Chapter Text
Arthur blearily opens his eyes to the familiar sight of the inside of his father’s hat. It’s nearly pitch black, except for a thin spot at the top, where a thin haze of light shines through, enough to see the worn texture of the hat. It was shot through during a robbery and patched back in Blackwater. He lets himself wake up slowly, the threadbare sheet of his cot underneath his body, his hands folded calm over his chest. Couldn’t have napped for more than two hours, tops.
It doesn’t last as long as he’d like. There’s a dull commotion coming from the far end of camp. Arthur lazily knocks his hat from his face. Nothing urgent sounding, and though he can’t understand the specific words, it sounds like Marston and Williamson’s voices, which is enough of a concern in itself. He swings his feet over the cot and he has his boots and hat on quick enough.
He can hear them before he can see them: “We got a pig!” Bill bellows. Bill especially has never been one to shy away from credit. He shouts it again as they clear the pasture, approaching the camp. Between the two they have a sizable hog strung up across a pole by the trotters; there’s a gunshot wound to its temple, a line of blood that’s dribbled downward and clotted at the entry point.
Arthur feels his blood pressure rising as he strides over to them. It’s not a ranch hand’s doing. Arthur’s not one, neither, but he knows the work of an amateur compared to a farmer, and John Marston’s the furthest thing from a rancher he’s ever seen. It’s tied too sloppily and the fact that it was shot at all instead of slaughtered with a knife tells him most of what he needs to know; as he gets closer, the dirtiness of the hog and the mud on their own clothes is undeniable.
“Heya, Morgan.” Bill crows, stopping in his tracks as Arthur stands in front of them; John takes a half-step forward, and is jerked back by Bill’s stillness, the tied up hog wobbling on the stake. Bill shoots him a glare before adjusting his grip. “See what we got? Providing for the party tonight.”
Arthur crosses his arms over his chest, looking from both him to John.
“Yeah?” Arthur asks, “Where’d you get it?”
“We went—“ Bill’s cut off by John throwing an elbow to his ribs. He fumbles, momentarily, with the weight of the hog as he flinches, and then John’s stumbling to compensate for the dip of the pole; for a heart-thudding moment, the pig slips an inch down towards Bill, but then John raises it up, his face stricken with barely avoided panic.
“Went up!” John says it a little too loud, “Went up, uh, north, to the farm over yonder,” John points his thumb over his shoulder in a vague gesture as Bill sorely rubs at his side, glaring into Marston’s skull, “Bought one off him.”
“Oh, sure.” Arthur says, “What’s his name?”
“Whose?” Bill asks.
“The farmer.” Arthur’s voice gets louder as he grows sterner, “What’s the farmer’s name?”
“I don’t know.” John gripes, “We just bought the pig—“
“What’s the farm called?”
“Jesus, Morgan,” Bill snaps, “Can’t you ever relax?”
“Knowing you two idiots, you stole it.” Arthur’s voice hushes at the end, not wanting others to overhear, “And if Dutch finds out, I hope he lashes you for it. We’re supposed to be keeping things low for now.” He grunts, “Didn’t ride all the way out into the freezing cold just for you two to make us uproot everything ‘cause you were too lazy to hunt a boar.”
“If we’d had gotten a boar—“ John always rises to the bait, always has to respond when it’s Arthur reprimanding him. He struggles to contain his anger, wrestling his voice back down, lower still to make sure the subject is out of earshot: “Well, you know how bad Pearson is at skinning them.” John glances over his shoulder before continuing, “Almost choke on the bristles.”
Arthur shakes his head. “It would’ve been fine, he’s going to cook this over a fire for a while. Burn all the hair off.” Arthur says, though he’s a little unnerved at the idea now that John’s mentioned it. Pearson makes stews, a constant pottage forever boiling in the background, because they stretch and it’s harder for him to completely ruin, unless he lets the bottom burn. Sometimes he misses when Grimshaw used to cook, before she managed the girls; at least, she used spices when they had the means to acquire them.
Arthur rubs at his jaw, his hand covering his mouth momentarily, “It will be fine.” He mutters.
John waves a hand at Arthur, and him and Bill mutter to each other as they pass for the chuckwagon table. All Arthur can do is shout at them, but what’s done is done. He may make mention of it to Hosea, though like Dutch, he’s too soft in regards to Marston, as much as he likes to think himself completely impartial.
Arthur can still hear Hosea and Dutch both in the drawn tent as he passes. He’s not exactly avoiding Dutch, but he doesn’t want to be roped into their conversations and drinks this early again. For some reason he can’t explain, he’s not in the mood for reminiscing. Arthur gives the tent a wide berth for the rest of the day; he occupies himself with basic chores, hauling buckets of water and bales of hay.
The sky is orange and red by the time Arthur finishes his work for the day. He’s sweaty and parched, but he’s mindful enough to take a stop at his wagon to dry himself off best as he can with a rag before he makes his way towards the chuckwagon. He had seen Bill with Lenny and Sean hauling fresh crates into camp earlier, and a beer sounds good right about now.
Not to mention he’s been smelling the pig roasting for a few good hours, the crackling skin infusing the smoke in the air, and he wants to get a glimpse of it himself. He’s seen both Pearson and Grimshaw chase Uncle off at multiple times, when the old man threatened to cut off a piece before it was fully ready. Pearson’s barely a cook, but as he approaches the scent is actually threatening to get Arthur’s hopes up, let alone the sight of it glistening over the fire on the spit. There’s a tin underneath, just shy of the flames, to catch the drippings.
Arthur stops, hooking his thumbs into his belt. Beside the hog is little Jack, straining to turn it. Not far off, Abigail stands at the wash station, dunking tin cups and plates into the water to clean with a wash rag. As soon as Jack spies Arthur, his eyes light up.
