Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was a warm Oklahoma morning, one of the first days of summer, cicadas screamed in the trees and every gust of wind brought the smell of flowers and bright, golden puffs of pollen. Isaac was helping Mama in the backyard with laundry, handing her wet shirts and clothespins so she could hang them on the line.

Even though he was just four Mama said he was the best little helper in the whole world, and she loved having her little helper. Even though their house was small Mama spent lots of time cleaning it, everything always smelled freshly washed.

‘We take care of our things if we want our things to take care of us.’ She’d often say when he complained about too many chores and too little play.

But then she’d spend the rest of the day teaching him how to play cribbage or dominos, reading to him, chasing him around the house until he was breathless and laughter-warm. The sooner chores were done the sooner silly Mama could come play. So he eagerly grabbed the large wet sheet from their bed now coiled in the basket like a huge, wet snake, and nearly toppled over him and the basket trying to pull it out.

Mama caught him with a laugh and steadied him back to his feet, “Woah there! Ain’t no need to see you tumble down the hill. I’m sure Daddy wouldn’t want to see you all bruised up on your birthday.”

“Is Daddy coming today?” Isaac said, eyes twinkling and excited at the prospect.

“No, no,” Mama took the big sheet from the basket and the handful of clothespins he held up with a kiss to his head. “Daddy’s letter said he’d probably get here on your birthday, just two more days, sweetness.”

Isaac shrugged and grabbed the next piece of clothing. Daddy was a strange man, he didn’t live with them and Isaac only saw him a couple of times a year. Sometimes Isaac could forget that he even had a Daddy, and not just a friend of Mama’s who came riding in to spend time with them.

He was still excited though, it was fun when Daddy was in town and Mama breathed a little easier when he was there, both because he gave her money in thick rolls and clips and because he could protect them. He loved his Mama and anything that made her shoulders lay flat and her brow unfurrow was the best thing in Isaac’s book.

After the last piece of clothing was pinned up Isaac flung himself at his Mama, standing on her feet and clinging to her skirt, “Dance with me, Mama, let’s do a dance!”

Mama laughed and set the empty basket down, instead grabbing Isaac’s hands and spinning him around, “My little charmer.”

His peals of laughter were like the bright, burbling of the stream down the hill, or the chirping of the birds as they picked over seeds and spoke to one another, an intrinsic truth of the landscape.

When she finally stopped their spinning to collapse into the grass, the two of them ruffled from falling and red-cheeked in exertion despite their matching olive-toned skin, Isaac eagerly got in her face. “Now I spin you, Mama.”

“Sweetness, you ain’t big enough to spin mama.” She said sitting up and tweaking his nose in amusement.

“Yuh-huh!” Isaac pouted standing up to his full height of three feet.

Mama rolled her eyes and stood up, putting her hand in Isaac’s when he insisted, and when he raised his hand as high as he could she shook her head and chuckled before crouching and bending down enough to spin under his little hand.

“Ok, you spun Mama, now let's go, we’ve got lots to do before Daddy gets here.” She flipped her long braid back over her shoulder and muttered to herself as she continued towards the little house they called their own. “But I ain’t gettin’ groceries ‘till he’s here to pay for ‘em, damn fool eats more than all the pigs combined.”

The house was small, yet light and breezy, and far above the standard of living she’d been used to until meeting Arthur. He’d spent a lot of money on fixing up the little cabin to ensure she and Isaac were taken care of when he was gone. And even though she was adamant that she didn’t want him living with them, and she didn’t want his gang of hooligans and outlaws knowing her and her son, she was eternally grateful for the stoic, reliable, endlessly endearing way Arthur provided for them.

She was staring at the windows of the kitchen, two sets of them meeting at the corner of the house bringing in rich bucketfuls of warm southern sunlight in the day, as she approached them, thinking she needed to sew some new curtains for them, thinking about how she was going to ask Arthur to replace the shutters when he was here. She was thinking so hard about her list of chores that she nearly missed the two men, all in black with revolvers drawn, approaching her home.

A flush of cold fear washed through her body despite the thick heat of the morning. The men weren’t on horses so they almost certainly weren’t Arthur’s fellow gang members. No, these were real bonafide criminals, come to take advantage of a young mother out on her own.

“Mama, are you gonna-” Eliza clapped a hand over Isaac’s mouth before he could alert the men, quickly abandoning the basket to bundle her son up in her arms.

“Sweetness, you gotta be quiet now, ok? We’re gonna play hide n’ seek.” She could not disguise the fear in her voice or the tremble in her hands as she scurried away towards the other side of the house, pressing Isaac so close to her it made her collarbones and ribs creak.

Isaac looked up at her with his big, lakewater eyes that he got from his daddy and shook.

She fished out the cellar key that she kept in her bodice and crouched down to unlock the big padlock on the doors. It was their tornado shelter but it would be providing a different brand of safety today.

Reluctantly Eliza set Isaac down who immediately turned to cling to her leg as she gingerly opened one of the massive doors, barely able to pull its incredible weight up without using two hands, and setting it down as quietly as she could before descending into the deep, musty darkness.

It was a tight space, cramped by the shelves full of dry goods and rations along the walls, the remaining floor just barely enough for two bedrolls to be laid out beside one another. Eliza grabbed a match from the shelves with trembling hands and lit the oil lamp in the corner, before crouching down to look Isaac in the eyes.

“Sweetness, you’re gonna hide down here and stay hushed, ok? You’re going to be safe here s’long as you keep quiet, understood?” Eliza had to barrel through the quivering weakness that filled her at the sight of Isaac’s wet eyes, at the thought of what she was going to do.

Isaac nodded, always so good with instructions.

“Alright, good boy, perfect boy.” Eliza couldn’t resist bundling him up once more, clutching him so tightly as if she could tuck him into her ribs where he’d be safe. She kissed his hair and all over his face before finally standing up and grabbing the double-barrel shotgun to the side of the cellar doors. “Mama’s going to go say hi to our visitors, you stay here, don’t move.”

Isaac sank to the ground, leaning against the bedrolls tucked into the corner, and stared at her, silently, barely reacting to the gun she’d grabbed, instead stuck to her face and her wavering determination.

“Mama loves you, sweetness,” Mama said with a wobbly smile. “Mama’ll be right back.”

The cellar door closed and the room was returned to its natural state of still, darkness broken only by the flickering lamp and Isaac’s muffled breathing.

Soon after the door had closed behind her Isaac heard the explosive sound of the shotgun. He remembered the sound from when Daddy had given it to Mama earlier in the year and taught her how to shoot. Daddy had set him inside and covered up his ears with one of Mama’s scarves and the sound had still felt loud enough to shake him down to his bones.

He heard the second shot of the shotgun go off a moment later, followed close after by a different kind of gun, a quieter, smaller gun.

And then the whole world was silent.

He sat for a long time, crying and breathing heavily, trying not to make any noise, waiting for when the cellar doors would finally open again to show his Mama’s smiling face. He was waiting for when she’d pull him into a hug, kiss him too many times, and spin him around. He was waiting to see the daylight, piercing after being submerged in the dark.

He waited and waited and yet the doors stayed closed.

It was only when the oil lamp extinguished that Isaac screamed out for Mama, he ran to the doors and tried to push them open, only to find that they were much too heavy to lift on his own. He sat in the dark, wailing on the stairs, begging for Mama to come back for him.

He banged his little fists on the doors, unaware that the rough, unfinished wood was tearing open the soft skin of his fists, couldn’t tell that there was blood trailing down his arms and staining his clothes. All he could do was cry and beat on the doors, and all he could think was ‘Daddy’s coming for my birthday.’

Chapter Text

Arthur felt a little extra spring in his step as he led Boadicea towards Eliza’s homestead. It had been a long, trying time since he’d last come to visit, nearly five months. Since waving goodbye to Eliza and little Isaac he’d been shot, stabbed, kicked by horses, and endlessly annoyed by the gang. He loved them but Lord they knew best how to work his last nerve.

He had cajoled and negotiated his way to a week of absence from the gang to enjoy this time with his friend and their son, to celebrate Isaac’s birthday. He needed this time away, needed the peace and domesticity the homestead provided, allowing him to step away from Arthur Morgan for a handful of days and become Dad.

He was a different man up here, not different enough as both he and Eliza knew, but he gained clarity and peace and got precious time with his boy who grew leaps and bounds in the time Arthur was gone.

The other reason he was so excited to arrive was the gift he’d brought Isaac, strapped precariously to Boadicea’s saddle. A finely carved rocking horse he’d commissioned, painted even to look like his prize steed, with a handsome red saddle atop it. Eliza didn’t want no outlaw, gunslinging son so toy guns were strictly prohibited, but even the most well-to-do of gentlemen could love their horse.

As he approached the front door of the homestead his sprightly walk slowed to a suspicious crawl. Usually, Eliza and Isaac were bursting out the door to greet him once he’d rounded the curve up to where they could see him, but the homestead was eerily, uncomfortably silent. Even Boadicea was tugging at her reins, nickering in discontent and trying to pull Arthur away. He hitched her to a tree and slowly stalked forward.

Opening the front door he found nothing and no one, the house was silent and had just a scant layer of dust across the surfaces, more than he’d ever seen in Eliza’s home.

Something was wrong.

He stepped out of the house and rushed to the back where he’d seen clean, hanging clothes, hoping Eliza and Isaac were just out doing chores and hadn’t seen him, but rounding the corner of the house he found he was very, very wrong.

Three bodies laid out in messy, broken heaps, blood long since drained into the ground, flies and buzzards and crows flying around the gruesome heap.

It wasn’t hard to pick out what had happened, the two men were obvious crooks with their unwashed stink and filthy dusters as well as their well-worn revolvers, only one of which had had a chance to draw. Their chests were completely caved in with the force of a point-blank shotgun blast and Arthur felt a dim spark of pride in Eliza at handling the gun, but it was a distant feeling, drowned out by the mounting dread as he approached Eliza’s still body.

He could not stifle the sob-strangled laugh as he looked at her; she had somehow managed to die cleanly.

The one shot the crooks had gotten off had gone straight through her skull, killing her instantly, and the blood strained through her dark hair and sifted into the ground, barely any remained on her face and none had even touched her clothes.

She looked surprised in death, maybe at the fact that she’d successfully shot the two men, maybe that she’d been unlucky enough to have gotten shot?

Arthur kneeled with a grief-laden sigh and stroked her face, pulling the empty shotgun out of her hands with the other one. “Oh, ‘Liza, you ain’t deserve this.”

Death had drawn the warm, youthful pallor of her skin out to a sickly green, her eyes grown milky white and the single bullet wound was blackening and festering in her skin, based on the progress of rot he would guess she’d been out in the elements for two or three days. He dragged her eyelids down, crossed her arms over her chest, and prayed that this was all some horrible dream.

They had lived four years under the misguided perception that this little home was impervious to the filth of the outside world, that not even Arthur’s own sins could taint this sacred place. And yet two idiots probably drunk as a skunk and riling one another up with what untold wealth could be behind closed doors were enough to shatter the peaceful illusion.

Had Eliza not successfully taught them the error of their ways Arthur would have made their deaths slow and painful.

He stood up and scrubbed his face of tears, he would need to find the shovel and give her a proper burial, then leave the two bastards somewhere in the woods to get eaten-

Arthur realized with a start that there were only three bodies in the clearing.

“Isaac!” Arthur bellowed, his voice echoing back off the trees and distant valley, his fear broadcast to all of the apathetic nature around him. “Isaac!”

He ran around the house, looking for any sign of the boy, searching for a fourth, impossibly small body, when he found the cellar. The big padlock tossed to the side.

Arthur rushed forward and threw open the doors, ready to stomp down and look for whoever had seen three bodies, and decided to go looting instead, ready to throw the whole tangle of rage and grief at them and make them pay for being there.

But there on the first step, cowering in the sunlight, was Isaac.

Arthur collapsed to his knees and snatched up his son, holding him tight against his chest, blocking everything else in the world, daring anything to try and touch his boy.

“Daddy?” Isaac’s voice was a mere crack of breath, his throat hoarse from screaming and dehydration.

“I’m here, darlin’, I’m right here.” Arthur rocked with his boy clutched in his arms, rocked against the waves of torrential grief, fear, and earth-shaking relief that washed over him.

Isaac broke down into pitiful, heavy sobs, clutching Arthur’s flannel and burrowing himself into his father’s shoulder, “Don’t leave me, don’t leave me! I don’t wanna go in the dark!”

Arthur’s heart broke listening to Isaac’s increasingly nonsensical pleas, holding him tighter and rubbing his back more and more with each desperate, terrible thing Isaac said. “I ain’t gon’ leave you, son, I ain’t ever leaving you again.”

Isaac continued sobbing great heaving sobs into Arthur’s shirt, barely even acknowledging what he’d said except for an emphatic nod, his face still pressed against Arthur’s neck.

Doing his best not to extract Isaac from where he clung to Arthur’s front Arthur began frantically looking over Isaac, checking him for injuries, trying to figure out what the first thing in an exponentially increasing list of things he needed to do. There were no injuries from what he could see until Arthur found the trails of blood, dark and dried on Isaac’s warm freckled skin.

He gently pulled off one of Isaac’s little fists clenched in his collar, shushed the loud outpouring of sobs in response, and examined Isaac’s hand, a mere fraction the size of Arthur’s own. The underside of Isaac’s hand, the curled semicircle of a fist, was a mess of splinters and ripped-off skin. He looked at the revealed interior of the cellar doors and winced at the scattered spots of blood on both.

As gingerly as he could Arthur stood, still clutching Isaac whose little body shook uncontrollably with his crying, and carefully walked around the far side of the house, making sure Isaac never saw a hint of the bloody mess on the other side.

He approached Boadicea who immediately shoved her nose in the small space between Arthur and Isaac, her flicking tail and ears showed she was just as upset as Arthur was about the wretched state of their boy. Her huffy sniffing and nibbling on his shirt summoned a surprised laugh from Isaac, pushing the horse away as his body finally started to fall limp, his lungs and heart giving out from all the crying he’d done, and all the crying he had left to do.

Arthur adjusted his hold on Isaac to cradle him in one arm, allowing him to rifle through the saddlebag for his medical supplies, pulling a bottle of whiskey, bandages, and tweezers out. For lack of hands, Arthur piled all the materials in the boy’s lap. Isaac, weary from his crying with uneven, shuddering breaths, picked up the ball of bandages and idly fumbled with it.

Just watching the simple action and feeling the thumping of Isaac’s heart against his chest made his eyes well, his face growing hot with unshed tears.

He was so glad that Isaac was still alive.

Arthur took a moment to press Isaac closer and kiss the crown of his head, before digging around in his bag again to grab a box of crackers and his waterskin. He’d barely taken them out of the saddlebag when Isaac scrambled for them, his eyes wide, nearly toppling out of Arthur’s grip with his intensity.

“Woah, boy!” Arthur said, readjusting his grip and handing over the food before Isaac knocked it all to the ground. “Now you eat a few of these, and then you’ll get the water, but you gotta do it slow or you’ll make yourself sick.”

Walking back towards the river, passing through to grab some clothes from the line for the boy, Arthur felt entirely disconnected from reality.

Here he was going to bathe his son, feed him, clothe him, proper fatherly things, and there were three dead people up the hill, including dear Eliza. But Isaac had to be his priority right now, dead people would stay dead, but his son was starving, filthy, and traumatized. Dealing with the corpses would have to be a problem for later.

Isaac had made it about halfway through the crackers by the time Arthur finally relinquished the waterskin, the boy drank it greedily, the cool water dribbling out of his mouth and down his neck. Before he could tip it up to pour the rest down Arthur gingerly took it away to stop him.

After filling himself up on crackers and water the boy was just about ready to pass out in Arthur’s arms, one hand still clenched hard in Arthur’s shirt unwilling to let go even in his exhaustion.

Isaac was quiet as Arthur worked, only sniffling and whining a couple of times when he had to move Isaac around to bathe and change him. After Isaac was warm and clean and bundled up in his father’s lap again he fell fitfully asleep, his thick head of hair, so like his mother’s, growing curly and hot in the sun as he leaned against Arther’s shoulder

The boy being asleep allowed Arthur ample time and maneuverability to pick out the long and broken shards of wood still embedded in Isaac’s soft skin. His heart hurt with every shard of wood he extracted, every whine and wince Isaac made in his slumber, but mostly he hurt at the fact that this happened at all.

If he’d been here just a few days earlier Eliza would still be alive. Isaac would never have had to face the dark loneliness of the past few, fraught days. If Arthur had given up the outlaw life and just settled down with Eliza they’d all be happy and alive together, but Eliza had said it best herself when he’d first awkwardly broached the topic of how much she wanted him involved. “Ramblin’ men can’t stop on account of no one but themselves.”

