arthur’s ire if it meant he was alive and well enough to complain. 

Charles was a fool. 

A selfish, love-sick fool. 

Arthur’s death would surely kill him too. 

He wasn’t sure if he would want it any other way.

Chapter Text

Arthur yawned and stretched his arms above his head. The sun had been setting for a while now, but he wasn’t sure how much time had passed. He just knew that the cold had settled back in. It was cold, but not uncomfortable like it was before. His skin crawled a bit and his hands shook, but they had been shaking for a long while now. He stood, draped his satchel back over his chest, and started walking. He wasn’t sure where he was going, but it didn’t really matter to him. He was enjoying the fresh, crisp air of the late evening and the sounds of nature around him.

“I was wonderin’ when I would get to talk to you.” He stopped and spun on his heels. 

“Hosea?” 

The old man sat in a wooden chair in front of an old cabin that Arthur was sure hadn’t been there when he walked past a few moments ago. His face was no longer sunken, and his eyes looked brighter than Arthur remembered. He looked healthy. He didn’t cough as he took a long, slow drag of a cigarette. 

“Hiya, Arthur. Come sit with me a minute.” Hosea offered him the cigarette and patted the wooden chair beside him. Arthur sat down and took the smoke. 

“Been rough without ya, Hosea. Dutch he-” 

“Yeah,” the old man put his arm around Arthur’s shoulders, “I know,” he sighed heavily. “I know you tried to stop it, but that train ‘ad been rollin’ for a long time. Longer than even I realized.” Arthur just sat for a long moment, enjoying the closeness of his father and the ease of a smoke. 

“I miss ya, Hosea.” he finally sighed. Hosea laughed. He watched the man laugh without coughing. His breath came easy without wheezing. It made Arthur’s heart swell to see him in good health again. It had been hard to watch him slowly dying. Almost as hard as watching that bullet pierce his- 

“Stop it, Arthur.” Hosea was firm, but didn’t snap at him. He stared at the man for a moment before nodding. He wasn’t one to question Hosea. “I’m fine, Son. I promise I am. That bank job was... wasn’t Dutch’s fault... and it wasn’t yours either. Bad things happen in our line of work and I knew the risks. I was glad it was me and not you or John.” 

“Guarma-” 

“Was not the ‘island getaway’ that Dutch had promised.” He laughed, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes, “I know, and I’m so sorry you ‘ad to go through that, Son.” Hosea hugged him. Arthur thought to pull away, but couldn’t make himself do it. Hosea had always been more openly affectionate with him and John. Dutch was hard pressed to do more than put a hand on his shoulder, but Hosea was always around for a hug if their pride could let them indulge. Arthur felt no such pride now. He happily hugged the old man back. 

“Love ya, Son. Always have, you and John, even if I didn’t say it enough.”

“Love ya too, Hosea.” He fought with himself for a moment before he added, “I’m sorry about Saint Denis. I know ya said you're okay now, but I still need you to know I’m sorry. I wish I could have done somethin’ other than hide.”

“I know you are. I forgive ya, even if I was never cross with you ‘bout it. I know ya feel guilty over it. You and Dutch both. I forgive ya both.”

Chapter Text

Charles pulled his blue jacket over his shoulders to conceal his gun and slung his satchel across his chest. Get in, get the medicine, get out before someone gives him trouble. He pushed the door open and did his best to keep his hands from shaking as he pulled the list out of his pocket. 

“Howdy, Sir, can I help you?” The doctor, a thin, squirrely man in a vest and thin rimmed glasses spoke as Charles entered. 

“I, um,” Charles cleared his throat. He held out the list and willed his hands to stop shaking, “I need these things. Medicines and supplies.” 

The doctor took the list and lowered his glasses, reading each one as if it were some secret code he had to decipher. Charles felt sweat bead on his neck. He wasn’t sure what was making him more nervous: possibly being recognized in the city where he robbed the bank or the doctor making a fuss. One would get him hanged at best, the other would surely tear apart the paper-thin lies he prepared. He tried to take a breath to calm his nerves. He had done far worse than this, he wasn’t sure why he was so worked up. Hell, he planned on paying for the medicine. 

The doctor didn’t say much as he moved about the shelves, instead whistling to himself while he worked. Charles couldn’t help but glance over his shoulder while he waited. He knew, realistically, it wasn’t going to be his face plastered across bulletin boards. Regardless, he worried that if they caught him - the black Indian and the only one of the group left - he would certainly hang before nightfall. Arthur didn’t have a chance if he was sitting in a Saint Denis jail cell waiting to swing. 

