Chapter Text
Arthur Morgan thought himself a bad man.
After the reappearance of the raven and the conscious decision to help the Downes family rather than do his duty to Dutch and the gang, he tried to pay attention to his choices. It never used to be a struggle, doing good. When Arthur first joined Dutch and Hosea, he often gave money to the homeless so they could have a warm meal, to working girls so they could get a night off, to young sons slowly killing themselves in hard labor jobs to support their families. Dutch always taught that the poorest of society deserved a piece of the wealth that rich men stole and exploited, and Arthur took to that lesson gladly. After all, he had once been forced to beg and pick pockets to survive. He didn’t really have to ask himself when he stopped noticing the struggles around him. Finding Eliza’s and Isaac’s graves had changed him forever.
Now, as he rode down the muddy streets of Valentine, he had to remind himself not to just keep his head down and ride forward.
Near the train station, a voice called up from the ground, “Can I get a few cents?” Arthur turned to look down at the older man, wearing a fraying Union coat and missing an arm. “Please, I’m real hungry. Help a feller out?”
Arthur slid off Dakota and reached into his satchel, finding a few bucks leftover. “Here,” he said, passing him to the veteran. Slightly dumbfounded, the man leapt to his feet.
“Thank you! You are mighty kind, mister!” the homeless man said. “Mighty kind.”
“Sure, just get yourself some food,” Arthur replied, stepping back towards Dakota.
“Uh, are we… are we friends, mister? My name is Mickey. What’s your name?”
“Arthur.”
“Can I,” Mickey stammered, “Can I hold you, mister? Can I?”
Looking around awkwardly, very unsure as to what was happening, Arthur said, “Okay, just quickly.” Mickey launched himself at Arthur, causing him to stagger back a few steps. The one arm wrapped tight around his shoulders.
“Thank you, Arthur! You are a good man. No one ever talks to me, but you did! You’re a good man!”
Maybe to Mickey, Arthur was good and kind. After all, Mickey only saw this one, minuscule part of Arthur’s life that had barely developed. He still wasn’t sure if the change would last. How long before he slipped back into his old ways? But for now, Arthur put those thoughts aside for his trip to the gun store to pick up some more ammo and a quick check at the post office to see if the camp alias, Tacitus Kilgore, had received any mail before heading back to camp.
People like Mickey made being good easy, Arthur thought as he rode back. They were folks down on their luck, looking for only simply things out of life. They gave nothing except kindness in return. Not everyone was like that, though.
He dropped off the two letters that he collected with Hosea before spying Charles sharpening a knife by his tent. “What are you preparing for?” he asked.
“The greatest of gifts,” Charles said with a smile.
“An unguarded stagecoach?”
“No, you simple minded fool. Bison,” Charles said, standing up and putting the knife back in its sheath.
“Bison?”
“Bison… from which you can get anything. There’s some over on the plains, I believe. I saw a couple a long way off, earlier.”
“Huh,” Arthur said. “Good luck!” While he had seen a few herds of bison in the distance from all his travels, he had never actually hunted one. Back when he first joined with Hosea and Dutch, even when their little family started expanding, bison hunting was impractical and wasteful. They would have never been able to use all the meat! Then, as the gang grew more and more, Arthur’s role as a hunter diminished. He ranked higher than the other members of the gang, and with rank came the privilege of avoiding certain chores, or even chores at all. Also, the gang’s prior run of prosperity meant they bought more supplies than they could afford now.
Charles grabbed his rifle and walked towards Taima before stopping and turning back to Arthur. “You want to come with me? I’ll show you how we hunt one.”
“Sure, why not.” Arthur hadn’t known Charles well before Colter, but he certainly felt a better friendship with the man now. Charles’ appreciation and understanding of nature rivaled, well more like surpassed, Arthur’s own. He couldn’t look back on Colter with joy, but he did hold a certain fondness towards the memory of Charles teaching him to use his bow and track the deer.
Mounting Dakota, he followed Charles and Taima out of the trees and onto the plains. “You know,” said Charles, “it was before my time, of course, but my mother used to tell me stories of how her tribe moved with the bison. They lived almost as one. Where the bison went, my people went. They were the center of all life… we couldn’t survive without them. They provided us with everything: food, clothing, shelter, tools. There as a lot of respect.”
He could tell by the way Charles spoke, pride mixed with a hint of melancholy, that his friend missed that part of his life. Arthur almost wanted to thank Charles for including him in something so personal and sacred, but at the same time, felt awkward doing so. He settled on a joke. “Well, I don’t remember much of my childhood, but I think my people moved with the whiskey.”
Charles laughed, “Well, my father did that, too!”
Pushing their horses up to a slow canter, Arthur relaxed and looked around the Heartlands. He felt comfortable around Charles, in a way he normally didn’t feel with the others in the gang. Comfortable enough to bring up something that had been bothering him the last few days.