“I’m cooking, Uncle Arthur!” He shouts.
Arthur rounds the spit, standing behind Jack. “Sure are! You helping Mr. Pearson out?”
“Uh-huh!” He grunts as he strains to turn the crank. Arthur leans over him, reaching for the handle.
“Hey, I can do it!”
“Alright, alright.” Arthur pulls back and holds up his hands in defeat, chuckling at the way Jack scowls up at him, a pinched pout that only lasts a moment before he’s too distracted with his very grown-up responsibility to be cross. “Stubborn, ain’t you?” He ruffles Jack’s hair, ignoring the boy’s huff in response, swiping his hand up to clumsily fix his hair.
“Just like his daddy.” Abigail chimes in, drying off her hands with the edge of her dress as she approaches them, settling in easy next to Arthur.
Arthur snorts. “Don’t say that, Abigail, don’t you suffer enough?”
That earns him a good-natured laugh, her eyes wrinkling attractively in the corners as she crosses her arms over her chest. Though Abigail is softer on Marston than he deserves, she can appreciate a joke at his expense, coming from Arthur; they both share the same need and want to drive some sense into that wolf-addled brain of his.
She doesn’t take her eyes off of Jack. He’s still struggling with the crank, his hands slipping on the handle. “He’s a good man, sometimes.”
“Sometimes.” Arthur agrees.
When Abigail tells Jack to step aside so she can rotate the pig, he gives her that same pouty frown he had lobbed Arthur’s way, but he’s too smart to talk back to his mother; besides, almost as soon as she’s taken over, his attention is pulled away by a nearby stick, entranced with the way the sparks flutter out as he prods the fire. He’s young, still. He’s going to turn out better than all of them.
“He did get this pig.” Arthur adds, off-handed, “Him and Bill.”
Abigail shakes her head. “How? By stealing it?”
“How else?” Arthur shrugs, though he tries not to sound like he’s defending John, after he reprimanded him for it himself.
“Well,” Abigail sighs, “I’m glad he’s better, at least.”
“Sure.” Arthur grunts. “You need help with that?” Arthur asks, nodding towards the pig.
Her eyes narrow just enough for Arthur to notice. He hadn’t meant it as a slight towards her cooking abilities, though after a beat she seems to understand no harm was meant, her face relaxing. “What, this?” Abigail gestures to the roast. “No, Pearson just wanted it turned occasionally.”
Arthur nods, moves towards the beer crates piled near the wash table. Arthur pulls out a beer.
“I’ll take one, too.”
Arthur’s eyebrows arch in surprise. “Ms. Abigail Roberts.
“Oh, you.” She laughs, covering a snort with the flat of her hand, “Don’t you get started.”
“Oh,” Arthur chuckles as he shakes his head in mock disbelief. He remembers Abigail before she was a mother; not as wild as Karen ever could be, but she had moments. They were all a little younger, a little rowdier. Still, he doesn’t underestimate her, even though she hasn’t drunk much at all since Jack was born. She’s too watchful for that. “I ain’t!”
Arthur picks up a second one, wedging the caps against the edge of the table and slamming them off with his fist. He carries them over to Abigail, handing her a bottle with a tilt of his hat.
“‘Sides,” She smiles, tilting her bottle towards Arthur. “This will be my only one.”
“Have two.” Arthur smiles back, clinking the necks of their bottles against each other. “I won’t tell.”
Abigail smiles and scoffs as she takes a sip of her beer, shaking her head. “Momma!” Jack interrupts; he’s at Abigail’s skirts, tugging hurriedly at them. She gently waves his hands off the fabric, a half-hearted attempt at correcting him. “Can I go play with Caine?”
“The dog?” Abigail crosses an arm over her chest. “Sure, but don’t you hug him like I caught you last time. You’ll get fleas and lice and who knows what else and I’ll have to shave you bald!” Her voice rises as Jack speeds off, nearly a shout as he disappears behind a tent in a fit of squeals and giggles met by Caine’s loud yips.
Abigail sighs. Arthur hides his chuckle in the mouth of his beer bottle.
—
Branwen, Arthur’s warhorse, and the Arabian— the new Count— are still clumped together, tails lazily flicking. Kieran rubs Branwen’s muzzle, and he noses at his palm, and then steps forward to nose at his chest; usually, he wears his jacket, but it’s too hot down here, and there’s no breast pocket full of peppermints for Branwen to beg from him. Instead, Kieran smooths his hand down his face twice, until he snorts and turns his head. Kieran rubs his neck, giving him a good scratch and a pat.
“I’ll be back.” He promises.
Though their trip wasn’t long, Kieran found his work cut out for him upon his return, not even counting the fact that the Arabian was a new mouth to feed and fit for a bridle. He nearly has the herd back up to his standard by the time the sun has set and the lanterns are lit; just as well, as he’s not expecting to actually join the party, as kind as Arthur was to ask. He’s planning on spending this party like he had the last, when Sean came back to camp: avoiding the meaner drunks of the Van der Linde Gang, fitfully sleeping against the chicken coop, and being awoken in the early hours of the morning by Swanson nearly pissing on him in a drunken stupor.
He does want some food, though, before that hog is completely picked apart by the rest of the gang and he’s only left with the bones. He’s relieved to find there’s still meat left on Pearson’s carving table, and wolfs it down standing in the shadow of the wagon.
There’s a burst of life and laughter from the main campfire. Kieran’s cranes his neck momentarily to track the friendly commotion, but he takes the back way towards the chuckwagon, away from the lights and past the chicken coop. Sure, he’s probably seen a little higher in the gang’s eyes, Dutch’s especially, hopefully. But he’s not quite comfortable enough to start drinking and carousing. Kieran settles in the roots of the oak tree, facing away from camp, pulling his tin cigarette holder from his shirt pocket. He’ll have to be up early tomorrow for the horses, besides.