“Here you go, Friend.” The doctor set several jars and vials on the counter. Charles hesitated. He picked the list up off the counter. He was no doctor, nor any kind of expert in medicine, but he could tell the list had more items than were on the counter.

“Where is the rest of it?” He handed the list back. He could see the sweat marks against the paper from his hands. He had already been here too long. He needed to leave. 

“Well, ya see, I can’t give you some of the stuff you asked for. I’m not sure who gave you the list but I can’t help you.” The doctor was kind, but Charles’ teeth clenched. He wondered if he should just take it and go. He could take this and hope it was enough. 

No, Charles was selfish. Arthur wasn’t going to get better on ‘good enough’. 

“I am the errand boy for Doctor Calloway in Valentine. He needs supplies... for a particularly sick patient. I need the supplies on the list, but I- he is more than willing to pay a little extra for the inconvenience.” Charles wasn’t as quick on his feet as Arthur was, but the fact that his story was mostly true certainly helped. 

The doctor looked Charles up and down a few times, taking him in, “And if I sent a letter to this, ‘Doctor Calloway in Valentine’ would he give me the same story?” 

“He would, but I need the supplies now. You can send your letter after.” Charles’ hand dropped to rest on his hip, it would take seconds to throw the edge of the coat back and draw his weapon, but he desperately didn’t want to do that. 

“What is your name then, Sir. I would like to ask Doctor Calloway specifically.” 

“Tacitus Kilgore,” Charles wanted to laugh as he said it, but held himself together. He would have to remember to give the doctor an answer to the incoming letter. Charles watched the doctor write down the fake name, stare at it a moment, and eye him once more before gathering the rest of the items. 

Charles left with two large leather bags full of supplies. He couldn’t help but feel that same burning hope from the mountain. It wasn’t the best in the world, but it was the best he could do for now. 

“Charles?” 

“Karen?” He couldn’t help the shock in his voice as he turned around. Of all the people in the world, of all the gang members he expected to run to civilization, Karen hadn’t been one of them. He recognized the dress she wore as one she kept set aside from jobs. The red velvet and fancy lace clashed desperately against the bottle in her hand and the make up smeared beneath her eyes. “What are you doing here?” 

“We packed up and ran when everything got bad.” She leaned in close, her breath reeked of stale whiskey as she whispered to loud, “Dutch went crazy!” 

Charles stepped back, the smell hitting something deep in his chest. Something he didn’t have the time or the energy to dissect today. “Yeah, I know...” Should he tell her he was on the mountain in the aftermath? About Grimshaw? Arthur? John? “Wait, you said we. Who else is here?” 

“Me, Tilly, and Marry-Beth are stayin’ in a hotel on the other side of town.” She stumbled forward. Charles’ hands shot out to catch her, but she righted her balance before he could. She shooed his hands away, “I’m fine, God knows this ain’t the first time you’ve seen me drunk.” 

“Have you heard from anyone else?” He asked and ignored her statement. Truth was - he wasn’t sure he had ever seen her sober.

“Not until I ran into you.” She poked his chest and smiled. The smile didn’t reach her eyes. It reminded Charles of the few times he watched them work. They flirted, cooed, and fingers danced across skin as they tried to sweet-talk men in saloons into renting a room. Despite loving words and flirtatious touches, their eyes were hollow - no emotion behind glassy eyes. 

“Go home, Karen, back to your hotel.” He didn’t want anyone to take advantage of the drunken woman in fancy clothes, but he knew better than to mention that fear out loud. She looked like she was going to say something, but the color suddenly drained from her face. Charles barely stepped back in time for her to lean over and empty her stomach on the cobblestone. Sick covered the brown leather of his boots. 

“Sorry,” She slurred, one hand firmly on her bottle, the other trying to keep her skirt out of the mess. 

“It’s alright...” He looked back at his saddle bags and the medicine within. He had to get back to Arthur... but he couldn’t just leave her to wander the streets drunk. 

“Here,” he was mindful of his hands as he gently lifted her up onto the back of Taima. The impatient horse shook out her mane in protest, but otherwise didn’t react. “I’m fine, damnit, I don’t need you to-” Karen’s protests quieted as she clutched her stomach. 

Charles said nothing as knocked the worse of the mess off his boots onto the cobblestone and  settled in his saddle. He knew he didn’t have time for this, but he refused to just leave an old friend like that. “You heard from anyone?” Karen asked, voice choked like was trying to distract herself from being sick again. 