Her father had dragged her and her mother up and down the country for years, only stopping at the grave. And yes Arthur could have said goodbye to his family and come to take care of his son, could have tried to give up the life of the lawless renegade for the domestic ideal like Hosea had.

But that hadn’t lasted for Hosea he’d just dragged himself back to Dutch’s feet after his life had crumbled. Brought back into the fold without hesitation, like Dutch knew it wouldn’t have lasted, slipping right back into his old role when he was sober like Hosea knew his dream had been nothing but a fantasy.

He didn’t want to lie to himself and his family, and Eliza had been too sharp, too shrewd to have ever successfully lied to her, but mostly he would never have wanted to hurt Isaac by leaving him and their life together after letting him believe that he would stay forever.

Arthur belonged out in the wilderness, out amongst the blurring edge between law and lawlessness, society and savagery, and Eliza belonged in her home, her own domain where she was in control for once.

He never could’ve stayed, but that didn’t stop the hot burn of shame and guilt from slinking through his brain, harsh whispers telling him all the ways he failed.

He fished out all the splinters, and quickly dabbed the wounded skin in whisky, before wrapping it all in bandages and praying nothing like this would ever happen again. That he could be a better man, a better father for Isaac. That he could successfully protect his son at his side even with how hard, and fraught with danger his own life was.

The walk back up the hill was a quiet one, filled only by the mounting dread of his next task.

He quickly darted around the foul-smelling patch of blood and bodies and into the house, wincing at every spot he looked at, seeing afterimages of Eliza cleaning, playing with Isaac, drinking and laughing with Arthur, living her bright, beautiful life just the way she’d wanted it.

Instead of going to lay Isaac down in the main bedroom which he and Eliza had shared he went to the second room, serving as Arthur’s room when he came to visit. He laid Isaac out on the small bed, smiled despite the circumstances at the way Isaac splayed out in the way young boys did, his fresh clothes already growing slightly tacky with the sweat of a nap in summer, before gently closing the curtains and heading out the front door.

Getting rid of the two crooks was easy. Arthur dragged them both across the trail to the copse of dense trees and underbrush, making sure they were well hidden where he dropped them. And even though they were dead and he knew he had more important things to be doing he could not help the spiteful drive of his knife into their faces.

How dare these idiots, these morons, completely upend his son’s life? How dare they kill the mother of his child? What right did they have to come in and shatter the long-held peace of the homestead?

He thought once more that they were fortunate Eliza got to them before he did.

The rage and grief built up in his body like a sickness and the only cure was stabbing them over and over again, caving in their faces like Eliza had done to their chests, not even giving them the courtesy of being recognized in their deaths.

Finally, the rage drained out, his grip on the knife grew weaker and Arthur was able to stand and step away. What’s done was done, and these men deserved no more of his time and energy than they’d already taken.

Arthur dragged himself out of the underbrush, immediately heading into the house to ensure that Isaac was still asleep. The last errant embers of his vitriol drained out in a chuckle as he found Isaac tangled in the blankets and sheets and somehow upside down on the bed, still blessedly asleep.

Then he went outside, went to the shed, and grabbed a shovel.

With every shovelful of dirt, he dug up memories of Eliza, everything in their short time together that had led to him digging her grave. Meeting her at that bar in Tulsa, the hangover cure she’d brought him the next day without asking because she’d seen how wild he’d gotten the night before, falling into bed in his room at the inn with hushed whispers and giggles, more fun rolling around with her then he’d had in a long time with Mary, a woman he loved who was determined to yank Arthur’s heart around on a chain.

Then coming back months later after a long trip around the state and was shocked when the little waitress, a whole damn foot shorter than him, stomped up to him in the middle of town, surrounded by the other visibly dangerous members of his gang, to pull him off into an alley. No fear in her eyes, her shoulders back and her gaze confident and determined.

She did everything confidently, told him he could keep his crime away from her child and her life, and that she was more than ready to raise the child essentially on her own if he could foot the bill. And when she’d had Isaac, and berated Arthur mercilessly for the size of head he’d inflicted upon her, and he was freaking out because nothing in his life had ever prepared him for something as soft, innocent, and fragile as a baby, she’d taken his hands and told him that he was a decent man, and he’d be a good father, so long as he cared enough to be scared about it.

He felt the ghost of her words haunting him as he finished digging the grave. He was terrified. Scared to death about ruining their son, ruining his life, and everything Eliza had tried to give him. But there was no other option, he wasn’t going to abandon his son, and he was going to try his best, it was the only thing he could do.

He was preparing to lift Eliza’s cold body to place her into her final resting place when he heard a glass-shattering scream from behind him.

Arthur immediately ran and scooped his son up, burying him against his shoulder, a firm grip on the back of Isaac’s head so he couldn’t look, but not before Isaac had seen his mama cold and decomposing next to the deep hole in the ground.

“Mama!” Isaac kicked and thrashed against the iron grip Arthur had on him, desperate to get away and get to Mama.

Arthur nervously paced in front of the house, still clutching Isaac. The boy wasn’t supposed to see that, he’d already been traumatized enough. Arthur was supposed to protect him from this, but he just kept failing.

“Your Mama-” Arthur cleared his throat around where the words were lumping up, around the burning feeling of tears. “She’s gone, darlin’, I’m so sorry.”

“No!” Isaac screamed, his face red with the force of his tears and screams and pure anguish. “I want Mama! I don’t want Daddy, I want Mama!”

Arthur had to pause in his pacing to breathe around the hot knife of pain newly buried in his chest. He slowly picked up his pace and rubbed Isaac’s back, barely audible as he spoke around the choke of emotions. “I know, darlin’ boy, but you got me.”

Chapter Text

Arthur had stood pacing and rocking an inconsolable Isaac for the better part of an hour, even having to go wash his face and change his clothes again when Isaac cried so hard he made himself sick. But finally, he passed out into a fitful sleep in Arthur’s arms, purely exhausted from so much crying and pain.

He needed to get them off this fucking land.

Holding Isaac as he heaved his guts over Arthur’s shoulder and into the grass, further staining his already ruined shirt, had just solidified that for him. The only way he and Isaac could start living their lives again and healing was by going forward.

Instead of laying Isaac back down in the bed, he wrapped the boy up in the sheet hanging clean on the line in the yard and put him down beside Boadicea where she was laid down at the edge of the property. Somewhere Arthur could see the boy while he finished up with the last of the dirty work.

He easily picked up Eliza, she was about half the size of Arthur in every measure of the word, and shivered as he held her. She was ice cold. No blood moving in her body, no air filling her lungs or words in her mouth, just cold.

He quickly placed her in the freshly dug grave, eager to feel warm again, but paused for a second, one foot in the grave one foot out as he stared at her still, blank face.

Something compelled him to grab her hand where it lay crossed over her chest, something urged him to place one last kiss on her fair, chilled skin that smelled of fresh breeze and gunpowder.

“I ain’t gonna let you down, ‘Liza, I’m gon’ take care of our boy.” He shuddered out a breath, the weight of the promise he was making pressing down on his shoulders. “I know you didn’t want him tangled up in my life but I’m still gon’ do my best. I’m gon’ love him for both of us.”

The urge that kept him half in and half out of the grave broke with those words and he stumbled back up onto level ground, sparing one last, heart-aching, remorseful look at Eliza, before picking the shovel back up and burying her.

When Eliza was finally buried and taken care of he struck out to find wood and twine, sat beside the freshly dug grave, and set to carving her grave marker. The steadying action of creating the cross and the focus devouring carving gave him space to feel the tragedy of her death. No time for big sobs or curses thrown up at God, he could only spare faint tracks of tears through the grime on his face and a tremor in his breath, he had too much to do to spare much more.

It didn’t take him long to carve the cross for Eliza’s grave, delicately engraving her name and years, Eliza Bloom 1867-1891, wishing he could do better. But there was no time for regrets as there was no time for more thorough mourning. That same compulsion that had brought him low to the corpse level of the earth, to the death-chilled touch of Eliza’s skin, urged him on.

He hefted Isaac up from where Boadicea was neatly wrapped around him, feeding her an oat cake in thanks, and headed back into the house.

Arthur had no plans on staying in Eliza’s house. His life was back down the road and the presence of her here was too strong for him, and surely for the boy, to bear. So he grabbed what Isaac needed to live his life with his Pa, all one-handed as he held Isaac with the other: the few sets of clothes he had, the well-worn penny dreadfuls stacked beside the bed, a quilt folded neatly at the bottom of the bed, the jacks and marbles and dominoes and cribbage and cards, all of Isaac's favorite toys left in midplay throughout the small house.

After bundling all that up as best as he could in the saddlebags Arthur lay Isaac down in the large bed, freezing in fear when Isaac groaned and shifted in his sleep, until the boy finally thrashed his way out of the blanket he’d been wrapped up in to lay more fully on the bed. And as quietly as he could Arthur pried up a few floorboards on Eliza’s side of the bed, to uncover a small safe, just where he’d helped her install it when he got her the house. He turned the dial of the safe, 5-12-86, Isaac’s birthday, and opened the little door.

The only two things inside were the deed to the land and a large bundle of money that Eliza had been saving for a while. Arthur felt dirty staring down into the safe. He’d given her all that money to live and raise their child, this was her money, her house, and he was going to take it all the instant she was gone. She had never suspected him of ever potentially stealing from her, of ever misusing her, and he felt like the scum of the earth, like he’d betrayed that trust somehow.

But he pocketed the money, took the deed, and left the safe and floor cracked open to bare its emptiness. The last thing he grabbed, before picking up Isaac again and heading back to Boadicea, was the framed picture on Eliza’s dresser.

On one of his first visits after Isaac had been born, Eliza demanded he take them to Tulsa to get a portrait taken of the three of them. Something she could show to the baby when he grew up and couldn’t remember his daddy between visits. There was very little she asked of Arthur that he wouldn’t immediately comply with so he’d hitched her wagon and driven them to the awful city.

In the photo, Isaac was just a baby swaddled in clean blankets, held by Eliza in stiff portraiture in her best dress and an even stiffer Arthur next to her chair, freshly bathed, shaven, and wearing nicer clothes than anything he’d ever worn. He remembered after they’d received the portrait she’d slapped his arm and needled at him, “Arthur! You can’t smile? The camera ain’t owin’ you money!”

The irony was not lost on him that the portrait would now serve as a reminder for her and not him.

He wrapped the portrait up in Isaac’s clothes and tucked it back into the saddlebag and as he was adjusting the overstuffed bags and the toy horse Isaac groaned and roused, fisting his hands in Arthur’s shirt as he awoke ungracefully. “Daddy?”

“Mornin’ darlin’.”

“‘M hungry,” Isaac rubbed at his eyes, and shifted, trying to unseat himself from Arthur’s hold on him.

“I’ll get us some food,” Arthur let Isaac slip out and placed him on the ground, keeping a hand on his head of curls until Isaac got his feet under him. “Why don’t you go pick some flowers for yer Mama?”

Isaac nodded, still rubbing at his eyes as he walked to the copse of flowers at the front of the house. Arthur watched him for a second more, making sure Isaac kept himself to the house and didn’t veer off to the dark shadowed grove across that held the bodies of the two men.

As quickly as he could Arthur ducked around the side of the house to go down into the cellar, trying to ignore the spots of blood on the doors and the stairs, trying not to think about just how long his son was trapped in the dark.

Jerky, shiny jars of jam, pickled vegetables, cornmeal for grits, sweet potatoes, Arthur grabbed what he could carry that could tide him and the boy over for the two days it’d take to get back home, leaving everything else to not encumber poor Boadicea.

Arthur hadn’t had much opportunity in his life to cook, but he could make grits and roast potatoes, simple stuff, enough for the caveman he was. So he stepped into the kitchen, passing by Isaac who reviewed the flowers at his disposal with the kind of eagle-eyed focus he’d seen from Hosea in a game of cards.

He started the fire in the stove and nestled the sweet potatoes in amongst the logs and embers to roast as he heated the bacon fat in the pan, the potatoes would be good hearty food on the road, and he knew the boy could never say no to a warm, roasted yam. The grits came together lightning fast and he was mixing in the last pad of butter by the time Isaac finally came in with his fist full of wildflowers.

“Those look mighty fine, Isaac, good job.” Arthur ruffled the boy's hair as he came close to cling to Arthur’s leg. “You feelin’ better, boy?”

Isaac shook his head but didn’t elaborate, just messed with the flowers and stared at their shoes.

“Food’ll be done soon, don’t you worry-”

“There’s mud in the kitchen.” Isaac piped up, “Mama hates mud.”

“That’s right, son, but we’ve got to get going, ain’t got time to clean.” Arthur quickly served two plates full of his haphazard grits and sat Isaac down at the table in front of the smaller plate, gently placing the bundle of wildflowers off to the side.

Before he forgot them Arthur snatched the sweet potatoes out of the oven, wrapping them up in handkerchiefs to keep them warm. His thickly calloused hands and riding gloves meant he barely felt the heat as he handled the hot potatoes.

He sat down in front of his plate and rapidly started eating. Even after fourteen years with Dutch and Hosea and getting his fair share of food without having to beg, fight, or steal it Arthur still ate his food like someone was coming to take it at any moment.

So by the time he’d finished eating Isaac was still only a few spoonfuls in, his hands heavy with his sadness. “I don’t wanna go, daddy.”

“We’re goin’ go campin’ every day, you’ll have uncles and aunties, and everyone is goin’ to be so pleased to meet you,” Arthur said warmly, sure of that at the very least.

The gang had been upset when he’d told them they wouldn’t get to meet Isaac, and only Dutch had gotten even a glimpse of Eliza as she pulled him off into the alley. Hosea had been particularly irate in the short time before leaving to live off the land with Bessie, irritated that he wouldn’t get to meet his grandchild, but nowadays, Bessie dead in the ground, Hosea was too drunk to care about anything.

Something tricky and acidic twisted in Arthur’s gut at the impending task of introducing Isaac to his mentors, his would-be fathers, of folding the boy into the tableau of their little gang. But that was future Arthur’s problem, present Arthur had to make sure his son ate up before their big trip.

Twenty minutes and a fair bit of whining and cajoling, followed by hasty clean-up as Isaac insisted and he was mere moments away from crying at the sight of the dirty kitchen, Arthur emerged from the little house, Isaac trailing behind him picking at his wildflowers.

“Come on, son, one last goodbye.”

With a gentle hand on Isaac’s head, Arthur led the boy over to the freshly turned dirt with the little wooden cross beside the house. Arthur was terrified of Isaac having another meltdown at the sight, but he didn’t know if they would ever return here and it wouldn’t be right to rob the child of a chance to say goodbye to his mama.

Isaac stared at the wooden cross, his brow furrowing like he recalled the devastating sight of his mother dead on the ground earlier and was trying to connect it to the current scene, and failing.

Arthur crouched down beside Isaac, rubbing one big hand up and down Isaac’s back, “D’you wanna give your Mama them pretty flowers?”

Isaac wordlessly stepped forward and placed them at the base of the cross, “Is Mama in the sky with grandma and grandpa?”

Arthur blinked in surprise, Eliza didn’t like talking about her parents even to Arthur when she was drunk, he was surprised she’d mentioned anything at all to Isaac. “That’s right, son, she’s up in heaven looking down, watchin’ over us, and she’s restin’ right here.”

Heaven was a convenient lie for the brutality of death. An easy backdoor to every day’s sins and blasphemies, a lie he was more than willing to give to the boy.

Isaac didn’t say anything, still just staring at the cross like all the answers to all his woes lay in the fine grain of the wood and Arthur’s wobbly carving. Until something seemed to click and he turned into Arthur’s embrace, clutching his shirt again with desperation, but no tears, just tight, shuddering breaths.

Arthur stood easily, continuing to rub Isaac’s back, “See you ‘round, ‘Liza. Isaac and I will be just fine, don’t you worry.”

Before Arthur could prompt Isaac to say his goodbyes, wary of what future regrets the boy might have if he didn’t, Isaac spoke, staring up at the sky, still holding Arthur’s shirt in a tight, white-knuckled grip. “Bye, Mama, love you, Mama.”

His soft, tear-strained voice broke Arthur’s heart, what little had remained unfractured since he’d first stepped onto Eliza’s land this morning and he took it as his mark to finally go and mount Boadicea as he’d wanted to do since he first found Isaac.