“Kieran!” Mary-Beth’s voice floats in from the water like the sound of wind chimes, bright faced and smiling. She’s walking towards him and the back of the chuckwagon with Karen at her side, who’s holding the mess of her skirts with one hand and a brown bottle in the other.
“Ms. Gaskill.” Kieran tilts his hat. “Ms. Jones.”
Mary-Beth’s a pretty girl; naturally, too, but she takes the time to do her hair each morning, tries to keep out of the sun. Though by this time of the night, those curls of hers have wilted in the heat and the humidity, and she’s flushed to the tip of her nose with alcohol.
“Are you joining us?” Karen asks. She’s been nicer to Kieran, as of late, but she can have a similar mean streak that a lot of the men do, if she’s been nursing a bottle all day. Otherwise, she’s fine.
“Oh, uh...” Kieran hesitates. He’s got a small tin of tobacco balanced in his lap, barely filled; he’s not too proud that he doesn’t occasionally pick up people’s butts to unroll. Smokes much harsher, but it’s better than nothing at all.
Karen sidles up to Kieran. “Fancy making us one?” He catches the smell of alcohol on her breath, but Karen’s smiling. Everyone’s in a good mood. She’s not the worst of the girls— that title, though understandably earned, goes to Mrs. Adler, by far. But she’s picked and taunted at him all the same, though she hasn’t done anything untoward since he was strung up at Horseshoe on the tree.
Kieran’s gaze darts downwards. “Sure, I’ll— I can give you this one.”
“Oh, Karen,” Mary-Beth frets, disapproving as she peers over Karen’s shoulder to watch Kieran roll the cigarette. He rolls it tight, lifts it to his lips to lick the edge and seal the paper around the stale tobacco.
“Not bad.” Karen says. “Don’t let Uncle see you roll that good.”
“Why’s that?”
“He’ll badger you nonstop for them.” Karen huffs an unladylike snort as Kieran passes the cigarette to her. “Thank you,” She gives him half an exaggerated curtsy before dropping her skirts to take it. They kick up a puff of dust from the ground where they land, the well-worn hem trailing in the dirt.
Kieran is reaching for his matches before Karen can even put the cigarette in her mouth. “Look at that, a gentleman.” She glances at Mary-Beth, painted lips smirking as Mary-Beth’s brows pinch together in warning. “And with fingers like those—“
“Karen!” Mary-Beth is red as sin, and Kieran knows he probably is, as well, though he concentrates on striking the match and lighting Karen’s cigarette before the flame crawls down the stick to his fingertips. He waves it and tosses it away into the darkness.
“Nevermind her.” Mary-Beth excuses, glancing at Kieran before glaring at Karen. She seems pleased as punch, at least, beaming back at Mary-Beth’s stare. “She’s had a few too many.”
“No worries.” Kieran mumbles.
Karen’s eyes roll. “Oh, it has nothing to do with drinking.” She turns on her heels, the bottles rattling as she bumps against the washtable with a wayward hip. The bottle in her hands clinks, empty, as she sets it down. “Though you are gonna join us, O’Driscoll. I’ve decided.”
“A-alright.” Kieran protests, weakly, “And I’m not an O’Driscoll.” He doesn’t really have room to argue, or a strong want, though Kieran’s never been much for drinking. Doesn’t agree with him right. He’s seen some of the men around camp down two bottles of whisky and go about their day like they’re not sloshing brown behind the eyes with drink. Kieran slurs and stumbles after only a few beers.
“See! That’s the spirit.” Karen thrusts the caps of each beer off on the edge of the crate, one after the other, grabbing two by the neck with one hand and the third with her free one, cigarette trailing smoke and hanging from her lips. O’Driscoll boys didn’t ride with women, and the gang before that didn’t have any girls in it, either, but he’s sure Karen could fit in with any of the men he’s ever ridden with. She can handle her drink as well as them, at least. “Ain’t polite, besides, to let ladies like us drink alone, right?”
Mary-Beth gives Karen a look and a half as she hands her a bottle, but doesn’t comment.
Karen notices it, though: “What? Drink it.”
“I am. Just this one.” Mary-Beth promises. “You know Grimshaw will still have us up early tomorrow.”
Karen leans back against the wagon, taking long drags of her cigarette that she exhales thickly into the air. The cherry of it is illuminating the red of her lips, shining bright with the inky darkness of the lake and woods behind her. “I don’t know about that.” She’s looking off, towards the commotion.
“Oh?”
“Dutch’s in a way.” She says, knowingly.
“Exactly.” Mary-Beth cranes her neck. “That means she’s going to have a great time, or a horrible one.”
In the background, Kieran drinks, and listens. He makes a mental note to ask Arthur, maybe, about Dutch and Grimshaw, if he’s feeling brave. If he trains his ears, he can hear Grimshaw’s voice a ways off, though she seems much more at ease than Kieran’s ever heard her.
“But there’s a chance.” Karen points out. Somehow, Kieran thinks she’d drink well, regardless.
“So,” Mary-Beth suddenly turns her attention towards Kieran, “Are you gonna tell us about your trip?” The gentle way Mary-Beth carries herself makes Kieran feel clumsy being next to her. He has to remind himself that she’s as much of a member as any of the others, though; she has deft fingers, and he’s sure the sweetness of her voice and face makes her easy to believe when swindling. But it’s hard to think of her in that way, sitting there and staring at him with those big eyes framed by long lashes.