“Charles, do you believe in witches?”
“Excuse me?”
“Witches and magic and stuff. You believe its real?”
Charles was silent for a moment, then said, “You know, my mother used to believe in some things that could be called magic, I suppose. Me, I’m not so sure. Guess I never really saw the proof of it. Why?”
“Just found a real weird house in the mountains. Bunch of odd books and bones and stuff. Looked like something out of a story.” Arthur wasn’t quite ready to admit to Charles that he drank a potion, though. It was still too unknown and embarrassing.
Whatever Charles intended to say after that was interrupted by the appearance of a herd of animals in the distance. “Over there, you see them all? Incredible!” Charles said. He began to direct the plan, allowing Arthur the option to take one down. In a way, it felt wrong. This was Charles’ hunt, but he had offered to keep the bison ringed in so that Arthur could bring one down.
Charles took off across the field, expertly guiding Taima so that the bison began to gather together. Arthur urged Dakota forward, breathing slow as he lined up the shot with his rifle. He chose one with a near perfect pelt, knowing how much Pearson liked to craft camp items with new materials, and aimed for the head. One shot later, and the bison was dead.
“Well done!” Charles said, a smile spreading across his face. “I’ll show you how to skin and butcher it. We’ll take the horns, too.”
They made quick work skinning the bison. As they worked, Charles explained some of the uses of the different parts. By the time they were done, Arthur felt that he had learned a lot, both about hunting and Charles. He mounted Dakota again after they filled her saddlebags with meat and dragged the pelt over her back.
“Ready to head back?” Arthur asked, but Charles wasn’t paying attention.
“Not yet. I want to check something out. There are scavenger birds over there,” he pointed out, looking towards Twin Stack Pass. Arthur didn’t quite mind continuing their ride for a little longer. But when the three dead bison came into sight, the cheerful mood of the day was gone. “Look, they’ve been shot and left for dead!”
“Why would someone do that?” Arthur asked, picking up on the anger in Charles’ voice.
“I don’t know, but I see tracks heading in this direction. I say we follow them.”
The trail led them further into the Heartlands, staying off the main road. “Couldn’t it have been an animal?” Arthur said, more hopeful than anything else.
“No, they’ve been shot. I just don’t know why anyone would leave them there to rot!”
Unfortunately, it wasn’t a fluke. Down the trail was another dead bison, except fresher. With it, the remains of a camp. Arthur leaned over the fire, feeling the still smoldering embers. “Logs haven’t gone cold yet. Maybe half a day since they left.”
“Bison’s been dead the same amount of time.”
“What do you want to do?” Arthur asked.
“They could still be in the area. Let’s get up higher, see if we spot anything.”
Normally, Arthur wouldn’t have bothered tracking down these men. Sure, killing that many animals for sport was excessive, but not a terrible sin in his mind. But as they crested the hill, he could tell how much this meant to Charles.
In the distance, another campfire was burning. Hoping it was the men they were after, Charles and Arthur headed in that direction. “Bastards, killing for fun. You should only kill when you need to!” Charles muttered. And his anger exploded when they found more dead bison as they neared the camp.
Two men, half drunk, sat around the campfire without a care in the world. Charles approached slow and dangerous. “Did you fools shoot those bison?” he said.
“What’s your problem?” one asked.
“I said, DID YOU FOOLS SHOOT THOSE BISON?” Charles demanded.
The men, of course, chose to aggravate Charles further before proudly admitting to the deed, giving Arthur only a second of warning before Charles pulled a gun and shot one in the head.
“Good god, you’re crazy!” the other said, stumbling back. “Look, I got a family… a family. Don’t shoot me!”
Charles raised his gun a second time, but fortunately for the whimpering man on the ground, Arthur was ready this time.
“I’ll get some answers, Charles.” Grabbing the man by the throat, Arthur leaned in close and asked, “Why were you boys killing those bison? And then leaving them to rot?”
“I… I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Tell us or you’re dead!” Arthur said, punching the hunter in the nose.
“Alright, alright, we were paid to make it look like it was Indians!”
From behind Arthur, Charles said, “Just kill him.”
But Arthur took one look at the pathetic tears, listened to the hunter cry about his family, and decided that he couldn’t do it. There had been enough death that day.
Arthur leaned in close, speaking barely above a whisper. “You run on back to those people who hired you, and you tell them that the bison are off limits. You promise to do that, and you live.”
The man nodded, sniffling, “Of course, just don’t kill me, I have a family.”
“Then get outta here!”
The man didn’t think twice, fleeing into the hills. From behind him, Charles stomped to Arthur’s side. “Why did you do that?” he asked.
“He didn’t need to die, Charles.”