With the boy sat at the front of the saddle, holding onto the saddlehorn as tightly as Arthur held him he left the still, quiet grave and the dusty house and the bloodstained cellar doors behind. He left behind the worst birthday he could only hope his son would ever have and he took them down the trail to their new life.

Chapter Text

John’s head lolled on his fist as he propped himself up. It was nearing three am and he was on guard duty, and very, very tired. He knew it was important, or he knew that Dutch and Hosea said it was important, but he was just so bored, as well as annoyed. Mac and Davey had only been running with them for two or three years now but since they were old and gross like Arthur John got treated like he was green and was given all the worst guard shifts.

He was here all alone getting eaten alive by mosquitos because of ‘potential threats’ when he could be sleeping, it was ridiculous. And he was only on watch because Arthur was out playing house. Sometimes he doubted Arthur actually had a son and was just running away to not have to do any work.

If he wasn’t so annoyed at the man for leaving him to pick up the slack John would be impressed.

The sound of hoof steps and rustling underbrush startled John so much from his contemplation that he fell clean off the rock he’d been sitting on. He scrambled to grab the rifle from where it’d fallen and tried to stand up and look intimidating.

“Who’s out there?” And of course, his voice had to crack in the middle, and of course, instead of an answer he heard familiar, deep laughter at his expense. “Arthur?”

“Jesus, John, I needed that,” Coming around the bend was Arthur up on Boadicea, from the scant light of the dying scout fire John could see that Arthur looked exhausted, heavy bags under his eyes and dirt streaked across his face and clothes. John could also see the saddlebags were stuffed and bulging, and the little toy horse Arthur had purchased was still lashed to the side.

John was about to ask Arthur what the hell he’d been doin’ and why was he back so soon, when Boadicea stepped closer and moved her massive head out of the way, revealing the small boy, bleary-eyed and wobbly in the saddle, with Arthur’s eyes.

“Is that-” John comically rubbed at his own eyes, shocked to his core at the sight of the child, a child that up until mere moments ago he’d doubted even existed, a child that according to Arthur none of them were ever going to meet.

“Are Dutch and Hosea here?”

“N-no they’re out doin’ a job, said they’ll be back tomorrow,” John walked alongside Boadicea, stunned. “Arthur, what the hell?”

“I’ll explain it all tomorrow, John, I just,” Arthur leaned back, cracked his neck, and stared up at the dark, moonless sky. “I need to rest, ain’t slept since I left.”

“I could tell, you look like shit.” John shot at him, halfheartedly, reaching for a bit of normalcy in the truly bizarre. Once they reached the hitching post John set aside the rifle and took the reins from Arthur to hitch Boadicea. “D’ya…need a hand?”

Arthur watched John with careful eyes; they'd been riding together for about six years now, coming closer as unlikely or, more accurately, unwanted brothers. So the softness, the trust, was still fragile and new, usually only coming out in the darkest parts of the night when nightmares and fear nipped at their heels. John especially was just one step up from an ornery, wet, alley cat, lashing out at anyone who reached out, trying to make himself bigger, sharper, and more dangerous than anything the world could throw at him. So seeing him now, as the uncertain, awkward teen that he was, extending a hand in truce and offering help was uncommon, but not unappreciated.

“You think you can take the boy?” Arthur asked and John nodded, shifting nervously. Arthur chuckled, gently grabbing the kid and passing him over to John. “Say hi to your Uncle John, Isaac.”

Isaac grumbled and rubbed his face on John’s shoulder, his limbs heavy with sleep and loose where they draped over John’s lanky frame. The teen looked close to falling over in fright as he held the kid, his arms stiff and awkward.

Arthur gave another hearty chuckle at John’s panic-stricken face and slid out of the saddle, throwing the saddlebags over his shoulder and untying the little toy horse. “He ain’t a stick o’ dynamite, John.”

“I ain’t never held a kid before, how am I supposed to know how?” John snapped back, wincing when Isaac grumbled at the loud noise.

“‘Less you want Grimshaw wakin’ up, comin’ out to give you a lesson and beatin’ your sorry behind my first piece of advice would be to shut the hell up,” Arthur said quietly as walked over to their tent, John following closely behind. “I’m gonna sleep on the ground in the bedrolls with Isaac, you can take the cot, and maybe tomorrow we can see if we have a spare tent.”

John watched as Arthur bustled around their tent, setting down the bags, laying out the bedrolls, petting Copper as he roused from his spot on the cot, always moving, barely taking a second to breathe. He’d seen this before, when Hosea first came back with Bessie’s death looming heavy over his shoulders, when the old man spent more of his days drunk than sober, Arthur would just keep working, leaving no space for anything but labor and blood.

It’d been a year since Hosea had returned with the tragedy and John had found there were no words that he knew could reach Arthur or Hosea, leaving the two of them to wander about camp in their misery and frustration. It felt like their gang, their little family, was fracturing apart, only staying whole through Dutch’s incredible magnetism, it felt like everything would be ok so long as they stuck together, stuck with Dutch.

He wished their leaders, their would-be fathers were here, he didn’t have their silver tongue, and he was barely able to talk on a good day. He didn’t know what to say to fix the dark cloud that loomed over Arthur.

“Where’s Daddy?” The warm lump in John’s arms suddenly roused, mumbling as he rubbed his eyes and tried to look around.

“Hey, kiddo,” John said awkwardly, wincing again as his voice cracked. He shifted his hold so Isaac was on his hip and could see Arthur moving around the tent. “Yer Pa’s right there, no worries.”

“Puppy,” Isaac pointed at Copper, even as tired as he was the boy lit up at the sight of the dog.

“Yeah, that there’s Copper, he’s your Pa’s dog,” John said, going to sit on the cot so Isaac could get sniffed and greeted by Copper, who was more than happy to oblige.

Arthur watched Isaac be lovingly smothered by the dog with a big grin, his exhaustion falling off at the sight of his son laughing and squealing in delight. John couldn’t suppress his own smile, tipping his head back to the entrance of camp to hide it for just a moment.

Arthur set aside the bags that he’d been working to unpack and moved to sit next to the tussle of boy vs. dog, pulling Copper back by his collar. “Down boy, he ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

“I like the puppy,” Isaac said through giggles, sitting up to pet Copper’s back and rubbing his floppy ears.

“I reckon he likes you too,” Arthur said trying to fend off Copper from licking his face too, John laughing at him unhelpfully.

“Mama don’t want puppies, she gets sick around the neighbor’s dog.”

“That’s right, son,” Arthur sighed and nodded, putting Isaac down on the ground and pushing him toward the saddlebags. “Go on, get ready for bed, can sleep with the puppy tonight and all.”

“Arthur-” John started.

“John,” Arthur interrupted, giving his brother an exhausted look as he stood and guided him out of the tent. “Like I said, I’ll tell y’all tomorrow. Now get back out there you’re on guard duty for Christ’s sake.”

John scoffed and watched as Arthur pulled the flaps of the tent down to give some privacy, literally shutting the door on him. He didn’t know what to say, he never knew what to say, but he could feel the opportunity slipping past him. “I’m sorry, Arthur, I’m real sorry. But you rest up, I’ll keep watch.”

Arthur paused where he was ducking back into the tent, giving John a look over his shoulder, his expression uncharacteristically hard to read before finally speaking softly, just barely heard over the crackle of the fire and the Copper’s panting. “Thanks for givin’ me a hand, John, means a lot.”

“Anytime,” John croaked out and turned on his heel, grabbing the rifle he’d left beside the hitching post, before heading back into the woods, to sit, try and stay awake, and mull over what the hell had just happened.

* * *

The sunlight breaking through the dappled shadows of the tree boughs above John jolted him awake from where he was sleeping leaning against the rifle. That and the kick off the rock he’d been sitting on, again.

“God dammit, who the-” John scrambled to stand up, ready to punch whichever of the Callander brothers had decided to mess with him that early in the morning, only to be met with a snickering Dutch.

“Now, son, I’m glad we’ve got you on guard duty,” Dutch pulled John forward and brushed off the dirt from his fall before throwing his arm over John’s shoulders. “That snorin’ of yours is right terrifying, isn’t that right, Hosea?”

John looked up to see Hosea coming up the path on Silver Dollar with The Count walking beside him, the old man was laughing but John could see his hands shake where they held the reins. “I’m sure everyone thought we had bears and ran away in fear.”

“I must’ve just fallen asleep, I promise I was awake for my shift,” John pleaded, worried he’d get saddled with even more chores for appearing to be slacking off.

“What d’ya think, Dutch?” Hosea pretended to be in deep thought, examining John’s sleep rumpled self. “Should we let ‘em off easy this time?”

“You know what, Old Girl?” Dutch pulled an unwilling John along with him as he met Hosea back on the path, resting his free hand on the older man’s knee. “Our little heist last night has made us richer, happier men, men liable to let their son slack off without a care.”

John grumbled as the two men laughed loudly together, it wasn’t often that Dutch called them family and meant it, but when he did John always felt like the butt of the joke; the youngest son of two tricky, bastard fathers. Though he could admit, it was nice seeing them in such high spirits, especially Hosea who had more dark days then bright lately.

The three men walked together into camp, Dutch with his arm still over John’s shoulders, as he told the grand tale of their most recent criminal do-gooding and just what they could do with the great score to improve their lives.

John was so distracted by the future Dutch was painting that he forgot about the events of last night until Hosea pulled up short at the hitching posts to ask, “Is that Boadicea?”

Arthur’s massive horse stood drinking from the trough, the saddle and blanket, minus the bags, still on her from last night, very clearly announcing her rider’s presence in camp.

“I told him he was free to go! Ain’t nothin’ pleasin’ him,” Dutch sighed and released John, marching over to the closed flaps of Arthur’s tent. “First he wants to go see his boy and now he wants to stay? I need him to make up his mind-”

John scrambled to intercept Dutch before he could march in and kick Arthur out of bed like he was known to do when Arthur was younger and slept like the dead. “Wait! Wait, it ain’t that!”

“Well, go on, speak up son, why’s Arthur still here?” Hosea dismounted from Silver Dollar and went to work hitching him and The Count, sparing a pat on the flank for both of them.

“He did leave, he was gone near three days, left when he said he was gonna.” John rambled, twisting his fingers round one another. It was incredibly awkward having to break the news for his would-be brother, but it was better then Dutch and Hosea bursting in and finding out that way. “But he came back late last night, ‘cause, well-”

“John, we ain’t got all day.” Dutch interrupted, cocking a suspicious eyebrow as he looked between John and the closed tent. “What’s the matter is Arthur hurt? Cause Miss Grimshaw should’ve been awoken immediately, I don’t care if you think it’s rude, a wound needs tendin’ to lest he succumb to it.”

“He wasn’t hurt!” John grabbed Dutch’s arm as the man moved towards Miss Grimshaw’s tent, apparently on the warpath for waking folks up. “He came back with the boy, Isaac’s here!”

Dutch and Hosea froze where they stood, staring at John with wide disbelieving eyes.

“The boy?” Dutch croaked.

“He’s here?” Hosea whispered excitedly, hurrying away from the horses to Arthur’s tent, shrugging John off as he tried to stop him. “Oh, buzz off, son, I’m not going to wake them up, I just want to take a look at my grandson.”

“John, why on earth did Arthur bring a child,” Dutch hissed, catching John’s arm. “The camp is no place for him to be bringing that kid, I thought Miss Bloom had made that clear enough-” Dutch stopped and looked around, counting the horses and tents around them. “Please don’t tell me she’s here too.”

“He, uh, no-” John couldn’t get the words out fast enough to answer any of Dutch’s questions and his attention was split between Dutch’s grip on his arm and trying to grab the back of Hosea’s jacket to stop him from parting the cover of the tent. He could feel his brain heating up in panic over how thoroughly he had fucked this up.

“Will you three shut up?” Arthur hissed, stepping out of the closed tent, scaring Hosea who had nearly parted the flaps, and separating John and Dutch easily. John noted that despite the five or so hours since he’d seen Arthur he didn’t look any more rested. “Gonna wake up the whole damn camp with your squawking!”

“Arthur, John was just tellin’ us about-” Dutch started, standing straighter to maintain his affectation of authority, but was interrupted by Hosea stepping forward and putting a hand on Arthur’s shoulder.

Hosea stared at his oldest son with piercing eyes, tender as much as analytical, catching every night of lost sleep, every worry laid heavy upon Arthur. “Let’s get you some coffee, son, you look like you’ve had a long night.”

It didn’t take long to brew the pot and gather around the table, the camp asleep and silent around them, just the four of them gathered in the mid-morning rays and the low hum of the buzzing cicadas. Once Arthur got his cup the story came out, the empty homestead, the obliterated bodies, the bloody cellar doors.

It was a story they’d all heard before, unsuspecting homesteaders killed by wandering crooks, but never in such close proximity. Never one of their friends or loved ones, never with the surviving child sleeping 8 feet away from them. It was horrible, it was commonplace. It was reality.

“Poor kid saw too much, he can’t sleep without them nightmares comin’ for him,” Arthur swallowed heavily, his words growing softer and weaker as his situation dawned on him, as he sat surrounded by his closest and most trusted allies, his family. “I’m gonna screw that kid up, there’s no way I’m not.”

“Ain’t nothin’ wrong with a bit of panic, son,” Hosea laid his hand on Arthur’s where it gripped his mug near hard enough to dent it. “You just can’t let it take over, we’re all here for you, you and Isaac ain’t gonna be alone.”

Arthur turned his hand over to grip Hosea’s, John could see the way both their hands shook, the way Arthur squeezed like he was trying to press every emotion, every unspoken word, every thank you through his palm into Hosea’s

Do you have a plan?” Dutch broke the heartfelt moment with the pointed question, earning a glare from Hosea and a cautious, fearful glance from Arthur, all his worries easily flooding in to take the space that Hosea’s words had momentarily filled.

“This was my plan,” Arthur looked like he was going to be sick. “I just needed to get back here, get away from the house,”

“I appreciate your tenacity, Arthur, and I am sorry for you and the boy’s loss,” Dutch said, moving to walk around and stand beside Arthur, leaning against the table to meet his eye. “But have you considered looking for Miss Bloom’s family? Sending the boy somewhere safer to live? I’m sure it’s what she would have wanted, I know she was not much a fan of our lifestyle.”

At Dutch’s suggestion Arthur froze and over his head Hosea’s irritated glare turned bitter cold, the utter distaste for the little speech evident in every hair, wrinkle, and line of Hosea’s expression. John watched the two older men communicate silently, a complicated, angry discussion, and he could not follow a moment of it.

Finally Arthur turned back to his coffee, growing smaller before John’s eyes, seeming to crumple and fold at the pressure of the situation, under the rising tension of Dutch and Hosea above him, before speaking in the smallest, most broken voice John had ever heard from him. “Please don’t make me choose.”

Dutch stared at Arthur in shock, the crack in the younger man’s voice foretold tears, the tremor in his hands spoke of imminent devastation. Arthur had been pushed out onto a tightrope, strung between his life with the gang and his life with his son, and he had no balance.

“Daddy!” Isaac’s frightened voice called out, his voice scratchy and sleep-rough.

Arthur rushed back to the tent instantly, a different panic welling up in him at the sound of the boy, upending the chair he’d been sitting on and knocking over his now empty mug.

The second Arthur was out of ear shot Hosea grabbed Dutch’s arm and growled, “This ain’t about you Dutch, this is about Isaac.”

“It ain’t about you neither, ” Dutch hissed back, not backing down from Hosea’s challenge. “We’re outlaws, Hosea, not nursemaids!”

“Oh, like that’s ever stopped you before,” Hosea gestured to John sitting between the two of them, watching them argue in growing discomfort. “I know why you’re fightin’ this and you better cut it out right now.”

The two men glared at one another, the sparks of the anger flying between them, yet another unspoken argument that John could not begin to parse.

“You tell me how he’s gonna be able to care for the boy properly and still keep up his duties in this family?” Dutch seethed, breaking the silence with a definitive thump of his fist on the table, like a judge's gavel. “I am trying to do what’s best to protect and provide for us, all of us, and I need Arthur to do so as well.”

“He is Arthur’s responsibility and our boy is askin’ for help, and we are going to help,” Hosea's tone was a decree carved in stone, the law handed down to the judge, brooking no argument, leaving no room for interpretation. It sent a shiver down John’s spine, made him sit up straighter.

“What do you say, son?” Dutch turned abruptly away from Hosea, from the immovable stone, with a snarl to look down at John, the burning ire of their argument hot coals in his gaze. “Do you agree with Mr. Matthews here?”

“Nuh-uh,” John said, standing up from the table and backing away. “I ain’t Arthur, I ain’t gettin’ in between you two’s fightin’.”