Should he tell her about Arthur? That they are hiding in Valentine? What if Arthur was gone when he returned? At least now, he would be the only one disappointed. Everyone else thinks he is already gone. “No.” He finally settles, but he feels guilt tightening in his chest as he speaks, “You're the first one I’ve seen since everything happened. I got a camp in New Hanover I’ve been stayin’ in.” 

Charles couldn’t listen to Karen’s drunken mumbling. It was all too much from his already shot nerves. When was the last time he slept? He blinked heavily, as if the thought alone was enough to remind his body of its exhaustion. He forced a deep breath and squared his shoulders. His job wasn’t done yet, and it was a long ride back to Valentine. 

“You okay?” He felt her hand rest against his shoulder. He looked back at her and gave her his best reassuring look. The worry on her face settled heavily in her eyes. The hand on his shoulder was more than the touches he had watched her give men in saloons. This was genuine. Not for a night together, not money for the gang, just genuine care for a friend. 

“Yeah, I am, it's just been a rough week.” 

Charles startled when a laugh tore through Karen, breaking their almost tender moment. She laughed hard, like it had been bubbling for months and finally broke free. Charles felt himself smile where she couldn’t see. He wasn’t sure what the hell was so funny, but the sound was infectious. 

“You sound just like him. God I miss that miserable bastard.” He could hear the tears in her voice, even as her laughter died down. 

“Who?” 

“Arthur. God, months after Blackwater, the gang is fallin’ apart, and he's takin’ it all from Dutch.” Karen gripped his shoulder tighter. “All he had to say was ‘It’s been a rough couple of weeks.’” She mimicked Arthur’s gruff voice, as she spoke. Charles felt his heart break. “He did everythin’ for that goddamn camp. Everythin’. Chores, jobs, supply runs, and still found time to be one of us.” Karen was openly crying now. “Dutch always acted like he was a god among men, but Arthur was one of us. He understood our problems. He weren’t perfect, but damn it all he was a good man.” 

Charles would never admit to the tears pooling in his own eyes as she spoke. 

“He was a damn good man, Mr. Smith.” She said again, her voice thick with tears. He heard her take a swig of her whiskey. 

“Yeah he was, Miss Jones.” 

“You know,” she settled closer to his back, leaning against him, “I hated Grimshaw. I really did sometimes. But sometimes, I hear her voice. I hear her, like she's chewing someone out in the next room. Like I’m next. I still hear Sean, actin’ a fool. I hear his laugh, his stupid lines. Sometimes, if I sit quiet long enough, I can feel his hands on my skin. I swear, Mr. Smith I can. I still hear Dutch sometimes too, yelling about his plans, about faith and family and distant islands. And Molly, god that poor woman...” Karen’s voice broke, “We fought, but she didn’t deserve what she got. None of them really did, but her least of all. She never told anyone nothing. Do you know what her sin was? The sin she died for? Bein’ in love.” 

“Yeah,” Charles mumbled, “A sin that’ll damn us all if we ain’t careful.” There was silence between them, heavy and thick, as he hitched Taima in front of Karen’s hotel. 

“I know you was sweet on him,” Karen allowed him to help her down off Taima. She leaned in close when she spoke, “All us women kind of did, and we was all rooting for you. It weren’t your fault he was as bull-headed as that damn horse of his.” She chuckled, bitter and sad. He couldn’t respond. Anything felt like a lie in an otherwise tender moment, and he couldn’t do that. 

“Karen! Mr. Smith?” They turned to see Tilly and Mary-Beth coming out of the hotel. “We was just comin’ to look for you.” 

“I found Charles outside of the Doctor’s across town. He brought me back after I was sick on his boots.” Karen said woefully, but the smile on her lips ruined her act. Charles let himself smile as the women each took one of Karen’s hands in their own. 

“Well thank you for brin’ her back.” Tilly said, giving him a polite smile. “And I’m sorry about your boots.”

“You want to come in, Charles? Have a drink with me and Tilly?” Mary-Beth offered as they started to make their way inside. 

“What about me?” Karen snapped, trying to pull away from them, but her balance wouldn’t allow it. 

“You have had enough to drink. You’re goin’ to bed.” Tilly snapped, but there was no venom behind it. 

“I would love to, honest, but I have to get back. I was running a delivery job and can’t be much later than I already am.” He wanted desperately to get back to Arthur, but his heart longed for the comfort of sitting with the women and holding a glass of something he wouldn’t drink. He wanted so badly to tell them everything. To let them dote on him for a moment, just a moment. He wanted to see their faces shift with worry when he told them about Arthur, sick but alive. It was isolating, but it was better this way. They had their own problems. They were taking care of a drink-sick Karen. They didn’t see more to worry about. He could handle it. He said his goodbyes and mounted Taima once again. 