Kieran reaches for his papers and tobacco tin once more, trying to keep his hands occupied to fight a threatening stutter. “Well, weren’t much. There was a legend about this horse—“
“A legend?” Mary-Beth interrupts, her fingers fluttering over her chest.
Kieran laughs. “Yes, a legend.” He pauses, “Not like dragons or nothin’, real ones. All kinds of big animals, and this Arabian up in those mountains.”
“Was it hard to find her?”
“Well, uh, not particularly, really, come to think of it.”
“Did you see any wolves up there?” Karen asks, “Like the ones that got Marston.”
“No, no wolves.” Kieran fumbles. “Wait, we did see one on our way up. But he didn’t bother us none. Skinny thing, all by himself—”
“Aw, that ain’t interesting.” Karen moans.
Kieran’s half expecting Mary-Beth to fret at her, but she looks just as disinterested, if not disappointed, her brows furrowing together and her smile a little sad. “Don’t you got a story?”
“Well, uh,” He fumbles. Kieran’s mind blanks. How would the story he tell go? Arthur trusted me in Valentine, then saved my ass. We rode for a day and a half straight and tracked down the prettiest damn horse I’ve ever seen. And then I got as brave as I’m stupid and kissed Arthur’s knuckles like a man possessed. Kieran gulps, his throat working. “Arthur’s better at telling the stories, I suppose.”
“Arthur?” Karen guffaws. “Sure, alright.”
Mary-Beth shakes her head. “Don’t tease him, Karen.” But her lips are curling into a smile as Karen snorts and giggles.
Kieran finishes his beer too-quickly as the girls start to laugh, coughing as it burns down his throat. From the corner of his eye, he sees Arthur walking past, ten feet out. He nearly says something, but his voice dies in his throat as he watches Mr. Van der Linde, behind him, following after, grabbing Arthur by the shoulder and spinning him around. They’re too far away to hear.
Mary-Beth stands, and Karen does as well, the two of them blocking his line of sight to Arthur and Dutch. Kieran stares down at his hands in his lap.
”You think Javier will play tonight?”
”Oh,” says Karen, “I saw him with Tilly playing his guitar by the water not too long ago.”
“I like that sweet one he sings, you know. The one about love and roses.” Mary-Beth half-sighs.
”You really think it means all that?”
”Well, why wouldn’t it?”
”You really think Javier only knows romantic songs about love?” Karen shakes her head. “I think he’s just telling us that, ‘cause we can’t understand the words.”
They don’t even notice him anymore, not really. He finishes rolling his cigarette, though he stores it away instead of lighting it. Mary-Beth’s eyes do finally drift over, and widen, as if just remembering Kieran’s still there, and it’s not just them talking privately amongst themselves.
“Oh! We should head over,” Mary-Beth touches Karen’s arm. “You ready?”
Karen grabs fresh bottles— three, one for her, one she presses into Mary-Beth’s arms with a knowing smirk, and the third she tosses to Kieran, who manages to catch it without dropping it.
”Ready. C’mon, O’Driscoll.”
Kieran stands. “I’m not—“ He hesitates, but follows. “Alright.”
—
Arthur startles under Dutch’s hand, feeling the cool backs of his rings clearly through the material of his shirt. His fingertips dig in just slightly into the meat of his shoulder.
“Mr. Morgan!” He doesn’t so much have to twirl Arthur around, as he’s already moving to accommodate Dutch, but his fingers flex to suggest that he will help him along. “I’ve been looking for you all day.”
“Dutch...” Arthur shakes his head.
“Now, now, come on.” Dutch’s hand is gone just as quickly as it came, returning back to his sides. “You’re not going to get out of this.”
“Wasn’t trying to.”
“Of course. This is for you, after all.” Dutch smiles. He inclines his body towards the campfire, and Arthur follows, automatically.
“Thought this was for your new horse.”
“Well,” Dutch says, “There’s a lot of reasons to celebrate. You didn’t make any trouble on your way there or back, did you?”
“Nah.” Arthur sighs, “Course not. We found her.”
“Good.”
Almost like an afterthought, Dutch breathes in, “Oh, right. And did the O’Driscoll give you any trouble?”
“Well, uh.” Arthur rubs at his jaw. “We got into a little brawl with two O’Driscoll boys at Smithfield’s. Nothing attention-getting or anything. Sheriff never came, at least.”
Dutch’s eyebrow’s furrow. “Not— well. I meant our adopted O’Driscoll.”
“Oh,” Arthur snorts, shaking his head at the idea. Our adopted O’Driscoll, though when he replays Dutch’s words, in Dutch’s voice, in his head, it makes him grimace as if he’s tasted something bitter. “No, no. Of course not.”
Arthur trails behind Dutch as he makes his way to the main campfire. Uncle passes by; he calls Dutch’s name, mock-bowing, and tries to slap Arthur on the shoulder to greet him, but Arthur steps just out of reach.
“Don’t be so tense, Arthur. It wouldn’t kill you to not be so severe.” Dutch seems to be in a mood, now, though Arthur can’t parse why.
To his left, he can hear Karen and Mary-Beth’s chatter before he spies them making their way around the tents, sitting side-by-side on the pelt-covered crates that were a little more generous to those in skirts. Arthur spies Kieran, just on the edge of the peripheral, skulking behind the two. Almost reaching out to seat himself next to them, but he turns back towards the pasture and the shadows of the trees.
“Kieran,” He doesn’t need to say it loud to catch his attention. Arthur tilts his head, inclined towards the campfire.
Kieran sucks in a short breath. “Arthur?”
“C’mon,” Arthur raises his beer bottle to his lips, “Join us.”