As if summoned Arthur emerged from the tent, saving John from their contentious fathers. Little Isaac followed close behind, one arm wrapped around Arthur’s leg, and the other holding on to Copper’s collar, who was more than happy to accompany the boy.

In the light of day John could see Isaac better, and found it incredible how he could see Arthur’s face in the child’s. The shiny, lakewater eyes were the same as the ones nervously looking between Hosea and Dutch, the same thick eyebrows tilted up in confusion where Arthur’s furrowed in worry. But everything that wasn’t Arthur John could imagine Eliza, he’d never met her, never even seen her, but in Isaac’s warm olive skin, thick curly hair, and high cheekbones John could see flashes of her living on in her son.

“Your mama was right, son, I was raised by wolves, here they are now,” Arthur sighed, appraising Hosea and Dutch up in arms, and John stood anxiously off to the side. “Can you say hello?”

“G’morning,” Isaac mumbled, shyly hiding behind his father.

The fight flew out of Hosea upon seeing Isaac, quickly pushing past Dutch to crouch in front of the kid. “A very good morning, Isaac! I’m your Grandpa Hosea and I’ve been waitin’ a long time to meet you.”

Arthur, Dutch, and John watched Hosea with wide eyes. He was more lively and eager about meeting the boy then he had been about anything since Bessie’s death and even before Hosea had rarely been so open and bright. A naturally sharp-witted, cunning man, he was a talent at hiding everything behind a mask, not letting anything show but amusement, violence, and occasional affection. But this man, kneeling on the ground to meet his adopted grandson, showing nothing but sincere joy was a man reborn, a revivification of the ghost that had been haunting them and their camp for the last year.

Isaac was still shy but tentatively emerged from Arthur’s looming shadow to meet the older man, a charming smile with a missing tooth on his face as Hosea over-exaggeratedly examined the boy, spinning him round and round and tickling him while pretending to look him over like a horse.

Soon after the first bright peal of laughter tents started opening, folks finally waking up, all coming to the center to see what the fuss was.

Miss Grimshaw, Tilly, and Annabelle were squealing schoolgirls again at the sight of the sweet child in their midst, eagerly coming up to meet the famed Isaac Morgan. Tilly especially pushed her way through to introduce herself as Auntie Tilly, making Arthur smile. Life had been so hard for her in the last two years, she had gone through her own lonely, difficult nights at camp trying to outrun the dark things that hounded her. But sitting at his feet, chatting along with his boy, she looked like the child she was again.

Arthur was worried that all the sudden attention would overwhelm the poor boy, but it seemed with how often he turned to look up at his Pa and how he’d reach out to brush along Copper’s back the boy was fine so long as he wasn’t alone against the onslaught of introductions.

Mac and Davey were less interested in the boy, instead more interested in thumping into Arthur, pulling him down to jostle and jab at him, “Oi, I can’t believe it. Arthur really did have it in him!”

“Think it’s she who had it in her.” The brother’s laughed uproariously and loudly in Arthur’s face at their lewd joke, but were fast silenced by John knocking into them, sending them all tumbling.“Watch your mouth!”

All three of them started tousling in the grass, the Callendar boys relentlessly teasing John and John kicking and biting against the men twice his size, feral cat that he was.

The hustle and bustle and frustrating noise of it all soothed Arthur, he was back home, with all his idiot family. But despite the warm and syrupy feelings of seeing his son amidst the gang, all just as happy to meet him and fold them under their wings as he suspected, he could not take his eyes off of Dutch.

Their leader had been watching Hosea since he’d pushed past to greet the boy, at first Arthur couldn't decipher Dutch’s expression, though he rarely could. Dutch exposed exactly what he wanted to when he wanted to, but as Arthur kept watching he understood. Dutch was relieved at seeing his partner alive and well and happy again.

Whatever they’d been arguing about before Arthur had interrupted was gone, floating away on the wind. No longer important as Hosea smiled and Dutch’s eyes grew warm and misty. It was such a rare sight, the raw affection on Dutch’s face, that Arthur could not help but stare.

Finally Dutch met Arthur’s eyes, and the mask slipped back a bit, the soft, vulnerable expression shuttered behind an amenable smile. Dutch adjusted his vest and stepped forward, the crowd of people around the boy easing to let him pass, John even pushed his way out of the fight to stand beside Arthur and listen to what Dutch had to say.

Isaac looked up at the gang leader with big, curious eyes, and Dutch stared back down at the child, before nodding to himself, a decision made. “Welcome to the family, son, I am your Uncle Dutch, and may I be the first to say it is a real pleasure to meet you.”

John could feel Arthur wince beside him, the choice of title like a blow to the gut. Hosea on the ground looked at Dutch with a complicated swirl of emotions, the only one of which easily discernible was a kind of sad disappointment.

“How about we get some food into this boy, huh?” Dutch looked at the rest of the gang, arms spread wide, the grand shepherd addressing his flock. The others agreed quickly, hungry themselves, and began the morning chores while Annabelle slotted herself against Dutch’s side, quick to talk about how cute the boy was and how he must have taken so much more after his mother. Dutch called back one last time as he and Annabelle adjourned to their tent, “Don’t forget, Arthur, you got yourself a week's break, you rest up, got work to do when you’re back.”

Arthur nodded to Dutch, not trusting his voice, and picked up Isaac, Copper following close on his heels. He pointedly ignored John and Hosea’s imploring gazes, instead setting off to the cook fire, trying to distract himself with the task at hand of granting the boy his first meal of something beside roasted sweet potatoes in two days, the little boy tightly clasping his collar as they walked.

The distraction was insufficient he found as he had to take a deep breath against the powerful, painful rush of emotions that washed through him. The exhaustion from last night, the worry and fear he’d felt each time Isaac had woken with a half-choked scream, the relief of the gang’s acceptance of the boy, the joy of seeing Hosea smile, and the cold rejection of Dutch calling himself Uncle.

It was too much, he could not handle it, running on as little as he was. So he had no choice but to try and bury it deep, where he wouldn’t have to think about it anymore. He was used to it as very rarely were his thoughts and feelings of importance. There was always someone smarter and more clever then him around, someone who needed him to be a dumb brick or an intimidating wall. But all Isaac needed was him present.

He could not properly be there for Isaac if he was lost in his own thoughts, unimportant and useless as they were, so he easily tossed them to the side to focus. The boy needed to be his top priority, tied with the gang, in the end they were all that mattered.

Chapter Text

It has been near three months since Eliza’s tragic death, and the great blessing of having Isaac near me. It is something I discovered every time I went to visit, quite how much I missed the boy, and something I would strive to forget as I left them, for fear that I never would. I am in no danger of leaving him now, nor him me. We are joined at the hip most days when I am not out killing and robbing, and I feel it is good for both of us.

He is sleeping through the night more often, though I am still awoken most nights. The poor boy is afraid of the dark, after being trapped in the cellar I surely would too, and he cannot go to back to sleep if the campfire is doused or if I am not holding him.

I am exhausted many days, but it is worth it to see him thrive. He’s getting better, coming out of his shell more, talking to folks. I should not be so surprised when I say it did not take Isaac or the other gang members long to acclimate to him here. To run in a gang takes flexibility, being a child even more so.

The ladies are enamored with him, of course, but I cannot blame their sex for it, the boy is a charmer. Everyone in camp likes to see him when they can, slip him shiny rocks and creased paperbacks, and even candy when I am not looking.

Dutch is still standoffish with him though. He is polite and gregarious with him when everyone is around, but when it is just us four and the boy, Dutch, Hosea, John, and I, playing cards or drinking, with Isaac sitting on my knee or playing with Copper at my feet, Dutch will hardly acknowledge him.

I have upset him in a way, bringing the boy in, but for the life of me I cannot understand why. And I do not understand why this makes me less his son.

Hosea could not be more different from Uncle Dutch in this. He above all has taken to having Isaac here. In fact he is so enthusiastic about his role of grandpa that it makes me feel I am not performing enough my role of father; but then again Hosea was always the better performer.

He has not drank since we returned and I do not hear his terrible nightmares so much, nor Dutch come to comfort him in the quiet hours. He is better-

Arthur just manages to wrench his pen from the page before he finishes tearing a hole in it. Talking about Hosea and his recovery, alighted something vengeful in him that he did not understand. It made his stomach turn in nauseous self-loathing. How awful was he really to begrudge the old man getting better? Shouldn’t he want him to improve? To come back to them? Wasn’t it good?

He puts the journal and pen away, frustrated that he could not put his confusing, sickening thoughts to page, he could not express this contempt that lurked behind his teeth satisfactorily, not without threatening to shred the whole journal. So like he did every other day now he came away from journaling more upset and twisted then he did before sitting down.

He is pleased at least by the quality of the illustration, there are many of them dotting his pages, little moments of Isaac that he captured in between the little drawings of the birds and critters that scurried about the area they were in. It is about the only thing on the page he is pleased with.

Arthur scans the camp for the boy and is immediately tempted to draw him again.

Isaac stands on a crate, Copper sullenly laying at the base, bored without the boy's attention, his arms stretched out to the sides, pouting as he swims in his new clothes. Miss Grimshaw circles him like a vulture with a measuring tape in hand and pins stuck between her teeth.

They are leaving this camp soon, heading west if all goes according to plan, trying to make it to Colorado, a step on the way to California, but the boy didn’t have any winter clothes. So yesterday Arthur and Miss Grimshaw went to town, the boy taking turns riding with each of them, carefully passing him between their horses as they trotted, to Isaac’s delight, and got a good set of warm clothes.

But instead of getting clothes that would fit him now, as Arthur had wanted, Miss Grimshaw insisted on getting clothes fit for a boy a few years older. She had claimed that this way they wouldn’t have to buy more down the line, that she could hem and tuck the clothes to fit Isaac now, and as he grew she could lengthen the pants and let it out to grow with him.

Arthur was not afraid to spend money on the boy, and didn’t see much point in it, but he was afraid of Miss Grimshaw. So bigger clothes it was, and now poor Isaac had to stand and not fidget so as not to get poked with needles as Miss Grimshaw measured and moved him around

His distraction did not last long as the sight of the boy was interrupted by Hosea walking up with John in tow, “Morning, Arthur, got one last job for you two before we head out. Should be simple enough.”

“Ain’t they always just,” Arthur grumbled, rising to stand, taking the map Hosea handed over. “Thought we was done here.”

“Almost, almost, we’re a little short on cash, need to make sure we’re well supplied before winter hits us.” Hosea started tracing a road on the map. “There’s gonna be a stagecoach coming down this road soon, need you and John to hit it. Mac and Davey are hitting one over here, with both those and selling the wagons to the fence we should have what we need.”

“Fine, we’ll get going,” Arthur bit out, pushing through Hosea and John to approach Boadicea.

“Something on your mind, son?” Hosea called out, his tone was similar to how he used to ask Arthur leading questions about mischief he’d get up to around camp when he was young and stupid and trying to test the limit on Hosea and Dutch’s kindness, trying to see what line needed to be avoided to prevent a beating. They had never raised their hand to him, but their occasional admonishment and disappointment, when it wasn’t funny enough to leave alone, was enough to make Arthur’s stomach curdle in dread. His stomach churned now, Hosea knew he was awful and ungrateful, he knew that the words winding through Arthur’s mind were poisonous, lethal to even his precious journal.

“Everything’s fine I-”

“Mr. Morgan,” Susan called out suddenly as she helped Isaac shed the overlarge layers of clothes, the boy wavering where he stood. “I think Isaac might be coming down with something, he’s a touch warm.”

“You had him dressed in three mens clothes of course he’s gonna be warm,” Arthur called back, half-heartedly adjusting his tack. Isaac was looking awfully wobbly, and his eyes were looking glassy. “Though it doesn’t hurt to be cautious, if he gets worse maybe we can take him to see someone.”

“What, you think we can take him to a doctor?” John balked. “We’re wanted men in town, after that whole fiasco with the train station, and you wanna just waltz in with the boy?”

Arthur stuttered and froze, he hadn’t thought that far. He was real hearty, probably hadn’t gotten sick since he was stick-thin and weak from lack of food and exposure to the elements, so he didn’t often need to worry about being able to walk into the doctor’s office, but he hadn’t considered the fact that his actions could deprive Isaac of that same ability.

“Well I- we could-” Arthur felt his face flushing in shame as another yet unknown deficiency made itself known.

“Don’t hurt yourself, son,” Hosea said, moving and scooping Isaac up off the box, the boy putting up no fuss, resting his head heavy on his grandpa’s shoulders, his eyelids looking even heavier. “I’ll take a look at him, I got some ginseng around here, can mix him up something. You boys go on, sooner you’re done the sooner we head out.”

Arthur hesitated while John mounted up on his horse Whiskey, staring at Isaac’s miserable expression. “You rest up, darlin’, I’ll be right back.”

Isaac nodded and waved goodbye sadly from where he’d nestled himself against Hosea. The sight of Hosea waving them off while contentedly rocking his grandson, looking worried and affectionate all at once over the boy, tindered that rage in Arthur once again. Something about seeing him return to his familiar competency, being doting and loving with Isaac just filled Arthur with something powerful, a tangle of conflicted feelings that he had not the heart or the will to untangle. So instead Arthur took it as his final invitation to leave and led John down the winding path out of camp.

* * *

A few hours later and they were $50 dollars and a fine stagecoach richer. The passengers and driver had about pissed themselves when Arthur and John had stopped them, standing masked in the middle of the road with shotguns at the ready, and had been more than willing to turn over every scrap of valuables they had for a chance to live.

He could hardly appreciate the easy bit of thieving for how worried he was about Isaac back at camp, nor could he appreciate the silence as John decided now to poke into his business. For as much as the kid hated talking he sure did love needling Arthur, trying to snoop in his journal, doing his very best to get a thrashing from Arthur.

“Annabelle was tellin’ me you got some letters from Mary, that true?” John teased, lighting a cigarette.

“Annabelle is a horrible gossip, watchu doin’ listenin’ to her?” Arthur responded, embarrassed to know the woman had been snooping through his things again. Although he could not entirely blame her, she had met Mary, had known her well and tried to be kind and welcoming to her when she and Arthur had played with the idea of her running away to be together; when they were younger and all together dumber. She had seen Arthur throw himself to Mary’s wolf of a father begging for approval, and she’d been there when he got his heart broken time and time again. In the end Annabelle was no friend of Mary Gillis.

“So she’s lying?”

“I never said that, just said Annabelle’s a gossip.”

“You tell her about Isaac?”

“Yeah, long time ago, when I first found out. We’d been doing good then, I wanted to be truthful,” Arthur sighed and leaned back. “But she just got mad at me for not marrying Eliza, said I made a dishonest woman out of her, stopped talking to me until recently over that.”

“Didn’t you say Eliza didn’t want that?”

“‘Liza said she wouldn’t mind marriage but that she wouldn’t tie herself to some wanderin’ man. In the end all she really wanted was the house.” Arthur could not resist another heavy sigh, frustration drove nails into his skull and threatened an awful headache. He hadn’t wanted to marry Eliza, he’d wanted to marry Mary. He loved her, he’d made himself all varieties of fool for her, dressing up in that suit presenting that ring only for her to close his hand over it like a mercy killing. His sorrow over that rejection had later led to him falling into bed with Eliza, later led to Isaac, at least producing one good thing from the whole horrendous mess. “All these women in my life share the same opinion: they would love me except for the life I lead. But who am I without all this?”

John shrugged and finished his cigarette, the silence stretching long between them, the uncomfortable truth of their lives cast an unkind pallor on their conversation.

“So what’s this new mail? Her saying how disappointed she is in you?”

“Told her Isaac was with me, told her I’d like her to meet him. Kansas is nearby, said I’d pay for the train fare if she needed it.” Despite his many worries a small thrill ran through him at the prospect of introducing Isaac to her, of seeing her, being near her again, it’d make him dizzy if it let it. “Hopefully she’s written to say yes.”

“You’re just beggin’ to get hurt again,” John said from his perch of no experience. “You should ask for Hosea for a bit of advice, didn’t he and Bessie do this same dance before she joined up?”

“And send him right back to the bottle? Are you stupid?” Arthur yelled, growing angrier as he talked. “Like I need his goddamn help anyways, I’m doin’ fine on my own!”

“What the hell is wrong with you lately? You so much as think of Hosea and you start frothin’ at the mouth, he say somethin’ to you or what?”

“He didn’t do nothin’.” Arthur growled, begging John to leave it alone.

“But you are mad?” Of course, he would not.

“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ bout, John,” Arthur grumbled roughly, flicking the reins of the horses, moving them faster down the road.