It was going to be a long ride back to Valentine.

Chapter Text

Arthur wasn’t sure what the feeling in his chest was, but it was better after he and Hosea talked. Hosea had gone inside the cabin after their talk to get some rest. Arthur had fought back tears when Hosea told him Bessie was waiting on him. He wanted to see her, he missed her so much, but Hosea had said he needed to keep going. Arthur had started walking again. He wasn’t sure where, but he didn’t feel that he needed a destination either. 

“English!” Arthur barely caught the flash of red out of the corner of his eye before he was tackled to the ground. Sean’s laughter was infectious as Arthur half-heartedly grappled with him. 

“You two are crazy.” Arthur sat up quickly at the sound. “Lenny!” He was hauled to his feet and the three men hugged. 

“We missed ye, English. Been right quiet ‘round here without ye. How ‘bout a drink? Nice saloon just a bit off from ‘ere.” Sean was already walking away, still rambling about the small town he was leading them too. 

“A quiet drink. Right, Arthur?” Lenny nudged him as they laughed. “You know nothing is quiet with this fool around,” Arthur said it loud enough for Sean to hear. Sean laughed and flipped him a middle finger as he continued walking.

The town he followed them to looked like Valentine, but not quite. The smell of sheep wafted around them as they made their way up the main road. Arthur couldn’t quite place what was wrong with it, what was missing, but he knew something was. He didn’t have a lot of time to think about it, though. Sean and Lenny led him into the saloon. 

“So how ya been since we’ve been gone?” Lenny asked as they sat at the bar. Sean giggled as he jumped the worn wood and pulled three shot glasses from beneath the bar. 

“What the hell are you doin’, boy?” Arthur demanded, but any bite it had was lost as he fought off laughter. God, he missed these boys. 

“Look around ye, Arthur, ain’t no one else gonna serve us. Besides, who better to pour drinks then the Irishman.” He uncapped the whiskey and poured three heavy shots. Arthur looked behind them and realized why Valentine had looked so different. There was no one there. The normal movement and bustle of the small farm town was gone. The piano in the corner played quietly with no musician at the keys. He realized the song it played wasn’t one that would normally play in a saloon. It was softer, gentler, as if trying to sooth. He knew it, recognized it from somewhere, but couldn’t place it. 

“Listen, Arthur, I wanna talk about somethin’ important.” Lenny started, bringing his attention back to the men at the bar. Sean groaned about being ‘all business’ before he downed his shot. Arthur followed suit. The burn he expected didn’t come, but he did feel the warmth settle in his stomach. It was a comforting difference from the chill in his hands. 

“I’m sorry ‘bout what happened.” Arthur didn’t let Lenny finish, but he could tell this was the topic Lenny was about to breach. “With you,” he looked at Sean, “it all happened so fast. One minute we were walkin’ down Rhode’s main road and the next bullets were flyin’ and you were already dead. We didn’t have a chance to- there was nothin’- goddamnit, Sean it was a bad way.” 

“I know, Art’r. It wasn’t a fight we should ‘ave been in, but we was. I never blamed ye, English. Any o’ ye. It was that damn Gray bastard. He and I had it out when he died not long after me. Came to a right understandin’ we did. Had a few drinks after.” Sean put another shot in front of Arthur.

“You and Hosea didn’t even get buried right away. Charles and Abigail had to steal you and Hosea from the law after everything calmed down.” Arthur downed the shot and looked over to Lenny. “Hosea died, we blew the wall out of that bank, and we were swarmed. I stopped. I was gonna try to carry you with us, but we was surrounded. Dutch pulled me forward, if he hadn’t they would have put a bullet in me too. Then we were shipped off to that godforsaken island...” 

He remembered the moment each of them was shot. It was as if time slowed around them and nothing mattered except the ringing in his ears and the blood splattered across his face. Each of them had died far too young. 

“We forgive you, Arthur.” Lenny said, taking another shot, “Neither of our deaths was your fault. You’re right, we were too young, but we also knew the life we was leading. We knew it was always a possibility.” 

“Aye, it wasn’t fair, but none of it was. Wasn’t fair for ye either, English.” Sean took a long, deep drink straight from the bottle. 

“I miss ya both so much. I think about ya all the damn time.” Arthur mumbled into his whiskey. 