Kieran’s hesitation is obvious, eyes darting to the side. “Well, I, uh— I actually think I need to get back to the pasture—“
“Nonsense!” Dutch speaks over Kieran, gesturing at him with two thick, ringed fingers. “Sit down, enjoy the fire and the company. Or are you going to deny us that horse wrangling story you’ve been promising?”
Arthur’s more than sure it’s been Dutch, not Kieran, promising stories. Kieran looks mildly panicked at being addressed by him head-on, and he’s doing a piss-poor job at concealing the shocked expression as he staggers reluctantly towards the fire. Arthur pointedly shifts over on the log he’s sitting on, creating just enough space for Kieran to sit down next to him, opposite of Dutch. His shoulders are pressed warm against his own.
“Here!” Uncle shouts as he approaches the fire, arms laden with open bottles, stopping first in front of them— Arthur grabs two, presses one quick into Kieran’s hand, before Uncle can walk away.
“Awful kind of you, Uncle.” Dutch says, half-sincere.
Uncle winks as he passes a bottle to Dutch. “For my favorite fellers.”
Arthur snorts, “Sure.”
Uncle sits down with his own personal bottle of whisky next to his banjo. People start to filter in around the campfire; Javier with his guitar in hand, Tilly trailing behind, John and Charles talking low between each other off to the side. He can see Sean stumble in, falling heavily next to Karen.
Arthur watches Kieran from the corner of his eye. He’s holding his bottle in his lap, nervously picking at the raised bits of smooth glass dotting around the base of the neck with his thumbnail.
“So,” When Dutch starts to speak, the others naturally quiet down, even though it’s directed towards Arthur. “You’re telling me you found that beautiful beast?”
Arthur tears his eyes away from Kieran, clearing his throat. “Well, you ain’t gonna find the kind of horses we’re used to this far east. Nothin’ of quality.” He feels his heartbeat hitch when his gaze shifts and sees that people’s eyes are falling towards him, their conversations slowing down. Leave it to Dutch to make them the center of attention.
”I was stumped on where to go, at first. Tall order finding a horse fit for Dutch van der Linde to ride.”
Dutch smiles and chuckles, closed-mouth, as he sips at his beer. There are a few other humored laughs from the gang. “There was talk of some real nice race horses south.” Arthur grunts, “Go any further south, though, I’d figure I’d rather just boil myself to death instead.” He turns to look to Dutch on his left, “And I didn’t want to make any trouble around here, besides.”
“You’re smart when you want to be, Arthur.” Dutch grins.
Arthur laughs humorlessly. “I try, Dutch.”
Arthur doesn’t consider himself any bit of a storyteller. He likes working with his hands; he considers himself the more mush-mouthed of any of the boys here, save maybe Bill, or Charles, but that was only because Charles didn’t like to talk at all. But everyone seems content to listen to his story. On how they traveled North, first to Emerald, then Valentine, and figured out the horse was on the map; finding her up in the snowy mountains.
“How far north you get, English?” Sean asks.
“Well, we were up in the mountain and all, so pretty far north. Close by Colter?”
“That far north!” John practically burps the words, “Not that you’d know, Sean, since you were too dumb to get out of Blackwater.”
Arthur snorts. “Like you remember what Colter looks like, Marston, we passed half your brains still frozen in the snow lookin’ for that horse.”
Storytelling in the Van der Linde gang was always back and forth, half-fiction, mostly interruptions and cajoling and teasing. The booze is easy-flowing, especially since Dutch is still sitting next to him, and he makes the younger ones fetch them a beer every time they leave their seats. It makes Arthur’s tongue a little looser, a little slippery. Dutch seems enraptured especially as Arthur voice rumbles lowly onwards: on how they tracked that horse through the snow all day, and how Kieran shushed her and hopped right on like she wasn’t a blizzard of hoof-stomping fury. He even thinks he manages the suspense on if Kieran gets bucked, or not, by the way everyone around the campfire hushes and leans in, even though he’s sure if that was the case, Kieran wouldn’t be here to hear the story. But, maybe he’s doing an alright job of it, because even Kieran is leaning on the edge of his seat, pressed warm and heavy against his side.
”An’, well, that was that.” Arthur finishes awkwardly. “Kieran knows how to break horses in a strange way, but it got her moving sooner than I thought we’d manage.”
”That how them O’Driscoll boys break horses?” Javier asks, looking up from fiddling with the pegs on the head of his guitar. He’s staring hard at Kieran, not Arthur.
Kieran’s shoulders fold in. “No. They don’t deal with horses. They don’t even really like to take care of the ones they got.”
Javier clicks his tongue against the back of his teeth, exchanging glances with Bill. On Arthur’s left, Dutch shifts and turns towards him.
”Well, in any case, we’ll need some more of that horse-breaking expertise until she’s fit to ride.” He braces his hands against his knees as he rises. Arthur follows Dutch’s line of sight, leading him across camp to where Hosea and Grimshaw are talking at the buckskin table. Dutch swivels before he fully leaves the circle, turning back to the group with his arms outstretched. “Everyone, enjoy yourselves tonight! Tomorrow, we get to work. It’s a whole new world out here, full of halfwits and dullards just ripe with opportunities.”
Dutch takes his leave to a smattering chorus of here-heres and raised bottles. Arthur tilts his own skyward, and finishes the rest of his drink. Javier starts to tune his guitar in earnest, plucking out a few sour chords as he tinkers with it. The campfire breaks down into groups of those sitting side-by-side, individual conversations. Kieran’s quiet next to him, still fidgeting with his beer bottle, though he keeps stealing obvious glances up and over towards Javier and Bill. Arthur can hear Dutch’s gramophone playing, some grand orchestral thing; from his seat, Arthur can spy Grimshaw and Dutch dancing in front of his tent.