“You do, don’t act dumb.”

“It ain’t acting, I’m dumb enough to talk to you for so long.”

“What’re you so mad about? He’s back to normal, he’s been helpin’ you with Isaac more than anyone, you should be happy!” John rasped out, getting mad on Hosea’s behalf. If they weren’t on a stolen stagecoach galloping down the road he’d probably start punching and shoving.

“I should, should I?” Arthur said, intending it to come out accusatory, intending to piss John off, best way to get him to drop something was usually start a fight, then he was too busy being mad; but instead he asked it softly, painfully, the truth another nail in his head.

“Well, why aren’t you then?” John still sounded like he was raring to throw Arthur from the coach, and why shouldn’t he? Arthur was a bastard for begrudging Hosea in any measure, especially for as selfish and unworthy reasons as he had.

“It’s nothing, I’ll get over, it’s just-” Arthur stopped to groan in frustration. “He only came back ‘cause Bessie died and he ran right to Dutch. And then he only just stopped drinking for Isaac, cold turkey, he hasn’t even looked at a bottle. If I’d never brought the boy do you think he would’ve ever stopped?”

“He’d been trying before! He said he was done-” John tried to intervene, tried to defend.

“And how many times we heard that in the last year?” Arthur ramped over him, the words coming faster then he could stop him, finally the dam had been broken and all the nastiness he could not articulate on the page was pouring out of him. “Listen I don’t blame him for mourning Bessie, I miss her too, miss her a lot, but they made it clear they didn’t want nothing to do with us no more. It’s like…like he don’t care about me- us enough to have come back or tried earlier to get better!”

Arthur huffed as he finished his rant, feeling, finally, lighter then he had the past couple months. Putting it out in the open, defining this horrible mess inside him, made it feel a more manageable task to untangle it, to finally push past these feelings. But when he looked over at John, hoping maybe to find kinship, he was only met with further guilt.

He seemed to keep forgetting that underneath all that bluster and rage John was still just a kid, barely turned 18 in February. John looked stricken, pale, and a little sick even. The weight of the accusations and anger that Arthur had heaped on him too much to bear, the poor kid never thinking in such unfair terms to the man who had raised them. Arthur had to remember John needed his support and his council, not the other way around.

“John, don’t listen to me, I’m just tired, I didn’t mean nothin’ by it-”

Whatever paltry excuse Arthur was going to try and dredge up was blown away by the barrage of bullets that rained down on them and the coach.

“Van der Linde’s! You are under arrest!” Bounty hunters, riding down the hill guns blazing, eager for the price on their heads from their recent score. The two of them had been too preoccupied with Arthur’s uncomfortable feelings to have noticed the roaring of approaching hoofbeats.

John cussed and ducked his head, going for the repeater slung over his back. Arthur did his duty and whipped the horses into a frenzy, urging them on faster and faster. The adrenaline pumping in him derailed any further guilty thoughts, there was no time for feelings when they were imminent danger.

He kept the coach riding straight for a bit, allowing John to turn and knock off a few of the hunter’s, then when John went to reload Arthur pulled hard on the reins to get the horses to pull off the road and down a forest trail he’d spotted on their way to hit the coach in the first place. From behind them Arthur could hear the bounty hunter's curse and yell to change direction, but he was just hoping they were slow enough that he could lose them at the fork up ahead.

The coach thudded and jangled as they slammed down the little hunting trail, but no roots tripped up the horses and they both managed to avoid being taken out by outstretched tree branches. Beside him John kneeled on the bench to take a few more shots behind them, swearing up a blue streak as the unstable trail ruined his aim, sending each bullet veering wildly off into the trees.

The fork approached them fast but another group of bounty hunters thundering down the left path came faster and Arthur just barely managed to turn the coach down the right path in time to avoid smashing all their horses together. But as he turned, and as their pursuers closed in, one of them bastard hunters shot out the legs from the big shire pulling the coach and sent them flying from the bench.

Arthur recovered quickly from the fall, groaning and rubbing the shoulder he’d landed on, praying it wasn’t broken. “Marston, we gotta go! You with me?”

He didn’t give John much time to respond, getting up and running over to pull the kid up instead, very aware that the dead horse and shattered coach wouldn’t stop the bounty hunters from reaching them for very long, but when he grabbed him Arthur stumbled and nearly fell back down. Where he’d been expecting John to raise up with his assistance he instead was met with the heavy weight of John’s unconscious body.

He looked back and felt his whole body run cold. A dark spot of blood stained the rock where John's head had hit the wall edging the path, and though Arthur could see him faintly breathing, he wasn’t moving.

A spray of buckshot dug into the rock wall worryingly close to Arthur and he hurried to unholster his revolver and face the crowd behind him. If he gave into his worry then both of them would be dead or captured, if he focused then there was a greater chance he could get John out of here and make sure he survived this.

So Arthur focused and one by one the bounty hunters went down, shots flew all around them but he barely heard them, couldn’t even tell if he’d been hit or not, his whole world had narrowed to his finger on the trigger and the blood sprays that followed.

When every man was dead on the ground Arthur finally took a breath.

In that same breath Arthur whirled around to take in John, glad to see he had not gotten shot in the firefight, but mighty displeased when his breathing seemed even weaker and more tenuous then before.

“Come on, John, come on, wake up,” Arthur gently shook the boy, reluctant to try and slap him awake with the gory smear of blood pooling below his skull. When he didn’t respond at all Arthur grit his teeth and picked him up as gently as he could to sling him onto his shoulder and whistled loudly for Boadicea. Now was the time for running.

* * *

“Dutch!”

Hosea looked up to see Arthur screaming into camp astride his black horse like a fell omen, only accentuated by the wild barking of Copper at the commotion and the dark red blood overtaking his blue shirt. John slumped against Arthur’s front, growing paler by the second and Hosea’s heart just about dropped down to his shoes.

“What the hell happened out there?” Dutch called back, hurrying over from where he was sitting with his book, panic shooting through his sternness.

“Goddamn bounty hunters,” Arthur wheezed as he slowed to a stop, the whole camp listening in anticipation. “I killed ‘em but they destroyed the coach, sent John flying, he’s in a bad way.”

Hosea moved from Isaac’s side where he’d been trying to quell the boy's crying, his fever and a nasty earache had hit full force about an hour ago and the child was inconsolable, to run and help Dutch take John from Arthur. The boy was cold between them, hardly a sign of life but his weak breathing, his hair clumped and matted from blood.

Hosea hated these types of injuries, the helpless, silent ones, where his sons weren’t even screaming or crying in pain, just unconscious, that one step closer to the grave.

“Miss Grimshaw! John is in need of your attention!” Dutch cried out, making one half of a whole as he and Hosea carried John into his and Arthur’s tent. “Miss Jackson, could you move the boy? It seems we have another invalid.”

Tilly nodded where she was already scooping Isaac up quilt and all and, holding the bundle of feverish child close to herself, she scurried out of the tent, Isaac wailing all the way.

Hosea and Dutch made quick work of laying John down on the cot, putting him on his side with his back facing them so the crack on the back of his head could be tended to. Soon after Susan came running in with the dusty carpet bag of medical supplies they kept and a fresh roll of bandages. She was quick to get to work and Dutch was quick to step back, never one for the nursing, much more a fan of the recovery. Hosea instead rolled up his sleeves and grabbed a sponge and a bowl of water and set to work washing the blood out of John’s soaked hair, muttering dryly to himself about how the boy was long overdue for a washing.

“Tilly, how is he? Let me take ‘im,” Arthur said as he dismounted with a pained grunt. At the sound of Arthur’s voice Isaac’s crying reached a peak and Hosea could hear him fighting to try and get out of Tilly’s arms and get to his Pa.

“Not with you all covered in blood like that, go wash off then you get the boy.” Tilly responded sharply, easily handling the fussy child. Hosea diverted his attention at that, leaning back to catch a glimpse of Arthur as he grumbled and trudged past.

He really was covered, more then what made sense to have just come from John, and he seemed to have developed a limp since Hosea had sent him away this morning. “Arthur? What's the matter?”

“Nothing, nothing but John, you tend to him, he needs you.” Arthur responded dryly, heading over to the water barrel they kept near the cookfire. When he was out of sight Hosea leaned over and swatted Dutch’s thigh.

“Go check on him, he might be hurt.”

“I’m sure he’s fine, old girl, he got John all the way back after all-”

“You either check on Arthur or you pick up a sponge and start cleaning and I’ll ask Arthur,” He made no attempt to hide the worry in his voice or the promise of swift retribution if Dutch did not help him tend to their boys. Hosea then squeezed the blood-stained sponge over the grass near Dutch’s feet and drained it of John’s blood like a seeping wound, before dunking it in the bowl again.

Dutch paled at the sight but gratefully kept quiet and nodded, ducking out of the tent to find Arthur with only a hint of his tail between his legs as he ran from Hosea.

“Son! A word please.”

After a few minutes when he heard Isaac stop crying and Arthur’s hushed comforts Hosea allowed his attention to return fully to John, his panic yet unabated at the fact that he still hadn’t woken up, but at least his other two boys were taken care of. Because surely if Tilly had relinquished Isaac and Dutch hadn’t come back with bad news then Arthur was fine.

They could always count on Arthur to survive, thrive even, after disaster. Hosea was proud to have had a hand in raising such an unstoppable force of nature, such an incredible young man, and happier still to not have to tend to all three of them at the same time. One grisly injury or malady at a time please.

When the Callander boys returned, blessedly unscathed, with similar news of bounty hunters chasing them, Susan stepped away from John’s bedside to whip the camp into order. “Alright, come on then, everyone start packing up the wagons!”

The camp dissolved into a flurry of activity, crates and trunks that were lazily half packed were suddenly full to the brim with military efficiency. As fast as the ladies could bring a sack or box full of supplies or a broken down tent Mac and Davey had it packed tight into the ever growing stack of their lives in the back of the wagon. If there was one thing their gang knew better than gunning it was running.

The only two points of calm amid the hurried packing was Hosea at John’s side, rubbing a poultice he’d ground into the wound and wrapping it in bandages, and Arthur at the edge of camp trying to rock Isaac to sleep.

Hosea could see Arthur’s discomfort written plainly on his face as everyone worked and moved around him, the boy wasn’t used to inaction Hosea knew this well. But Isaac needed attention and calmness, so even though it looked to physically pain him Arthur remained rooted to the unflattened grass surrounding their quickly depleting campgrounds. Although Arthur looked to be in more pain than just his discomfort would cause, every other time he swayed or whenever Isaac shifted where he lay Arthur winced and readjusted.

Hosea was studying Arthur, trying to suss out if he was in fact hiding an injury from them after all, when Dutch came around again. “Let’s get John out of everyone’s way, Miss Jackson and I just cleared a space in the wagon for him, Arthur come and give us a hand!”

Dutch had barely said his name before Arthur was hustling over, eager to help.

“Wait, we can grab Mac or Davey, Arthur you rest-” Hosea was interrupted by Isaac swiftly deposited in his lap, the poor boy whining at the jostling. Hosea absentmindedly shifted to hold him more comfortably, shushing and murmuring placations as he stood.

His protest was quickly ignored as Dutch and Arthur lifted John from the cot, and Hosea frowned, moving out of their way. His mind swirled with concern over Arthur, John, Isaac, all his boys out of sorts, and now that Isaac was done crying and now drifting off in his arms, and John’s head was no longer actively bleeding, all the worry rushed forth for Arthur.

As they passed with John carefully held between them Hosea was finally able to get a better look at Arthur in the dying light of the day, and bit back a curse at Dutch, not willing to disrupt them as they moved John but the man was going to get an earful later.

Arthur had changed out of his blood soaked clothes from earlier to take Isaac off of Tilly’s hands, and yet the material of his jeans on his left leg was streaked with dark red from a thick line on his calf seeping through the thick denim, and his worn shirt had dots of red hardly noticeable in the dark brown pattern on his right shoulder.

He did it again. Arthur was more likely to hide whatever injury he’d sustained and keep trying to work like nothing was wrong then ever admit he was in need of help. Dutch and Hosea had slowly taught Arthur to expect to be fed and to not expect to be struck when either of them raised their hand too quickly, but no matter how hard Hosea tried he could never impart to the man that he could ask for help.

Hosea chased after Arthur and Dutch, his stomach cramping in anxiety, quickly passing off Isaac to an unsuspecting Annabelle on her way with Susan to take down the tent and pack up everything in it now that they’d all left. The woman hissed at him, talking about work to be done, how she wasn’t a damn nanny, yet still kept quiet to let the boy continue sleeping. Hosea ignored her and caught up to where Arthur and Dutch were carefully leveraging John up into the wagon.

Just as he came up to them he watched Arthur’s back suddenly spasm, heard him yell behind clenched teeth, and watched his arms slip away unintentionally from their secure hold around John’s legs. Hosea gasped and dove to catch John before he could fall out of the wagon, shouldering Arthur out of the way as he did.

And Hosea could have just screamed in frustration as his gasp caught in his throat and the coughing began. His throat suddenly a narrow pinprick, suddenly hateful of any and all air he could get, under the exertion of his surprise and pushing John up and into the wagon at last. Dutch and Arthur crowded him, panic overtaking anything else as he wheezed and whined, his vision already beginning to fade at the edges.

“Son, go get him some water,” Dutch demanded, already moving to sit at the end of the wagon, turning Hosea around to stand facing away from him in the vee of his legs so he could grasp him tight and massage his chest easily, willing the uncooperative lungs to calm. “Schatje, breathe for me, come on.”

Arthur was gone just like that, set off on his new task, his limp becoming more and more pronounced as that wound in his leg was left untreated. Hosea wanted to grab him, pull him back, look him over and fix what needed fixing, but right now his whole life was narrowed down to thin, reedy breaths, the painful, throat-ripping coughs that interrupted them, and Dutch. Sweet Dutch who hated injuries and illnesses held him all through the attack, kept him upright and his airways extended when his legs wanted to buckle beneath and send him crumpling, even helped him turn to the side to throw up when the spasming of his lungs and esophagus was too much, without a single complaint.

“These attacks are getting worse, old girl.” Dutch muttered when the coughing finally died down, the concern evident in his strained voice and the grip that he kept on Hosea, his strong hands continuing to rub firm circles in his chest long after his lungs began to behave. When Hosea was able to take a deep breath with no immediate repercussion Dutch murmured sweet things in his ear and helped him rinse his mouth out with the canteen that Arthur had dropped off, the man come and gone without Hosea even noticing.

Hosea waved him off, trying to push away but, finding himself too weak to do so, instead gave into the feeling of Dutch surrounding him. “N-nevermind me, I’ve been having these a long time, I-I’ll be fine. But Arthur’s hurt, Dutch, we-we need to…”

“I know, I saw,” Dutch murmured, finally just pulling Hosea up into the wagon to sit beside him in the dark privacy of the covering, the older man slumping gratefully against his side even as he protested. “We’ll grab him and you can mother and fuss at him as much as you want, dearheart, but just sit with me first, take it easy.”

Hosea lingered in the warm embrace and the sweet words for a while, still weak from the admittedly worse then normal attack, but when he could lift his head without growing dizzy he weakly swatted at Dutch’s shoulder. “Why didn’t you sit Arthur down sooner? He’s only gonna hurt himself worse.”

Dutch grabbed the offensive hand and held it close to him to avoid further retribution, poorly hiding a scowl as he responded. “Couldn’t see anything under all the blood, figured it was just John’s, and then the boy would hardly stand still for me to take a look at him! He was too concerned about getting a hold of Isaac to spare me any time.”

“He doesn’t care any less just cause he loves the boy you know.” Hosea sighed, the irritation clear in Dutch’s voice, never level-headed when something else was prioritized over him. Hosea smoothed his free hand up and down Dutch’s thigh, trying to soothe the tension that built up as he spoke. His next words were quiet and heavy, only excusable in the dark, privacy they inhabited, “You’re not gonna lose him.”

“I’m not losing any of you again, not if I can help it.” Dutch was suddenly filled with a kind of sharp-eyed, wild rage, like Hosea had reached in and stolen something personal and secret to bare it to the world. Dutch grabbed Hosea’s other wrist in the same big hand, dragging him impossibly closer with the bruising grip and kissed him harshly, all encompassing, leaving Hosea weak and more breathless then even before.

The same familiar twisting combination of grief and guilt crawled up his spine and made him shiver, made him lean further into Dutch, helpless to do anything but cut himself on the knife’s edge of Dutch’s wrath.