“Awe, you ‘ear this nonsense, Lenny? Ol’ English ‘as gone down right soft in ‘is old age.” Sean mocked him. “Shut up, ya goddamn fool,” they all laughed. 

“How ‘bout a game of poker before you go?” Lenny gestured to the empty table at the other end of the saloon. 

“Feck yeah! I’m about to show you the other thing Irishmen are best at.”

Chapter Text

Charles’ pushed the back door of the doctor’s office open with his shoulder as he carried both travel bags in his arms, “I’m back,” he called carefully into the room. Calloway walked through the office door, “Welcome back, for a moment there I thought maybe you ran out on me.” Charles ignored him and put the bags down on the table in the center of the room. It was already cluttered with opened supplies and tonics. 

“How is he?” He turned as he spoke, taking comfort in the fact that he could see Arthur’s chest rise and fall, even across the room. That in itself was an improvement from yesterday. The doctor had removed his shirt, most of his chest and his left arm were wrapped tightly in bandages. There was a cast on his leg. There were several stitches in the wounds across his arms and gauze across the bridge of his nose. 

“He is still here, as you can see, and there is no need to make any kind of fuss. The fever broke a while back now, and don’t look like it's gonna return any time soon.” Calloway was stiff, as if worried Charles would snap on him at any moment. It wasn’t unrealistic, but he couldn’t help but worry about the consequences of that later on. For now, he would just let the other’s fear help him control the situation. Just as the O’Driscolls had before Arthur cleared them out.

They had been hunting, but the game had been forgotten in lieu of conversation around a fire. Often, when they sat like this, there was nothing but the sound of pencil against paper. Tonight, though, Arthur confided in him. Charles, apparently the only one he would talk to like this outside of leatherbound pages. “That would mean admitting we were nothing more than low-down criminals.” Arthur grumbled, annoyed with his leader, his father.

“Which... we are.” He had pointed out. The only one who seemed to think otherwise was Dutch. 

“Yeah, I know, you don’t have to tell me. You know Dutch don’t see it that way. Kerian said somethin’ when we went after Colm that time at Six Point Cabin. It stuck with me.” Charles had waited in silence. “He said we, the gang, were the same as the O’Driscolls. John got mad, told him off with some life lesson that sounded like he was echoin’ Dutch.” 

He had stopped then, his head snapped up from the meat he had been cooking, “I mean, we are better than Colm. He don’t care about no one or nothin’ ‘cept himself.” Charles assured him he understood even if he didn’t fully. They were all criminals in the end, but he said nothing. “I hate to say it though,” Arthur continued, “‘specially after these last few months... it feels like Dutch has been doing everythin’ he hates Colm for.” 

“Son?” Charles was brought out of his thoughts. He tried to shake the memory from his mind, but he was too selfish to let go of the image of Arthur healthy and strong. He had been sick then, Charles realized now. He had a cough, persistent but otherwise unconcerning. He looked up, to see that same man weak and deathly pale.

“I’m listenin’,” Charles listened this time as the doctor went through his checklist again. Arthur, despite all odds, was not only still alive but even breathing a bit easier. He was by no means getting better, but he was dying slower. That was enough to bring back that hot, bitter hope Charles couldn’t seem to swallow for long. 

Charles sat on the couch and watched the doctor work. He had no idea what the doctor was giving him, only that Arthur’s arms and hands were full of needle sticks by the end of it. When the doctor finished he left, “I’m goin’ home for the night. I’ll be back with food in the mornin’. You should get some rest too.” 

Charles pulled one of the chairs up to the side of Arthur’s bed. As badly as he wanted to be close to the other, he knew he had already exposed himself to the disease far more than what is safe. He took a deep breath, both to clear his mind and his lungs, but the smell of sheep disturbed his peace. He couldn’t remember the smell being that strong when he was here before. He turned, seeing the doctor had opened the, previously boarded, windows. Fresh air, even if it smelled of sheep, was able to fill the room around them. 

“I want to tell you what happened today.” Charles said quietly. He didn’t want the doctor to overhear if he was still in the other room, both for the gang’s privacy and his own sanity. ‘The gang’s privacy.’ He chuckled bitterly, uncomfortable with the rage that boiled for a fleeting moment. The anger only left him feeling even more drained. He settled into the chair near Arthur’s side. The gang didn’t exist anymore. The only members he knew for sure were alive were the women and himself. 