“You, uh, y’know— we got into a bit of a bar fight in Valentine, back at Smithfield’s.” Kieran’s sudden voice snaps his attention back to their immediate circle. He’s ignoring Arthur and his raised eyebrows, though he’s sure he can see him from the corner of his eye.
“A fight?” Bill asks. Javier turns, suddenly interested.
“Yeah!” Kieran rushes out in one breath, “Buncha O’Driscolls came up to us when we were minding our business. We whooped them good.”
“We?” Javier repeats, snidely, and Bill chuckles under his breath, jostling Javier with a playful dig of his elbow. “Didn’t know you could fight, O’Driscoll.”
“I ain’t—“ Kieran huffs out a sigh. “Yeah, I can fight.”
Arthur leans over. “Actually, he wasn’t bad.” He interrupts. Eyes swivel. Arthur finds himself smoothing his fingers over the brim of his hat, tilting it downward. “Wouldn’t have been easy if he wasn’t there.”
Arthur won’t mention that if Kieran hadn’t been there, there would never had been a fight in the first place. Colm knows what he looks like, but he’s found most of the stooges in that gang wouldn’t know him from Adam. Kieran’s eyes shift towards Arthur, his lips parted in silent surprise. “You’re scrappy, Kieran.” Arthur continues.
“Y-you—“ Kieran hadn’t meant to say anything, it seems, because he shuts his mouth right up and flushes in the low fire light. Next to them, Javier laughs.
“I don’t believe it.” Javier says.
“Me neither.” Bill adds.
“No, it’s true.” Arthur tilts his bottle towards Kieran. “Nearly caved the man’s face.”
Bill’s eyes narrow, his face alighting. “I could take him.” He zeroes in on Kieran, in that way drunks do, his body wobbling as he tries to hold his gaze steady. “I could take you.”
He eases up, kind of slow. He gestures at Kieran, who blanches.
“Up.”
Kieran stutters nonsense, stumbling to his feet, his arms flailing out, like trying to keep a large, wild animal at bay.
There’s a chorus of jeers. Bill laughs, his eyes shifting to the ones openly engaging: Sean, letting out a loud whoop, John shouting, Uncle laughing along. It’s the perfect drunken storm of idiots encouraging idiots, and Arthur feels his hackles rise along with the energy around the fire. “Alright, now.”
Bill’s face contorts in the firelight. “You can fight, Kieran?” He ignores Arthur entirely.
Bill lunges and Kieran yelps like a beaten dog, stumbling backwards and out of reach; the back of his knees hit Arthur’s, and he stands, suddenly. “Alright,” He grabs Kieran by the shoulder, close to his neck, putting pressure that makes Kieran’s body dip in response. “Enough of this. If we’re doing this, let me tell the story proper.”
“What story?”
“I was telling a story, Bill.” Arthur lies. Bill’s face twists in confusion, his fighting pose faltering. “‘Bout the fight.”
“Oh, oh yeah.” Bill huffs, looks down at his feet, as if suddenly aware he’s standing. He starts to falter, half-sitting, half-kneeling back against his seat.
“Go on, stop prattlin’ on and give us a show!” Sean shouts from his seat, between cupped hands, laughing as Karen swats him on the head.
Arthur glares over at Sean, but continues: “Now, there were two of them.” He gestures at Bill, “You were about the size of the feller we took down. Big guy. The little one—” He squeezes Kieran’s shoulder again, and he squirms. “Was about Kieran’s size.”
When Arthur’s other hand settles on his shoulder, the gang whoops and hollers as he deftly manhandles him. But he’s not looking to hurt Kieran, just put on a bit of a show, a liquor-soaked plan coming slowly to fruition in his mind. He explains it as he goes; how he grabbed the slimy little O’Driscoll, beat him up against the bar. Kieran resists just enough, his hands coming up to grapple at Arthur’s arms. A few of the men around the campfire crow and shout with laughter; Karen, too, is laughing, sagging back heavy against Sean’s side, jostling a sleeping Mary-Beth awake and almost off her seat.
“Well, I drop that one, but the second comes up with a bottle. Nearly put me out.” Arthur lets go of Kieran, who sputters and stumbles. He grabs Kieran’s arm before he falls into the fire.
Kieran looks mildly wounded and more than a bit disheveled, but Arthur tilts his head as he speaks, hoping to convey some meaning behind it: “Bill, c’mere.”
Kieran shoots Arthur a warning look. Arthur stares back, brief.
“Come here. You’re about that feller’s size.” Arthur looks at Kieran again, pointedly, “The one Kieran took on.”
Arthur’s sure it’s Sean’s drunken cackle that gets Bill to stand again, an unsteady lurch to his feet helped by Javier and Uncle’s hands pushing him upward. He’s bristling like a bull, his eyes darting unfocused between Kieran and Arthur.
Arthur snorts. “As I was sayin’, this one O’Driscoll around Bill’s size comes up, clocks me right behind the head with a bottle.” Arthur taps briefly at his hat, “Thinking he’d managed to take me out. But Kieran’s got him.”
Kieran tries not to look confused as Bill turns towards him with a grin. He shifts a panicked look from him to Arthur. “Uh, Arthur— I don’t, u-uh, think that’s how it went—“
“See,” Arthur continues, his voice rising above the dull roar of the crowd, “I manage to get up, grab the man by his jacket—“
Bill’s not expecting any hands on him, so Arthur turns him around easy as that, hauls him by the lapels of his coat. He’s just drunk enough that his reaction times are off, and Arthur can push him into stumbling backwards.
He hopes it’s reminiscent enough of the bar fight, and it must be, because Kieran lights up with recognition and scrambles behind Bill, just in time for Arthur to give him one firm shove.