Only the fact that he returned pathetic and broken by Bessie’s death had shielded Hosea from Dutch’s furious retribution in the first place, but sometimes he’d see it lurking in the younger man's eyes, a dark predator ready to rip him to shreds if he provoked it.

Hosea figured he’d done it this time as Dutch’s rings dug into his wrists while his other hand gripped Hosea’s hair, keeping him still as Dutch dove in and attacked Hosea’s neck, more teeth than tongue. Hosea shuddered out a breath, the sensation coupled with the overwhelming feelings between the two of them, good and bad, beautiful and ugly all the same, was too much for him after so long of Dutch’s careful distancing from him.

It was only when Hosea coughed into Dutch’s shoulder, after the man literally stole his breath with his ministrations, that he finally relented. They stared at each other for a while, both of them a mess. Dutch panting, his mustache askew, his eyes blown wide in lust, and his brow still furrowed in his anger. Hosea reached a trembling hand up to the spit-cool part of his neck that Dutch abandoned, where he could feel the warmth of blood close to the skin, could feel the indents of teeth over his jugular.

Despite the way he narrowed in on that consecrated ground and how it made his breathing go funny Dutch’s hands became gentle and he released Hosea, instead bringing him closer with an arm around his shoulders, pressing a heart-breakingly tender kiss to Hosea’s temple as he sheltered him.

“I won’t lose you again, schatje.”

Hosea took a shuddering breath, and thought of Bessie. The life he’d tried to build for them, the way she fit so perfectly into his world, how she’d loved him and he loved her as if they were inventing the very idea of it, how she’d watch him and Dutch and how she understood, how she loved the parts of him that belonged to Dutch and the parts of Dutch that belonged to him, the way Dutch had picked up all his shattered pieces and put them back together after losing her. Though he had physically left the gang in some ways he never had because Dutch had remained, Bessie owned his heart, but Dutch was half of his soul, the two of them cleaved together for time immemorial. “I’m yours as long as you’ll have me, neshama sheli.”

The promise, as intimate and true as the vows he’d made to his wife bolstered Dutch, brought him back from that edge of tenderness and boiling fury that he’d been straddling. The younger man smiled crookedly and took off his scarf to wrap around Hosea’s ravaged neck, using it to pull Hosea in for one more sweet kiss.

He turned, surveyed the steady rise and fall of John’s chest, squeezed his ankle once as if to infuse the boy with further strength, and finally slipped off the back of the wagon. “Let me collect the rest of our boys for you, eh, old girl?”

Hosea didn’t have to wait long for Dutch to reappear at the mouth of the wagon. Arthur had to practically be dragged over, which was unsurprising, what was surprising was Isaac snoring softly on Dutch’s shoulder, the man holding him with one arm as he kept an iron grip on Arthur with the other.

“You will sit and you will behave and you’ll get tended to, you overgrown child!”

“I’m fine! Lay off-”

“You aren’t and I won’t, now get up there!” Dutch ordered

Tilly followed with the medical bag, an overeager Copper, and an exasperated look that could kill several men if she willed it. The rest of camp had disappeared behind her, leaving only indented grass and scuffed dirt to say they’d been here, everyone else hitching horses to the wagons or preparing for the long ride. After Arthur had been bullied up with Hosea and John, Tilly handed the bag over and moved to take Isaac from Dutch, used to the ritual of trading the child around and especially used to taking the burden off of their leader.

“I got him, Miss Jackson.” Dutch rebuffed her warmly, and Tilly and Arthur shared a moment of pure shock for the moment, their brows raising and jaws dropping exactly the same. “We’ll be leaving soon, why don’t you drive, I’m sure the boys could use your steady hand.”

“Well I’ll be damned,” Tilly muttered quietly as she walked away, her hands still up to take the boy.

Dutch turned to Arthur, Hosea opening up the carpet bag beside him, “Now son, I asked you before and I’m going to ask you again, are you hurt?”

“It ain’t a big deal, just let me out, I need to ride point and get us out of here,” Arthur avoided the two men’s gazes and tried to get past Dutch, ready to fulfill the role he’d been given when they’d first been planning the ride.

“I’ll ride point, you’re going to let Hosea take a look at your injuries.” Dutch leveraged himself up with one arm, stepping over Arthur’s outstretched legs to reach the back where John lay sleeping to tuck Isaac in against his side, the boy’s quilt spread over the both of them, one last brush through both boys unruly hair and Dutch was jumping off, adjusting his vest and hat and calling out to Miss Grimshaw. “Let’s get this show on the road!”

Susan and Annabelle lead the little caravan, their wagon loaded down with more than it typically carried to allow the impromptu sickbay in Tilly’s behind them. Mac and Davey took up the rear on horseback, rifles at the ready, shrewd eyes on the horizon, waiting for any hint of danger, and Dutch rode to the front on The Count signaling their departure at last.

After the wagons finally got rolling the fight left Arthur and Hosea felt he looked more miserable then Isaac had earlier, taken out of work and made to sit and rest was maybe Arthur’s worst nightmare.

“I know, I know, we’re terrible, now show me.”

Arthur begrudgingly unbuttoned his shirt and shrugged it off, hissing in pain, and no wonder. His left shoulder had a massive, ugly bruise blooming along it and his upper arm, shallow scraps already scabbing over dotted all along it. While on his right Hosea was horrified to find a spray of buckshot embedded in Arthur’s shoulder and chest, not enough to seriously penetrate and harm him, but still enough to be shrapnel left unattended for the past hour or so.

Hosea was gearing up to lecture him to death for letting this go unknown for so long when Arthur grunted and strained to try and take off his boots, his arms trembling and the tendons in his neck prominent as he gritted his teeth against further pained noises. He quickly moved forward to help Arthur, taking off his boots and pulling down his jeans to reveal the union suit beneath. Even with being helped, the act of undressing, after so long of running on adrenaline and pure stubbornness left Arthur weak and shaking, his breathing uneven as the pain began to catch up to him.

“My left leg, think I got grazed,” Arthur said, barely more than a whisper, resting his head against the canvas covering. Hosea grimaced and hummed in affirmation, the gray union suit was a splotchy red and brown on the lower left leg, fresh and old blood mixing like a grotesque painters palette.

Arthur kept quiet as Hosea worked, hardly even reacting to the bandages or salves applied to his wounds or even the stitches Hosea put in him to seal up a nasty hole left behind by a larger piece of shrapnel, only grunting a little when Hosea started picking out the shard of buckshot still in his chest, blood oozing lazily in its wake, soon stopped by what felt like a whole shirt of bandages.

It wasn’t until Hosea was helping Arthur pull his clothes back on again that the man spoke, softly, as if hoping the thundering of the wagon wheels would cover it up.

“‘M sorry, for worryin’ y’all, for gettin’ John hurt. I should’ve-” Arthur swallowed harshly, looking away from Hosea’s astute gaze. “I should learn when to shut the hell up.”

“Dear boy,” Hosea chuckled, gently grasping Arthur’s hands where they were clenched painfully tight around one another, short, broken nails still managing to dig in, turning his skin pale with pressure. “That is the exact thing you shouldn’t learn. I want to know when you need help, I want to help you, I want to know what troubles you.”

“No, you don’t,” Arthur huffed a mean laugh and moved to lay down, unable to turn on his side and face away from Hosea so he pulled his hat down to cover his face, drawing the conversation to an abrupt, bitter close.

Hosea watched Arthur for a while longer, despite how close the young man was he feared Arthur was a million miles away from him. Locking everything of himself behind some foreboding wall.

He checked to make sure Isaac was still soundly sleeping and ran a hand over John’s forehead, sighing in relief when it was still cool and absent of fever, an infection was the last thing they needed. Hosea put the supplies back one at a time, wiping any blood that remained off on his pants and heaved one last, exhausted, unsatisfied sigh looking around at the sprawled forms of his boys before clambering through the front of the wagon to join Tilly on the bench.

“Damn fools, what are we gonna do with them?” He said, grumbling as he sat down like the old man he was. When he looked over and saw the girl shivering in the steadily chilling night he moved closer and pulled off his overcoat to lay it over her shoulders.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Tilly giggled, pulling the coat tighter and looking back to see the sleeping men, along with boy and dog and sighed wistfully. “Guess all we can do is hope they get better.”

“You’re not hiding anything from me too are you?” Hosea shot her a shrewd look, kidding but only slightly.

Tilly failed to hide a smirk and idly flicked the reins, “I started my monthlies today if that’s what you mean.”

Hosea nearly had another attack over that one as he laughed uproariously at the girl, pulling her in even tighter to kiss her forehead, “You’ll be the death of me one day, sweetpea, all of you.”

Chapter Text

It has been two days since we arrived in Colorado and since I have been confined to bed rest for my pathetic scrapes and scratches. Hosea is being overly cautious, trying to make up for not seeing my injuries sooner, though at this rate I wish they’d stayed hidden.

I hate it. I hate staying in my bed all day or the little walks around camp I am permitted. I hate inaction and only being allowed my journal and my drawings as it’s hardly enough to cure my restlessness. Though they could not stop me from tending to Isaac, I am no invalid and he needs my attention now more than ever.

The poor boy is still sick, Hosea took him into town once we got settled, before we got ourselves wanted and chased out, and got some medicine, but it seems it is determined to linger. He sleeps most of the day away, his body trying hard to beat off the sickness, and in the short times when he is awake he often brings me book after book for us to read. He at least is happy about my confinement.

Hosea has, as always, been more than helpful. He helps the boy take his medicine, rubs Vaseline on his chest when he can’t breathe, helps get food in him when the boy puts up a mighty fuss and reads him his stories with all manner of voices, actor that he is. All of this has only continued to prove that I am selfish and uncaring and that my stupid thoughts are better left unspoken.

John still has barely looked at me since he woke up, which was soon after we arrived thank God. He’s sticking closer to Hosea and Dutch than he normally does, even moved to Hosea’s tent, leaving the boy and I on our own. I think I scared him with all my talk. He’d rather take the easy route and pretend I never said it in the first place. But unfortunately I cannot forget his blood on that rock nor the way his body was so terrifyingly still. Or how it was my complaining that nearly got him killed.

What I seem to have forgotten is that I am better seen than heard.

“Arthur! Look what I found!”

Arthur sighed as Annabelle came hustling into the tent. He had just spent the last two hours arduously trying to put Isaac to bed. Fussy on the best of days the sick tot didn’t want any of the food available, and as their supplies were limited and Arthur would be damned if Isaac ever went to bed hungry, supper had been a long exasperating process for everyone involved. Isaac whined and threw a fit, languishing across the table at the indignity of having to eat the unappetizing stew when he was so very sick, and Arthur had to sit with a rapidly growing headache, trying his best to keep a short leash on his temper.

He had hardly seen this kind of behavior when the boy was with Eliza, he always ate up her dinners with zeal, between his excited chatter that was, and Arthur knew their fare was not ideal so he did not blame the kid, but he only felt worse when each minute passed with little progress. It was only when Arthur broke out a box of crackers and a hard wheel of cheese that he’d stolen from the spot Hosea thought was secret, that Isaac ate. His cold portion of stew absentmindedly eaten by Arthur for dinner in between slicing the wheel of cheese.

Getting the boy ready for bed had been easier, but no less time-consuming, as he’d insisted on longer and longer passages be read as he drifted off propped up on Arthur’s chest, clutching his arm even in sleep. He was splayed across Arthur’s lap now, after having finally been sated for story time, and he didn’t budge or complain a bit as Arthur rested his journal on the boy’s stomach to write.

When Annabelle came squawking in Arthur nearly threw his pillow at her to shut her up, not eager for Isaac to wake up and restart the process anew. Luckily she quieted when she saw Isaac sleeping, unluckily, her quiet did not mean her absence, she sat herself down in the chair beside his bed and waved an envelope around in his face.

“Miss Gillis’ letter!” She singsonged. “I don’t think you ever read it, naughty boy.”

“We were a little busy, Annabelle, didn’t have the time,” Arthur grunted, trying to grab it from her. “I’ll read it now, give it.”

Annabelle let the envelope be grabbed with a smirk and leaned back in the chair, waiting for Arthur to open it.

“You can leave now.” Arthur tried to gesture out, wincing when it tugged on his stitches unpleasantly.

“Who's gonna go buy those train tickets when she says yes?” Annabelle sniffed primly. “I gotta know what I’m buying, Arthur, I’m not clairvoyant.”

Arthur knew she was lying and just being nosy, but after so long of forgetting Mary’s letter he was just desperate to read it. So he tore it open and tilted it towards the lantern light when Annabelle came around the side to read over his shoulder.

Dearest Arthur,

I apologize for not responding to your letter sooner. I read it every day, I’m sure I could quote it verbatim, but I needed to bolster myself before replying to you, and unfortunately that took some time.

Arthur, I am so sorry to hear about your Eliza, I pray she is at peace now, especially knowing you have taken in her son. I’m sure the boy is as wonderful as you say, I cannot imagine any child of yours being less than you, but I will not be coming to meet him.

Oh, Arthur, I have driven myself mad trying to find the best way to tell you, so I will just speak plainly. I have married. Just before receiving your letter, my husband Barry and I were wed in the church. I wore my mother’s dress, it was lovely. Though it pained me to walk down the aisle and not see you there, I am overjoyed to be married to my husband; he is a fine man.

I am done with our doomed romance, I am done pretending either of us will change, I am tired, Arthur. I will pray for you and the boy and that you will not think unkindly of me.

Sincerely,

Mary Linton

The words of the letter began to blur in front of him as his hands shook something fierce, Arthur was hardly aware of Annabelle beside him, hardly aware of the pressure of Isaac sleeping on his lap. He’d finally done it, he’d finally lost her.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Annabelle gasped, horrified, moving to hug Arthur close to her, her hands twitching with the need to comfort him.

“D-don’t, don’t touch me, I’m fine,” Arthur gritted out, trying to get his messy wash of emotions under control before he did something like yell and rage and wake up the boy, or, something even stupider: cry.

“That frigid bitch,” Annabelle growled, slamming her clenched fist against her leg. “If I ever see her again I’ll-”

“You’ll what, Annabelle? Punish the woman for making the first good decision since she’s met me?” Arthur would go to his grave denying that his voice cracked under the weight of his words, of his insufficientness.

“Don’t say that! I’m sure you could win her back, she’s just scared and ungrateful,” Annabelle readjusted the blanket over Isaac’s sleeping form and murmured. “The boy needs a mother, Arthur-”

“Now if that ain’t the stupidest thing I ever heard,” Arthur said, his breathing growing heavier as Eliza came to mind. He couldn’t blame Mary, he’d as good as told her what would happen if she stayed true to him, as good as promised that he would fail to protect her. “The boy had a mother, a damn good one too, and now he doesn't. What he needs right now is his Pa, and the rest of y’all, he don’t need a damn replacement.”

“Fine, yes, you’re right, don’t know what Miss Ivory Tower would know about rearing anyhow,” Annabelle waved the notion away. “But honey, I know you love her, you should still fight for her!”

“I ain’t good for her, she’s better off without me.” Arthur sighed heavily, trying to downplay the tight constriction of his heart as he skimmed Mary’s letter again.

“Arthur, sweetie, that just ain’t true!” Annabelle finally gave in and hugged Arthur close to her chest, and he let her, too grieved to fight her off any longer, her nimble fingers skimmed through his hair trying to braid comfort into him as best she could. “You’re as fine a man as any she could find in the city, better surely! You’re a gentleman and a terrific father, she’s a fool for not appreciating you.”

He knew the situation was dire with how the woman praised him. He couldn’t even find the words to refute her, couldn’t even bother to argue with her. She’d always been more likely to tease him, more like an older sister he imagined, than anything else, but he knew this business with Mary brought out her pity for him in a strong way.

“Why ain’t I good enough? Why ain’t I ever good enough?” He croaked, his restraint slipping for a moment as the god-awful truth slipped out, too shattered to keep his thoughts to himself like he hadn’t just learned to leave them locked and silent.

“Oh, Arthur,” Annabelle said mournfully, still holding him close. “You are dear boy, of course you are.”

They sat like that for a long time languishing in the closing of a long painful chapter in Arthur’s life until Dutch called for Annabelle and she reluctantly left with a passing kiss to his brow, a plague of insecurities, and the letter rapidly approaching worn softness.

* * *

It was not often that Arthur dreamed, as little and as light as he slept since he’d grown out of his teen years meant that dreams were infrequent at best. Which was a blessing considering all the darkness that lay in his mind.

Dreams about finding Hosea catatonic next to a bottle of drink, not dead, but not alive enough to even recognize Arthur in front of him. He’d call out for Bessie, for Dutch, for John, and he’d stumble to his feet and trip through Arthur, towards the folks he really cared about. Arthur would awake from those dreams with such a profound chill in his heart that he could barely breathe.