He looked up and watched Arthur take a few breaths. He could hear the rattle this close, the build up in his lungs shook as he tried to breathe. He coughed less when he was asleep, Charles realized. It didn’t stop entirely, every once in a while he would shake himself into a coughing fit. His eyes would flutter for a moment as if he was going to wake up and his hand would move as if going to cover his face, but neither fully happened. Each time Charles would wipe away the blood that spattered against his lips. 

He wanted so badly to include Arthur in the list of people that survived, but it meant acknowledging the hope burning in his chest. He didn’t want to do that, but he didn’t want to mourn a man still fighting either. So he did neither. Instead, he put his hand on Arthur’s and settled back into the chair. “I saw Karen in Saint Denis.” he started. He hoped he would be able to remember all of the important things that would happen while Arthur was asleep. He had no idea how long it would be before Arthur woke up, or how long it would take for him to be coherent again enough to share these stories. 

He thought back to camp the day before. Arthur had spoken a few times, but only mumbled bits of words and his name. He wasn’t sure if Arthur knew he was there, or if he was searching for him. He didn’t know if Arthur could hear his reassurances, or if he was too far gone. 

“I wish I could tell you about seeing the women. I think you would be comforted knowing they stayed together, and got out mostly okay. Karen... isn’t doin’ as well as she could be, but Tilly and Mary-Beth are there for her.” Charles decided to omit the part where Karen had been sick on herself in the middle of the street. He was trying to comfort Arthur, not worry him. 

He looked back to the couch. Arthur’s satchel sat on one of the cushions. Inside of it, his journal. Charles scolded himself. He had already betrayed the other by reading it once. Still, it was a good way for Arthur to look back on what he had missed. Charles stood, gathered the journal and his pencil, and sat back down at Arthur’s side. 

He wasn’t uneducated, not really, but book learning had not been his mother’s biggest priority. She wanted him to know the way of his people. The teachings of the tribe. He could read and write, but it wasn’t anything like Lenny or Arthur could. He had been so young when she died. He knew his father couldn’t read or write, being a freshly freed slave when he met his mother. His uncle, also a freed slave, couldn’t read or write, but he tried to help where he could. He had cared more about making sure he didn’t get caught by the wrong people and could take care of himself. He didn’t care whether or not Charles could write a letter, but he made damn sure Charles could mix a poison for his arrows. 

“Maybe,” he paused and smiled, genuinely smiled, “maybe you will be so mad that I’m doing this, that you’ll wake up just to kick my ass for it.” Charles opened the book to a blank page. He hesitated, knowing how many years it had been since he wrote anything, but eventually put pencil to paper. 

“I want to apoligiz. I no my riting is not the best but I want you to no whats been going on. I want you to no that I never wanted to betray you by reding your jornal. I dont no how it got in my sadle bag but I hope riting to you this way wil keep me from forgeting any thing when you wake up. 

I brot caried you off the montan and we made it back to camp. I got the idea from a page in your jornal and one of your storys to bring you to Valentine. On the way we stoped near the Kamassa River and buryed Miss Grimshaw. I hope I did good by her but we did not stay with her long. When you wake up I wil take you to se her if you want. 

I went to Saint Denis to get medisin and met Karen. She said she with Tilly and Mary-Beth were staying in a hotel ther. Karen was drunk more drunk then normal. Me and Taima took her back and made sure she was safe with the other women. 

I wil not give up. I wil not let any thing hapen to you. I swar.   

- C” 

He decided to sign the mess he had written even if it felt silly to do so. It wasn’t as if Arthur wouldn’t know who wrote it. It wasn’t as if Charles wouldn’t tell him he had done it as soon as it came up. Still, it felt wrong to use Arthur’s safe place and not sign it. It felt as if he was acknowledging it wasn’t his. He flipped back to the last drawing Arthur had made. He stared into the copy of his own face for a long moment. He was not going to attempt to draw Arthur, especially in his current state, but the thought crossed his mind. 

He flipped through random pages, still trying to talk himself into putting it back where he got it, but wanting badly to feel connected to the author in some way. It was mostly animals and flowers Arthur found on his solo travels. It made Charles happy knowing that Arthur had done more than Dutch’s dirty work while he was away. There was a strange warmth in his belly knowing Arthur had spent most of his free time bird watching instead of robbing and killing. 

Charles watched as the drawing got more and more steady the further back he went. Each one was done with such care to detail. He could picture Arthur in his mind, sitting as still as he could in a bush somewhere, not a care in his mind except getting the drawing done before the animal got spooked and ran. 