Bill stumbles over and falls like a wet sack of rotten potatoes, landing hard on his back and nearly taking out Charles with his flailing; the bawdier members of the gang laugh loud enough to cover any of the disapproval from the others, though Arthur’s wondering how drunk he’s gotten that he hadn’t noticed Grimshaw in his peripheral, drawn over by their noise and scoffing at their antics. Bill sputters from the dirt, scrambling to his hands and knees as Kieran retreats behind Arthur.
“I’m gonna kill you, Morgan!”
“Oh, hush.” Arthur’s just finished laughing himself as he holds out his arm, bracing himself. Bill takes it with a sullen grimace, and Arthur staggers trying to help his weight up. “Don’t get sour just ‘cause you can’t take a joke.”
“Shitty joking—“ Bill mutters, but his attention is being pulled towards John, still keeled over with breath-stealing belly laughter in his seat. Bill lurches forward, swiping at John, who shouts when Bill’s knuckles graze his forehead.
Arthur and Kieran exchange glances with a grin as the two of them start shouting and pushing at each other. Maybe he’ll regret it later on, but it’s been a while Javier whoops, strumming hard on his guitar, followed by the crooked-finger strumming of Uncle’s banjo in a similar cacophony. Javier’s riff deftly turns into a song, jaunty and familiar, Uncle’s strumming falling away. Bill and John’s half-hearted play fighting peters off. It’s not long before Javier starts to sing, along with the crowd gathered around the fire, their voices rising around them in shouted semi-unison. Arthur finds himself looking for his seat, but John seems to be occupying it now, his arm slung around Bill’s shoulder, so he’s still standing useless in the center of the circle—
“I-I— I need another—“ Kieran shakes his beer. That’s what catches Arthur’s attention, the glint of his bottle reflecting the light, and Arthur has to lean in to catch the second half of his mumbled sentence. Reflexively, he presses a hand to Kieran’s arm, to keep himself balanced. “You want to come with me to get another beer?” He says, a little too loud, too close to the shell of Arthur’s ear.
Arthur doesn’t respond, other than moving his way out from the center, stepping past a singing Reverend Swanson who’s half-slipping off his seat. Kieran follows at his back. The back of Pearson’s chuckwagon isn’t far from the fire, but without the roar of the fire and the gang, it feels miles away, almost quiet, their voices and the strum of the guitar fading into the background. Arthur trips on an exposed root, or a rock, or nothing— he catches himself on the edge of the table, the stacked bottles of beer rattling in their crates, glass clattering against glass.
“Beer, right?” Arthur clarifies, glancing over his shoulder momentarily. Kieran settles behind him. And he’s— close. A distance that wouldn’t be so noticeable, if his hand wasn’t also resting warm on the dip of Arthur’s hip, heat bleeding through his work shirt.
“Sure.” Kieran replies.
“You, uh,” When he looks over his shoulder again, he can see how close Kieran is. Breathe the same air and all. His mind blanks, and it takes him a moment before he moves his hands again, clutching for a bottle, working the cap off in his rough grip. He twists, and Kieran’s hand slides off his hip. “Here.”
He takes the bottle from Arthur, raises it to his lips. In the low light, his eyes are vibrant, glassy and reflective.
“You had me going, for a bit.” Kieran says, quiet.
Arthur licks his lips, opens his mouth: nearly says, I wouldn’t hurt you, not really, but he closes his mouth and says nothing instead of saying something so strange. Just grunts an affirmative into his bottle as he takes another swig. He doesn’t look mad, at least, just a kind of far-off thoughtful, staring off towards the woods.
“I didn’t need the help.”
Arthur shrugs. “I know.”
“He’s gonna take it out on me later.”
Arthur snorts. “Bill’s fine. The path he’s on tonight, probably won’t remember nothing but the bruises come morning.”
Kieran shakes his head, his hair falling around his face. Maybe he’ll regret it, come tomorrow morning, but Arthur holds out his bottle. Kieran looks at it for a moment, before tentatively clinking his bottle against Arthur’s.
“Good storyteller, O’Driscoll.”
Kieran tilts his head. “O’Driscoll?” In the low light, he almost has a dimple when the corner of his lips twitch into a smile. “Still?”
“Aw,” Arthur waves his hand through the air, “Don’t get cross.”
“I ain’t cross.” Kieran sounds sly. He takes a step forward.
“Oh, you’re drunk.”
“Ain’t drunk, either.” Kieran replies, less convincingly, if only because he’s speaking slow and careful, mindful of enunciating. Not drunk, but tipsy enough to be self-conscious of it when its brought up. It’s the sort of slow-dawning, endearing thought that makes the corners of Arthur’s lips twitch upward, and he hides a smile behind his hand, rubbing at his mouth. Kieran’s eyes widen in panic. “Only had a few!”
“Not laughing at you.” Arthur lies, shakes his head.
Kieran’s face softens. He inches forward. “Y’sure?”
Arthur just snorts. Kieran takes another step forward. Arthur turns his head, towards the fire light. Javier’s guitar has stopped, and now it’s the sounds of Uncle’s banjo drift towards them; it’s a plucky, rambunctious tune, Uncle’s deceptively nimble fingers never faltering as voices start to rise. He can hear Javier singing, especially, and Karen’s voice, until the song hits the chorus and everyone chimes in with the lyrics, shouting in near unison.
It all sounds muddled, far away. Here, in the space between them, it’s quiet; just the sound of Kieran’s breathing, a soft, wet noise when his lips touch the mouth of the bottle. Shifting, settling a hand back on Arthur’s
Arthur turns back to Kieran. He’s breathing a little heavily, nasally now, staring at Arthur.