“And you think he will stay away? He’ll come back, with more poachers, and I…” Charles took a long, stuttering breath. “I’ve seen enough of this. I’m heading back.”
“I’ll go with you.”
“No. I need to be alone.”
As Charles rode away, Arthur stayed to inspect the camp for a few minutes. He found a few more bottles of alcohol, and checked the body’s pockets.
Some men were easy to treat well, like Mickey. Others were not.
Arthur rode back to camp for the second time that day, less elated, and gave the bison pelt and meat to Mr. Pearson. Pearson was ecstatic to have new materials to work with, but upon seeing the look on Arthur’s face, he dimmed the excitement down a little. The camp ate well, though Arthur barely tasted the stew himself. He wished the day had ended with their own hunt, after seeing the magnificence of the bison herd on the plain and hearing the wonder in Charles’ voice.
Still, his sour mood only got worse when Dutch approached him later that evening.
“I need you to go looking for Micah. He should have come back by now,” Dutch began.
“He said he was going to get a score. I’d rather let him be. Maybe he will get himself arrested again.”
“Arthur,” Dutch said, placing a hand on Arthur’s shoulder. A firm hand, less comforting than it should have been. “I know you don’t care much for Micah.”
“And I don’t understand why you do care. You’ve seen what he’s done. He don’t belong with us!”
Dutch’s grip on Arthur’s shoulder tightened, and he led Arthur away from the camp towards the edge of the overlook. “What’s gotten into you, son? Where’s your faith?”
“What?”
“We will survive, Arthur, but only if all of us stick together! That includes Mr. Bell. What has happened to you? You’ve been different these last few days.”
Now, Arthur still didn’t want to admit to drinking a potion and having a weird dream. Arthur honestly didn’t know why everything Dutch said seemed to set him on edge. He didn’t agree with a lot of the decisions made after Blackwater, but lately he didn’t feel the same overwhelming pressure to cave to Dutch’s every whim. It was being replaced by confusion and anger, emotions that, while being present prior to the witch’s brew, were heightened now. So, instead he said, “You weren’t there in Strawberry.”
“Excuse me?”
“You didn’t have to shoot half a town because that idiot wanted to get his precious guns back! You always taught me to be better than that, to not kill unnecessarily, to not seek revenge, but Micah ain’t like us!”
“We don’t leave people behind.”
“But some people we should cut loose. You’ve done it in the past.”
Dutch’s glare turned more sinister. “Are you doubting my judgment, Arthur?”
“Dutch?”
“We will survive, we will thrive! You just need faith. Loyalty and faith, son. Now, tomorrow… you will go out and look for Mr. Bell.”
With that order, Dutch turned and walked back to his tent, leaving Arthur dumbfounded on the edge of camp. When Arthur wandered back by himself, Hosea caught his eye.
“What was that about?” asked Hosea.
“Dutch wants me to go looking for Micah, bring him back to camp.”
“And I take it you don’t agree?” Hosea sat down on a log and patted the spot next to him, inviting Arthur to sit for a chat. Arthur did gladly. Between the mountains and his brief illness, he couldn’t remember the last time he got to sit and talk to Hosea.
“I guess I’m just remembering how we used to be. Hell, even before Blackwater, we were not how we used to be. Back when it was just a few of us. Dutch never would’ve let a man like Micah in the gang, much less call him family. And he don’t listen when I try to tell him.”
“I’ve told Dutch my feelings on Mr. Bell as well,” Hosea said. “But you know how Dutch is. I’m not sure he really listened to me, either.”
“You know the other week, when we took the O’Driscoll out to look for Colm? The boy said that us and the O’Driscolls were the same. We robbed and killed and took money for ourselves. I denied it, but it got me thinking. I don’t know, its probably stupid, but maybe I’m worried that the kid was right, for some of it at least. Sure, Dutch is a better leader than Colm O’Driscoll, but what about our purpose? When did we lose that?”
“I don’t know,” Hosea admitted. “I just know that right now, we need to help ourselves before we can try to go back to helping others. I worry that we won’t get the chance to go back to our old ways. This country keeps getting smaller. But we still have a chance, and once we have enough money to feel comfortable again we can convince Dutch to get back west and help folk that aren’t ourselves.”
“Yeah, maybe.”
“I’m glad you are thinking about this, though. You aren’t as dumb as you pretend to be!” Hosea joked.
“Eh, shut up, old man!” Arthur got up, heading towards his tent. “Guess I should go get some rest. I have an idiot to find in the morning. Who knows, maybe he ran like the coward he is.”
“Wouldn’t be the worst thing that’s happened!” Hosea laughed.
Arthur avoided Dutch’s gaze as he returned to his tent and kicked off his boots. Micah Bell better not be too difficult to track down, he thought. There was only so much time he wanted to dedicate to the man, especially when there was money to be made.