He turned the page again and stopped, caught off guard by the two-page drawing of himself. He was laying on his side, facing away from Arthur. The lines in his hair, the dots across his shirt, and the curve of his body were done carefully. This image, more detailed then the animals, looked like it took hours to do. He could tell where the fire was, just out of view, due to the shades of gray smudged to look like shadow. He could see Arthur’s hands in his mind, calloused and rough from their lifestyle, smudged over in gray from using his fingers to get this very same effect. There was a small line at the bottom of the page, as if it was an after thought to caption the image. 

“Charles fell asleep before he was done talking. I might never know how the story ended, but the view was almost worth it.” 

Charles snapped the journal shut. No. No, no, no. He should have never opened the damn thing to begin with and now he had seen things he wasn’t supposed to see. It was one thing to see Arthur’s drawings of foxes and birds, but to see his inner thoughts was different. It wasn’t fair to see what Arthur thought about him, or anyone else, this way. It was supposed to be a safe place for him to write and think and draw. 

He couldn’t help the aching in his chest though. His mind teased him with the idea, the fleeting thought, that Arthur could think of Charles the same way he thought about him. It was foolish, of course it was. They were both men, and that’s not how men saw each other. Charles knew he was broken, selfish in a way that he couldn’t talk about with others. He had been with women, sure, but it never sated him the way thoughts of men always did - thoughts of Arthur always did.

He had seen men hang, or worse, for thoughts like this. Still, he couldn't stop the burning in his lower belly some nights. There were many nights on guard duty, alone late at night, when he dropped his gun to relieve the pressure in his jeans. He tried to think of a faceless woman, soft curves and softer skin. Despite that, it was always replaced with lake blue eyes, calloused hands, and broad shoulders.  

Charles put the journal back in the satchel and left both on the supply table. He decided he wasn’t going to read through any more of the journal, and he would keep his own additions short and factual. There was no need to fuel a pointless hope with passages he wasn't supposed to read anyway. He was just keeping notes for Arthur to know what happened until he was better. 

Besides, he would only have a few days worth of additions anyway. 

Charles laid back on the threadbare couch. He folded his arms behind his head and crossed his boots on the opposite arm rest. He let himself drift off for the first time in days. What could possibly really happen in only a few days' time? He might not even need to write anything further. Perhaps nothing of note would happen, Arthur would get better, and everything would start to calm down. 

He was a fool, and he knew it.

Chapter Text

Arthur was walking again. It had started to rain a bit, but it didn’t bother him much. He had a lot to think about as he walked. He thought about Hosea, Sean and Lenny. He thought about their deaths, and how his deaths had affected the outcome of the gang. Would Dutch have lost his mind had Hosea still been around? Would they have really settled down? Would the show down at Beaver Hollow ended differently had Sean and Lenny been there to take his side? Would it have happened at all if Hosea had been there to put a stop to Dutch’s spiral?

He stopped as the rain let up just as another cabin came into view. He recognized it immediately, and his heart shattered when he did. “God no... please no... I can’t...” he turned, ready to run back to the saloon in Valentine. Hell, he was ready to run all the way back to Hosea if it meant getting as far away from that cabin as he could. The fear he felt was childlike in a way he wasn’t used to. He was ready to run all the way back to his father just to hide in his cabin with his head tucked under the blankets. 

“Arthur?” 

Shit. 

“Eliza...” he turned back to face her. She stood on the porch, shielding her face from the rain that had started to fall again, heavier than before. “Come inside, Cowboy, before you get soaked to the bone.” 

He hesitated. He knew she was mad at him up until she died, and she had every right to be. It started raining harder, gluing his hair to his forehead and soaking his jacket. It was as if the world itself wanted him to walk into that cabin. He took a breath and walked up the porch he swore he would never see again. 

He walked in and expected it to look as it did the last time he saw it: ransacked and torn apart. Instead, it was warm and cozy. A pot steamed on the stove, making the air thick with the smell of stew. He could hear a music box playing in the bedroom and his heart jumped into his throat. “Sit down, Arthur.” Eliza gestured to the table and put a glass of whiskey and a pack of cigarettes in front of his seat. 

He thanked her and sat down. The whiskey was cheaper than what he had had with Sean and Lenny, but it was reminiscent of the drink he and Eliza had shared the few times they sat like this. It wasn’t often she put her anger aside to sit with him when he came to visit, but when she had it started and ended just like this. They would sit, discuss important matters regarding the cabin, money, their health, and the baby’s well being. Arthur had done his best to take care of them, it just wasn’t enough. 

“We need to talk, Arthur.” She started and took a long drink of her own whiskey. 