“Y’wanna...” Kieran reaches out, then lets his hands fall limp, awkwardly shuffling his bottle between hands so he can use his dominant one to grab at the front of his shirt, though his arm’s swing makes it low, around his navel instead of his chest. Or maybe Kieran had meant that. Either thought makes Arthur’s face feel hot.
“What?” Arthur croaks.
“I found a bottle of rum.” Kieran rushes out in one breath. “N-near the old boat in the sand, past the pasture. Facing out on the water.” Arthur knows where this is going. Feels his hands growing clammy. “Y’wanna share it?”
In the darkness of the night, the sand is cool and damp under the palms of Arthur’s hand, each grain a pinprick against his skin. The sudden change in altitude of standing to sitting is making his head flip upside down, along with his stomach, his drunkenness hitting him all at once. He crawls underneath the carcass of the boat, sitting with his back against the curved hull. Boards of wood have rotted and splintered through, patches of starlight and the waxing moon glowing through the holes, bits of sand glittering reflective.
“Scoot.” He settles warm against Kieran’s side. The sand’s not wet underneath him, but it’s cool enough that it soaks through the stiff material of his jeans. Pleasant in this kind of heat, especially with the light breeze coming off the water, wicking away his sweat as it curls around the keel of the shipwreck.
“Think I almost got pinched by a crab.” Kieran warbles as Arthur momentarily leans out from the hideaway, to grab the bottle of rum placed just outside in the sand.
“A crab?” Arthur mumbles around the cap in his mouth as he yanks it off, spits it somewhere far and distant— far enough to hit the water, evidently, by the sound of it skipping across the lake. He takes a long swig, his throat working automatic past the burn of the liquor.
Kieran crawls into his lap. Arthur spreads his legs to make room for him, holds his arms wide, so as not to spill the bottle in his hand. As tall as Kieran is, he has to hunch, though the back of his head is still scraping up against the wood. He practically blots out the sky, the light; just Kieran, leaning over Arthur. He is pliant and sweet when drunk, hooded eyes that just barely glint in the low light of the night.
Kieran kisses him, dips his tongue into his rum-slick mouth and sucks on Arthur’s tongue as if he’s trying to get drunk off that, too. But they’re both drunk, already. It’s strange. Arthur wishes— they had kissed for the first time since the biting cold of Colter when sober, instead of blearily drunk, his thoughts slipping through his conscience with the slide of alcohol; though that want slides from his head, too, as soon as Kieran’s tongue swipes through his mouth again, and again.
“Arthur?”
Arthur blinks, reaches for a kiss, though his lips touch his chin, instead, the scratching hairs of his beard. Kieran exhales hot and sweet against the bridge of his nose.
“You alright?” He asks.
Arthur nods. Kieran’s hair brushes against his face. Still smells clean, faintly like soap. Arthur turns his face in towards it, muffling his words: “M’fine.” Every time he blinks, it feels like the darkness takes longer to clear from the edges of his vision. He’s very good and truly drunk, and he knows he’s going to feel it tomorrow. Arthur tries to shift, to make more room for Kieran. Through his satchel, he can feel his journal digging into his hip, half sitting on it.
Kieran hisses, the nape of his neck rubbing against the slope of the boat over their heads. Arthur mutters apologies under his breath. It feels like it takes him ages to get himself situated, Kieran nearly tossed off his lap. By the time he’s finished and slouched boneless against the boat, the air’s turned.
“You got a cigarette?” Kieran asks, his head against his shoulder.
It’s not bad. It just feels— different. More peaceful, with the quiet sounds of water as fish stir over the lake. Kieran’s not clambering on top of him to continue kissing, but he’s not giving Arthur any room, either, a heavy warmth still half straddling his hips. It somehow feels more intimate than being intimate.
Arthur, wordlessly, pulls his tin cigarette holder from his breast pocket, flipping open the top and offering it towards Kieran. He leans in, taking it with his lips; it might be a flirtatious movement, if only Kieran’s eyebrows didn’t shoot up like so, and if he didn’t look something akin to a horse trying to pluck a carrot. Arthur snorts.
“You’re funny,” He mutters, putting away his cigarettes and pulling out his lighter. Kieran stays still as he lights it for him. “When you ain’t sulking.”
Kieran’s cheeks hollow slightly as he sucks in, letting the cigarette dangle from the corner of his lips. “What’re you even talking about? I don’t sulk.”
“Didn’t even want to join us, earlier.” Arthur doesn’t mean to say it in such a petty tone, but that’s the way it comes across, and Arthur wishes he could reach out and shove the words back into his mouth. Instead, he takes another long pull from the bottle, his eyes watering slightly as he swallows.
Kieran’s face is turned from him, staring out at the water. “Well...” He starts, slow, “Ain’t sulking. And, well, I ain’t naming names, but not everyone is as nice as you, especially three-sheets to the wind like ya’ll get when you celebrate.”
Arthur barks out a laugh. Nearby, a frog startles, plopping loudly back into the water. “I’m not nice.”
Kieran hands Arthur his cigarette. His fingers are dry and sandy. Arthur takes a drag, and then reaches for the rum.
“That’s what you think?” Kieran asks.
Arthur snorts. He offers Kieran the rum, first, then thinks better of it, because surely that’s just proving Kieran’s point, and he yanks the rum back as Kieran swipes through now-empty air. He chuckles at the resulting huff from Kieran.
“Bastard.” Kieran says, trying his best not to sound too fond.
“O’Driscoll.” Arthur mutters between a swig of rum. Kieran huffs warm against his neck as his forehead falls against his jaw. It nearly sounds like the entire camp is singing from out here, their voices rising and falling, quiet moments filled with the sound of crickets and Uncle’s banjo.