The dreams about John made him jolt out of bed, run to check his brother’s pulse, even shake the ornery boy awake to make sure he could. Finding him drowning in a lake and being too slow to save him, watching him get shot, stabbed, hanged, always with his gaze pinned on Arthur. Deaths of an outlaw, many deaths over that Arthur could have saved him from but didn’t. All the many ways he could and surely would fail John.

Dreams about Dutch were old hat. Repeating fears he found comfortably harassing him during the day. He’d be left behind if he didn’t do as told, be forgotten if he didn’t make himself irreplaceable. He needed to make himself great to repay Dutch’s kindness and love, or it could leave as quickly as it came.

They fit disconcertingly well alongside those shadowy nightmares about Lyle Morgan dragging him away from his Mama as she gasped her last breaths. About his Daddy starving him, burning him with cigarettes, beating him with anything he could get his hands on a belt, the butt of a gun, spurs.

But these dreams lately were something entirely new. Dreams of the homestead, of Eliza’s dead, dusty home, of her shallow grave, of those ruined bodies, of Isaac on the step of the cellar looking up at his Daddy like he was surprised he’d lived through the night.

With these dreams of Eliza, I feel like I have to write them down, document my descent into madness, or at least just try and puzzle out what the hell that woman wants of me.

That is a lie, I know what she wants of me, but I cannot accomplish that, so I will continue to disappoint her.

In my dreams I will be burying her again, one steady shovel of dirt after another, I will put her in the ground like I am laying her to sleep, and then she will suddenly awaken with a fury. She will drag me down into her place, the dirt I so dutifully dug up will suddenly cover me, burying me alive, and leaving her free to go rescue Isaac her own damn self.

In these dreams, in that grave, I know I can unearth myself from the grave, but I never find the will. It would have been better for Isaac if Eliza’s reality were true if I were in the grave and she were flesh and blood again. Probably would have been better for everyone.

Though no matter how terrible these are, no matter how unsettled they leave me, I would take a hundred dreams of Eliza dragging me into her grave, if I could avoid the dreams of Isaac. And Lord if she is sending these somehow too then I truly have summoned some kind of unholy wrath from her by outliving her.

How crazy these dreams have made me, blaming a dead woman.

They will start as pleasant memories, my visits with them, picnics by the river, me teaching Isaac to swim, happier times. Then suddenly everything will grow cold and all manners of horror greet me: Isaac dead in that cellar where I found him, Isaac with a bullet hole staining his shirt in our camp, Isaac’s blood on my hands, Isaac grown and all too much like me, Issac limp at the end of a noose.

I cannot change my circumstances, and I refuse to send the boy away. Eliza can send all sorts of terrible visions to plague me, to share her violent disappointment, but I will continue to do my best in raising the boy as I must. I know she would appreciate that, even if she is mighty displeased at this time.

He had been madly writing in his journal for a while, barely even sitting up out of bed to write, contorting himself with pen in hand, feeling possessed by the frightening things he dreamed, needing to get it out of him and onto the page to ever hope to sleep again that night.

The camp around him was still, folks were well and truly exhausted, not only due to the hot days and high altitude, but something else mighty involved that Arthur didn’t know the details of. Some other gang Annabelle had been approached by outside of town, trying to breach a partnership and bringing all sorts of risky opportunities, risky but profitable.

He was glad for this new business so that no one else was awake to see him sweating and panting as he awoke, chased by the sensation of chilled, delicate fingers wrapped around his throat. Arthur was desperately willing Hosea to stay in his tent, he knew the man sometimes took a walk around camp late at night, to quell his own dark thoughts and check on Arthur and Isaac. But Arthur was already feeling like an injured fox backed into a corner by hungry hunting dogs, and if the older man tried to reach out to him with softness he would surely lash out.

He almost wished time turned back a few hours to reading Mary’s letter with Annabelle again. That had been a painful experience, left his heart bruised and broken, but that was a tangible awful, a real awful, not ghosts and signs and messages from the dead.

He sighed and tipped his head back, letting his journal fall from his hands, and whispered into the quiet night, “Lord, ‘Liza, ain’t I tryin’? Ain’t I promise you that?”

Arthur just about jumped out of his skin when he heard wolves barking and howling in the dense tree cover that surrounded them, fearfully thinking for a second that Eliza was coming for him in the waking world, silenced soon after by Mac or Davey’s shotgun firing into the night. Their location was deeper in the forest than they’d usually go though it kept them well hidden from the outside trail and anyone from town who might follow them, but it did mean they had to deal with more aggressive wildlife than they were comfortable with at night.

On the ground padded with bedrolls and tucked in tightly with his quilt and pinned down by Copper Isaac woke with a jolt, hyperventilating, from the shotgun blast, his limbs twitching as he fought his way to wakefulness.

“Mama? Mama!”

Arthur’s stomach fell to his feet. It had been nearly a month since Isaac had been thrown into wakefulness calling for Eliza from some terrible dream, weeks since he had to cradle the boy and soothe him from his own dark memories and visions. But with the loud gunshots still ringing throughout camp, he couldn’t blame the child, despite how much his limbs and lungs ached from his own panicked dreams and frantic awakening Arthur rolled off the cot and scooped Isaac up where he was frantically looking around his bedroll, expecting to be somewhere else, with someone else. Copper circled his feet, whining at Isaac’s distress.

“C’mere, darlin’, Daddy’s got you.”

“Where’s Mama?” Isaac sobbed, his face already growing red with his upset, ineffectively smacking at Arthur’s shoulders in his frustration. “I want Mama, she was here! She was here! She’s gonna die, I don’t want it, I don’t wanna be in the dark!”

Arthur could feel him breathing fast and hard, working himself up to a powerful fit, and he knew he only had a few moments till the child was wailing. He fit the boy more securely on his hip and hustled to the far side of camp where the half moon shone and the scout firelight dimly lit, Copper following loyally at his heels.

Arthur paced, more limped, up and down the tree line, staying within the light of the scout fire as he rocked Isaac and willed the boy’s painful sobs to die down. He ignored the twinges of pain from the deep wound in his leg and the way his shoulder pulsed with sluggish heat where Isaac held on to him, a little bit of pain was a small price to pay, especially compared to the throes of agony Isaac seemed lost in.

The Callander boys continued with their business, not acknowledging him at all, just methodically breaking down the wolves and butchering what meat was untouched by buckshot. Arthur was deeply grateful for the attempt at privacy even if it came from awkward avoidance of the crying child.

“No Daddy, No! I want Mama, I wanna go back home.”

No matter how often Arthur heard it, the sound of Isaac’s crying never became easier to deal with, nor did the litany of impossible desires between gasping cries. Arthur would lasso down stars and dig up mountains for the boy warm in his arms, but of course, the things he wanted were the things Arthur couldn’t give him.

“I know, I know,” It was all he could say, he had nothing to offer Isaac but his meager presence and placating words, no magic cure to bring Eliza back whole and unharmed.

Arthur was frightened as he paced back and forth. Not of the wolves, or even of Eliza’s grim presence but for the fact that the soothing pace he’d taken reminded him of his own youth, of those dark dreams of Lyle Morgan.

When he was just about Isaac’s age, and he kept himself up crying cause of his empty stomach his mama would walk around their home in the dark of night avoiding the warmly lit windows, shushing him if he got too loud. Knowing if her husband caught wind of the boy's disgraceful crying he’d beat him black and blue.

When his Mama was dead in the ground and all Arthur had in the world was Lyle Morgan it could be hidden no longer. Every whine, sniffle, complaint, word spoken, or -when he was deep in the bottle- breath taken, Lyle would descend on him like a man possessed, teaching him the hard way how to be a man, how to keep quiet, how to shut up and listen.

Arthur would never raise his hand at Isaac, but he feared sometimes, when his patience ran thin, that he would never be more than his father’s son. Always worried that he was too foul a man to treat the boy gently, that the hateful memory of his father would possess him and beat the child nonetheless. His hands shook if he thought of it too long, the idea that he could be out of control of himself, that he could be like his father.

So instead he tried to will Lyle out of his mind, out of his body’s memory, tried to fill those dark broken places with the men who brought him into the light and fixed him, made him stronger, better.

Dutch, trying to tame the troublesome child they’d taken in, trying to coax out words, trying to get him out his mind which he had so often taken refuge in. Easier to retreat and think of nothing than to deal with awful reality. Dutch who had no more patience than any normal man but who would walk away when he reached his limit, coming back to Arthur to give whatever lesson he’d been trying to impart a different approach, only when he’d regained his calm. Dutch who taught him how to read and write, how to ride and be free, how to defend himself, how to fight someone bigger than him, when he’d been small and starved. One by one giving him tools to live, to survive, to fight by his side.

Or he remembered Hosea, who had taken much longer to warm to his presence, but who had held him so tightly when Arthur could not stand no sound or light or soft touch on his skin, when it seemed the whole world was made to rub against him like sandpaper, when he had to scratch at his arms hard enough to bleed to be sensible again. Hosea would hold him tight like that, his arms crossed over Arthur’s chest like he was pulling him out of a frozen lake, like if he loosened his grip for a moment he would slip away, on nights that Arthur curled up in his bedroll and shook.

Nights that Arthur found his life too good to be true, sure that if he closed his eyes Dutch and Hosea would disappear and he’d be back in hell. Never crying, he hadn’t thought himself capable anymore, thought those wells had dried up under Lyle’s teachings, but just trembling hard enough to make his teeth clatter in his head and his muscles sore with exertion. Hosea would hold him together, so tight he could hardly breathe, tight enough to make him whole again, pushing all those horrible sensations out of him, making his mind blank and peaceful.

In his arms, the boy gave a massive sob and Arthur recalled the sensation of being put back together through sheer force. So he shifted to hold the boy as tight as he dared, as tight as Hosea used to hold him, gripping the boy's shirt or keeping a hand on the back of his head, anything to make sure his hands stayed occupied and safe, never a weapon against his son.

“You’re alright, everything’s okay, Daddy’s here,” Arthur gently scratched Isaac’s scalp where he tucked the boy under his chin, feeling his shuddering breaths and hot tears against his neck. Isaac hiccuped and teetered on the edge of sobs even as he leaned eagerly into the pressure of the hug, his racing heart stilled to a calm beat. “Don’t you forget, your Mama’s watching out for you, she’s keeping you safe, and she loves you so goddamn much.”

Arthur kissed Isaac’s forehead and rocked in place, rocked with the gentle breeze that came in like he was a tree and Isaac a bird resting in his bough. And all the aches and pain and misery of the night fell like autumn leaves as he heard Isaac’s crying die down, as he felt the boy wrap even tighter around him.

“Really?” Isaac’s hoarse little voice replied softly.

“Trust me,” Arthur chuckled. “I can promise you she’s hanging around.”

Finally, Arthur could return, triumphant in comforting Isaac, proud that he could at least do this for his son. And the darkest part of the night found father and son asleep at last, piled onto the cot with Copper wormed between them. Both their hearts calmed, both their aches soothed if just for tonight.

* * *

Arthur was glad of his bed rest only for the fact that he and Isaac were able to sleep until noon without interruption or discipline, one of Arthur’s heavy, warm hands pressing the boy to his chest and cradling him as he drifted in and out of consciousness. They awoke leisurely and ate leisurely, the boy putting up no fuss so Arthur pretended not to see him slipping the scraps he didn’t want to Copper beneath the table.

But of course, the leisure had to come to an end, Arthur was no more fit for it than the sun was to hang at night. He was placating the boy, after forcing his medicine on him, rocking him on the toy horse, and making himself a fool by neighing and whinnying, letting the boy pretend he was riding on a real horse just like his Pa.

“How’re you feeling, son?” Dutch asked as he sauntered over, barely disguised laughter at Arthur’s pitiful horse performance making his eyes crinkle.

“Better than Hosea might lead you to believe, I’m in one piece after all,” Arthur grumbled, his face flushing red at being acknowledged by the older man in his foolishness.

“You and John gave us a fright back there,” Dutch sparked a match and lit a cigar from where he stood leaning against the tent pole.

“I know, won’t happen again.” Arthur waved away Isaac who was tugging on his pant leg, pouting as his little horse slowed and quieted.

“I’m sure it will,” Dutch said with a chuckle, warmly placing a hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “Since you are feeling better, son, there’s a job we need your help on, can’t do it without you.”

“We?”

“Callander boys and I, we’re working on the lead that the fellers we’ve been talking with gave us. A classic bit of cattle rustling,” Dutch said with an amused glint in his eye, always happy to act out the part of the outlaw from dime novels in real life. “Should just be a bit of hard riding, even Hosea can’t complain about you coming along.”

“Hosea can complain about anything,” Arthur scoffed and rolled his eyes, continuing to rock Isaac back and forth on the little horse with the toe of his boot as he and Dutch spoke, the little boy looking up and watching them with wide eyes. “Them boys worked on that ranch as much as I did, they should know how to steer a herd.”

“Well, unfortunately, Arthur we both know that ain’t true.”

Four years ago, Dutch had been orchestrating a grand ruse, robbing and thieving at night and all of them pulling weight at a struggling cattle ranch in Wyoming. The good honest labor helped disguise their criminal ways and they could make money two-fold. Mac and Davey had joined up with them while they were embroiled in all of that and had joined in the work on the ranch as well, but their definition of work had been closer to drinking and chasing after farmgirls than actually tending to the animals.

“But you, Arthur,” Dutch laughed again, squeezing Arthur’s shoulder and making him wince as Dutch dug into the ugly bruise. “You were a natural at it. A real cowboy if I’d ever seen one.”

It had come with plenty of teasing from his mentors and young John but he had taken a liking to the ranching lifestyle. Hard work that had him feeling pleasantly sore, spending all his day with the animals, quiet, if stinking of shit, away from the annoying thrum of people, out in the wide expanse of the prairies just him, his horse, and the cattle. It was nice not ending his day covered in someone else's blood, making an honest wage, as lackluster as it’d been, and leaving the folks that ran the ranch in a better spot than they’d found them in.

“I suppose I can come, not like anyone else can do it,” Arthur rumbled, moving away to grab his gun belt and hat.

“Of course not, what else could we do, send John? He’s more likely to scare them away than herd them, ain’t that right son?” Dutch called out at the end to John who was stalking away from Hosea’s tent.

Instead of complaining or getting defensive like he usually would John nodded nervously and spared a guilty glance to Arthur before near running out of camp. Arthur watched him leave with a suspicious glare, the young man had hardly acknowledged him since he’d woken up, and he’d outgrown stealing Arthur’s things or leaving toads in his boots, so what was he so guilty about?

“Come on, Arthur, the boys are waiting for you down in the valley, the cattle run will be coming through in a few hours, y’all better get ready.” Dutch stuck his cigar between his teeth and lifted Isaac off the rocking horse, pushing him forward into camp. “Isaac, why don’t you go sit with the ladies, I’m sure they’ve been missing you lately.”

Isaac eagerly ran to the ladies' tent on the other side of camp, sheltered beneath a large oak tree and giving them much-desired shade. Arthur could hear Tilly excitedly greet the boy, thoroughly distracting him from Arthur’s imminent departure. Arthur took the opportunity and hurried to mount Boadicea, petting her neck and murmuring praise as she stomped excitedly beneath him, eager to go riding after so long being inactive.

As he disappeared behind the treeline he heard Hosea calling out his name, drawing him to a stop. He felt the familiar stress of being caught doing something he shouldn’t’ve like when he was younger and would slip away from chores to sleep or drink. Placations built upon his tongue, ready to talk the older man out of pulling him off his horse and back to his cot, but when he looked back at Hosea a different stress took up residence.

Before Hosea schooled his expression into something open and friendly Arthur caught that same backbreaking guilt that paired with his grief when he’d returned without Bessie, like the world had slipped away to Hell by his hand. It made Arthur’s stomach cramp in dread, made him want to just kick Boadicea into a gallop and run away, but he wasn’t a child anymore so he stayed his spurs.

“Arthur! I, uh, I see you’re feeling better,” Hosea approached and patted Boadicea’s neck as he spoke. “Dutch has got you on that cattle run job, right? I should’ve known when he started planning that you were going to get roped in, made quite a name for yourself.”

“Told you I’m fine, you worry too much, old man.”

Hosea barked a laugh, his fingers tangling in Boadicea's mane, his gaze not quite meeting Arthur’s, “I don’t know about that, I’m beginning to think that I don’t worry enough lately.”