“You and everyone else today, it seems like.” he mumbled and immediately kicked himself for it. He was ready to apologize - to explain what he meant, but she laughed before he could. “Yeah, I know, but this is important.” 

“Can I-” he snuffed out the cigarette and pushed the whiskey forward, away from him, “Can I hold Isaac while we talk?” 

“Of course, he’s in his bassinet.” 

He stood, pulled off his jacket that was just starting to dry in the warmth of the lit fireplace, and walked toward the bedroom. He pushed the door open and was met with the sounds of his son, babbling and cooing, and the music box playing the same tune that had been playing at the saloon in Valentine. The same one he had hummed to himself as he watched the buck and the buffalo. He recognized it, but it didn’t sound right coming from the music box either. This wasn’t where he had heard it. 

He pushed the thoughts away and reached into the bassinet. Issac looked up at him with the biggest blue eyes in the world. He smiled at his useless father, cooed as if he was happy to see him. 

“That ain’t fair, you know.” Eliza said quietly so as not to disturb the baby’s good mood. 

“What ain’t fair?” Arthur gently adjusted the small body in his arms. He wasn’t great at this, but he remembered when Eliza had walked him through this the first time and tried his best to mimic the lesson now. He remembered holding Jack like this once. Only once. The pain had been too much then. 

“You weren’t useless. I-” She stopped herself, her arms crossed over her chest as she leaned against the door frame. “We were dealt a bad hand, Arthur.” 

“You had every right to be mad at me, Eliza. I’m sorry I wasn't here. I’m sorry you and the boy got hurt because of me.” Arthur’s hands were steady for the first time in a long time, despite his rising emotions. Nothing mattered more to him than his moment. He got to hold his son one last time. He got to make everything right with his mother, if he only could find the words. 

“We didn’t get hurt because of you, Arthur.” She insisted. “You left us, you chose the gang over us. That is what I was mad at you for, but we didn’t die because of you. You couldn’t have stopped what happened.” 

“If I hadn’t been followin’ Dutch around I would have been here to fend off the asshole who broke in.” Arthur insisted, his voice shook. He remembered vividly the bodies he had found. She had been shot. The gore soaked into the wooden floor had begun to rot when he found it. The baby hadn’t been, though. Isaac had simply been left alone in the cabin after they got their fortune. The mother of his child had died for ten dollars. His baby had died, alone and scared, for ten dollars. 

Two small crosses was all that he had left. The sight of two small crosses, heavy in the earth despite their size.  

“You weren’t perfect. You were a bad man who made stupid choices, but that wasn’t all of you. You were also a sweetheart who loved that boy. You sent money when you had it to send. You were here when you could be. Neither of us wanted this life, but we made it work while we could.” 

Arthur held onto Isaac just a bit tighter as he listened, needing to be closer but being careful not to hurt him. “I can’t accept that.” He felt tears burning behind his eyes, but he refused to cry in front of her. “I see what’s happenin’. Hosea, Sean and Lenny, and now you. Hosea’s death wasn’t my fault, it was a bad situation. Same with Sean and Lenny. I felt- hell, I still feel guilty over them, but they weren’t my fault. You and the boy could have lived a comfortable life if I had been here. Hell, Eliza, you would have been able to live your life worry free if I hadn’t been lookin’ where I shouldn’t have been. You would still be alive and well if I had just stayed out of your life.” 

She took a moment. She let him get it out of his system before she spoke, “I also wouldn’t have Isaac if you hadn’t come knockin’ all those years ago. He was the best thing that ever happened to me and I wouldn’t have given that up for the world. We had a bad run, but it takes two.” 

“I’m so sorry...” the tears fell. He couldn’t stop them. He couldn’t look her in the eye as he stood there before her, weak as he was all those years ago, and wept like a child.

“I know you are, Arthur. He knows too, in his own way. I’ve had a long time to think about all of it now. I forgive you, Arthur. I truly do. We were too young to make the decisions we did.” She closed the distance between them and brushed some of the thin blonde hair out of the baby’s face. He babbled happily. Arthur felt himself melt at the toothless smile on the boy’s face. 

“You were right to be mad at me, but hearing you say you forgive me now... that means a lot.” Arthur brushed his face on his shoulder, careful not to jostle Isaac. “I loved you both, in my own way. We weren’t in love, I know that, but you always held a spot in my life. You were always the mother of my son. The woman I lost... we weren’t in love but I did love you both.” 

“I know what you mean. I can’t say I felt the same then, but I understand it now.” They sat down on the edge of her bed in silence as Isaac continued to make his noises of happy contentment.