“Everything alright?” Arthur couldn’t help but ask, Hosea’s weird behavior putting him on edge.

“I was going to ask you the same thing, son,” Hosea cleared his throat. “I’ve been talking with John, about, uh, the accident and he was letting me know that-”

“John doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” Arthur interrupted, his heartbeat suddenly deafening in his ears. The little snitch. “Probably got the last bit of sense knocked clean out of his head. Anyways I-I gotta get goin’, got that job.”

Before Arthur could rush off like he wanted to Hosea snatched the reins, always one step ahead of the young man.

“You’re not in trouble, and I ain’t gonna keep you, I just-” Hosea ran a hand through his hair, barely hiding the way it shook. “When you’re back, can we talk, please?”

“‘Sea, I’ll get over it, I promise, I’m sorry-”

“None of that, please,” Hosea looked pained, the guilt coming back like a shadow passing over his face as he relinquished the reins and stepped back. “We’ll talk.”

Arthur hesitated, the tension of words unsaid swirling between them, only compounding on the sickening guilt that Arthur felt. That same feeling of being ungrateful and selfish, the confounding frustration every time he looked at his would-be father, paired with the long-dormant fear from when he was new and young to Dutch and Hosea and sure that any misstep would mean being left behind.

But he had to remind himself, Hosea wasn’t mad, he wasn’t drowning himself in whiskey from the guilt, he was just there. He’d given Arthur plenty of warning for whatever heaviness their later conversation would have, let them have equal footing going in. Arthur still didn’t appreciate that John had let it slip, and he was even more begrudging of the fact that they’d have to talk at all, but at least he wouldn't be surprised.

So he nodded to Hosea and tried to swallow down the bitter pill of his juvenile fears and spurred Boadicea on, running fast away from camp, and Hosea. Running towards the long open expanses of land and the striped landscape of the shadows of trees, just him and his horse, a chance to disconnect, if momentarily.

* * *

After so long hanging in the plains it still astounded Arthur just how tall the world could be here in Colorado. As high up the mountain as they already were there were still more towering about him as he traveled. The sky was grazed by the peaks and even on the ground Arthur was made small by the massive trees, animals darted through the trees, birds chirped to one another, and a warm breeze swept through and ruffled Arthur’s hair. It was comforting to know that the world was so much bigger than his problems.

He only wished it was big enough to avoid the big, annoying, mouths of the Callander brothers.

“Hey look, Mac, Daddy’s come out to play,” Davey called, the tease evident in his voice as he caught Arthur coming over the ridge the brothers were waiting on.

“Ope, better be careful, Davey, you’re gonna piss him off,” Mac elbowed his brother with a laugh. “Don’t want to go to bed with no supper would you?”

Arthur rolled his eyes and leaned over his saddle to glare at them, “If I was your Pa I would’ve drowned you in the river and saved myself the damn trouble.”

“It’s like he doesn’t even like us,” Davey tsked mounting his big Shire Paul while Mac tracked down his Saddler grazing nearby. “What took you so long anyway? Were you plannin’ on leavin’ us high and dry, Morgan?”

“Well considerin’ I didn’t know I was doin’ this till recently be glad I’m here at all,” Arthur followed dutifully behind as the brothers led him down the trail towards the bottom of the valley. “What’s the plan anyhow?”

“We’re gonna shoot the cowpokes and you’re gonna herd the cattle to the rustler the O’Driscolls picked out,” Mac replied, taking his bolt-action off his shoulder to inspect it quickly. “He’s north a couple of miles, shouldn’t take us too long to get there.”

“O’Driscolls, that’s who y’all have been dealin’ with lately? Dutch said they were a new gang, how’re they?”

“Oh, they’re a bunch of crazy bastards,” Mac groused as Davey nodded sagely. “Seamus and Colm, brothers, and I think every young, Irish man they could find coming off the boat. Ain’t got a lot of sense, those boys, but they got a lot of bullets.”

“If you two are callin’ ‘em crazy I don’t know if I quite want to meet them.”

“Ain’t got much of a choice, cowboy. They’re waitin’ for us, gonna be helpin’ us with the herd.” Davey kicked Paul into a gallop and started running faster down the trail. “I like ‘em anyhow, they know how to have fun.”

“You lot got all these men, and you still need me to herd the damn cattle,” Arthur grumbled as if he wasn’t looking forward to this. “Useless, all of you.”

“Well, we can’t all be cowboys, cowboy!”

Arthur endured the brother’s teasing and crude stories on the precarious trip down into the valley, just counting down the minutes until they were all so busy with the herd that even they couldn’t run their mouths. Though it wasn’t Arthur’s nonverbal complaining or even the tricky riding that finally made the men grow more serious, instead it was the two men in dusters on wiry horses, waiting for them at the end of the trail, their gazes sly and clever.

“Took you long enough, fellas,” The bigger one with the thick sideburns and flat cap called out, his Irish brogue thick and deserving of the name O’Driscoll.

“And where’s our good friend Dutch? Thought we’d be seein’ him today,” The slim man asked, his accent was much lighter, flatter, aiming for the plain American rather than the recently immigrant Irish. Arthur resisted the urge to squirm as the man picked him apart from beneath the brim of his hat. “Wouldn’t’ve even complained about Ol’ Hosea either.”

“Seamus, Colm,” Mac greeted the two men, nodding to each one in turn. “Sorry to disappoint but don’t you worry, we got the next best thing. Our resident cowpoke: Arthur Morgan.”

Colm grinned at Arthur, looking very much like a mouser spotting his next meal, “So, you’re Arthur, Dutch has told us a lot about you, said you’re gonna be real helpful for these plans we got brewin’.”

“Suppose we’ll just have to see.”

“Suppose we will.”

Before the tense conversation could continue any further two hundred head of cattle, braying and mooing as loud as a damn thunderstorm, rolled through the valley. Arthur could see the tiny dots that were the cowboys steering the herd on the sides, even from a distance he could see the tension hardening their backs as they stayed ever alert for any threat that might come for them on the run, but they couldn’t expect everything.

Mac and Davey fell into line behind Arthur like a well-oiled machine, vigilant for Arthur’s call, and Colm and Seamus gradually fell in too, silently communicating to one another through shared glances and suspicious head nods, but Arthur didn’t care.

He kicked Boadicea into gear and the five of them drove into the valley, diving right towards the point rider like an arrow. Mac stood up in his saddle and popped a few quick shots, injuring and killing a few of the men riding along the side, allowing Davey and Seamus to take their spots, both of them drawing revolvers, waiting for one of the other cowboys to try something.

Seeing the way the nearest cows started veering wildly, their eyes rolling around in panic after the handful of loud shots, Arthur holstered his gun and brought out his lasso. In one expert toss he’d looped the point rider and pulled him off his horse, Boadicea narrowly jumping over the man and not trampling him.

Once he was in place Arthur looked back over his shoulder and signaled to Mac to fall back. Mac immediately pulled back hard on his horse's reins, Colm copying a moment later with a disgruntled look on his face, but they were soon off and running again, the two of them heading behind the herd to take care of the riders on the other side.

The other half of the team had heard the commotion and Mac and Colm were met with a lot more firepower than they’d seen so far, but if there was anything Arthur trusted the Callander boys to do it was to win a fight.

In the end, taking over the herd was as easy as Dutch had advertised it and Arthur directed the stolen herd north through the valley and towards the fence in no time.

Even though it was high tension and Arthur was having to juggle directions, keeping the herd calm, and worrying about the O’Driscolls, he was still enjoying the rush of the cows shaking the ground beneath him. The mundanity of the adrenaline from the cattle drive was so refreshing compared to the shootouts with lawmen he was so used to that he could almost call it a vacation, not to mention no one could talk to him while they were running.

Once they’d finally reached the fence and funneled all the cattle in Arthur found he very much missed the overwhelming thunder of hooves and the excitement of leading the herd, especially when Davey came around and pulled him towards the O’Driscolls.

“Told you fellas he was a natural!”

“Yeah, real impressive, he’s a proper cow fucker,” Seamus groused as he struck a match off his boot and lit a cigarette. “Glad I get to smell like cow shite so golden boy here can play cowboy.”

“Now, Seamus,” Colm admonished, still watching Arthur out of the corner of his eye even as he finished striking the deal with the fence. “Dutch’s boy here did us a real favor, what do we know about cattle rustling?” Colm took the stack of bills from the squirrely-looking man and split the stack in two, smirking as he handed over the larger one to Arthur. “You’re a good friend to have Mr. Morgan.”

“Likewise I’m sure,” Arthur said, still not quite comfortable with the way Colm was watching him, but he took the money and shook the man’s hand when offered, gripping the smaller man’s hand as hard as he could without threatening to break it.

Colm's smile only grew.

The O’Driscolls couldn’t leave fast enough in Arthur’s opinion but, after he skimmed through the stack, it did seem they were profitable friends to have.

“What do you say, Arthur, we make Dutch happy today?” Mac said, nearly toppling Arthur as he came and knocked into him, looking at the stack of money over Arthur’s shoulder.

“I would say so,” Arthur tucked away a large amount for the gang and handed a tidy sum over to both Mac and Davey, after pocketing his own. “Guess we start headin’ back now.”

“Actually,” Davey grinned as he got up on Paul. “When Mac and I were scouting the fence we found a tidy little score nearby, thought we’d be kind enough to show it off.”

Arthur considered the offer, he was sore from the hard ride, his shoulders were killing him and they’d been away from camp for a while now, about four hours. He knew he should get back as soon as he could for Isaac, but at the same time, he was a coward and wasn’t ready to face Hosea yet. So he hopped up and let Mac and Davey lead him farther away, hoping whatever they found was worth the detour.

The massive valleys and mountains and trees they’d been riding through decreased in magnitude as they approached civilization but, luckily for Arthur, they did not ride full into town, instead taking a detour just before. An avenue of well-to-do homes greeted them, painted to match the land around them, white, brown, blue, and green, solidifying the neat, homey image.

The three men traveled down until Davey stopped at the farthest house and pointed at the edge of the property with a grin, “There’s the prize, Morgan, think it’s worth the risk?”

Arthur surveyed the target ahead and his own wide, sharp-toothed grin spread on his face, “I think we’d be damn fools not to, boys.”

* * *

The ride back into camp felt victorious even as Dutch called out to them with an irritated expression, “If I find out you three drank away your cut again and that’s why you’re so damn late I’m going to be sorely disappointed.”

Arthur laughed and hopped off Boadicea reaching for the bags tied to his saddle, as Mac and Davey did the same, “Not to worry, Dutch, we bring money and treats.”

He’d caught the rest of the camp's attention with that, including Hosea who came out from his tent, hastily closing his book and throwing it back. Arthur walked over to the table where Tilly, Isaac, and Miss Grimshaw were playing dominos and carefully upended the bags to reveal bright, massive apples and oranges, the fragrant scent of fresh fruit quickly filling the camp.

Isaac comically gasped at the sight and stood up on his chair to try and climb up his Pa, “Oranges! Daddy, can I have some, please? Can I?”

“Ah’course,” Arthur said with a laugh, snatching Isaac up with one arm as the boy finally leaned too far forward and the chair fell over, threatening to send the boy crashing into the ground if his Pa weren’t there. Isaac giggled madly from where he dangled in Arthur’s grip, unaware of how close he’d been to harm. “Come on everyone, dig in!”

Mac and Davey added to the extravagant sprawl and dumped their bags as well, thoroughly disrupting the game beneath, much to Miss Grimshaw’s chagrin who looked to have been close to beating Tilly, a near-impossible feat. But the disappointment was quickly eclipsed as everyone in camp descended on the table, eager to sink into the ripe flesh and reveal the sweet nectar beneath.

Soon the center of camp was misty and dense with sharp, bright fragrance from the spray of juice as oranges were ripped open and large, crisp bites were taken out of the ruby-skinned apples.

Arthur watched as Dutch easily tore open an orange and handed the glittering halves to Annabelle who eagerly received them and went to run off with her treasure.

“Ah, Ah Miss de Lacy, am I not going to be compensated for my labor?” Dutch teased pulling the woman back close to him with hands, now sticky and sweet with juice, at her waist.

Annabelle hummed in contentment and delicately fed Dutch a slice of golden orange, but before Dutch could enjoy the pilfered fruit Annabelle lunged up on her toes and bit half the orange, punctuated with a loud, messy kiss, orange juice dribbling down both their chins.

The woman scurried away, cackling at Dutch’s shocked expression, “You gotta be quicker than that, love!”

As she ran from Dutch, who playfully growled and chased after her, as if there was not a table laden with more oranges readily available, Mac tossed a chunk of an apple slice through the air at Davey and over Annabelle and Dutch, who narrowly missed catching it with his mouth.

“You need to tip your head back you moron!” Mac yelled.

“Maybe I wouldn’t have to if you learned how to throw!” Davey called back, wiping the juice off his face where it’d brushed past. “Now, come on, again! I bet I can catch more than you can.”

“Oh, that is a bet I’ll happily take.”

Arthur didn’t pay their little game much mind, besides leaning out of the way of projectile fruits, as he waited for Isaac to pick which orange he wanted, which judging by the intense furrow of his little brow was a very important decision. The little boy stood on Arthur’s lap and leaned over the table, surveying the available fruit like a general studying the battlefield. Arthur chuckled when Isaac finally snatched up an orange the size of his face nestled between shiny apples, nearly falling over again without Arthur holding onto him.

“This one please,” Isaac chirped sweetly, pushing the fruit towards Arthur, watching expectantly as his Pa resolutely peeled it open, slowly revealing the perfect, glistening segments inside. Each freed slice Arthur handed to the boy, interrupting him as he further ripped up the torn and abandoned peels. Arthur was surprised each time when every other slice Isaac insisted on giving to his Pa until the whole orange was gone, split evenly between the two of them, their faces and hands equally sticky with the juice.

Isaac was practically bouncing in excitement as Arthur reached for another orange but was successfully diverted by Hosea approaching them with a handkerchief full of ruby and pearl gems of apple slices, which Isaac eagerly accepted.

“Thank you, grandpa!”

Arthur ducked his head to smile at Hosea’s face. No matter how often Isaac called him ‘grandpa’ Hosea seemed to get the same gleeful, misty-eyed expression, looking proud as can be of the title.

“Anytime, dear boy,” Hosea grinned widely, looking two seconds away from shouting to the world how excited he was to be called Grandpa. “Now why don’t you do me a favor and go share with your Uncle Dutch?”

Arthur looked around and saw that Annabelle had successfully evaded Dutch, leaving him to his chair and cigar in front of their tent, watching the gang with a happy twinkle in his eye. Annabelle though was sitting with Susan under the shade of the large oak tree, the two women as close as they could be without Annabelle actively sitting in her lap, which she looked mere moments away from. Annabelle was sweetly feeding a blushing Susan slice after slice of oranges, keeping her hand beneath each slice to catch all the juices as everyone knew Miss Grimshaw hated sticky, uncleanness.

“Annabelle, please, this is unnecessary,” Arthur heard Miss Grimshaw say, stifling laughter, as she tried to push Annabelle away. “I can feed myself!”

Annabelle who only leaned in closer, wicked, feline grin growing ever wider on her face, “Maybe I want to do it! Maybe I like unnecessary.”

Arthur tuned them out as Miss Grimshaw accepted yet another slice, their familiar bickering a common sound in camp.

Reluctantly Arthur released Isaac to the ground when the boy started trying to wiggle out of his grip, watching the boy run over to Dutch with his prize held aloft, feeling that mess of nauseating feelings coming over him again as he was left alone with Hosea.

“Let’s take a walk, son,” Hosea clapped a hand on his shoulder and pocketed a few more apples before heading for that same quiet stretch of treeline that Arthur had spent his night comforting Isaac. Close enough to camp to be seen but far enough to not be overheard.

They walked in silence for a while, Arthur pulling his hat low to hide the mortified flush that had overtaken his face. All this fuss for something that didn’t even matter, for Arthur’s useless tangle of conflicting feelings, and he wasn’t even being admonished, yet, even though John barely survived his complaining. He wanted to run back and hop on Boadecia again, hardly willing to participate in this farce.

“You know when I was younger,” Hosea broke the tense silence, contemplating the apple he rolled between his hands. “My mother would splurge and get us a jar of honey to dip apples into for the new year, or we’d have applesauce with latkes for Hannaukah.” Hosea sighed wistfully, “I haven’t thought about that in years, haven’t celebrated either, but I miss it.”

“Maybe we could get you some honey in town, ‘m sure it wouldn’t be that expensive. Bet Isaac would like it too.”

“Oh, I’d like that very much, someday…” Hosea smiled softly and tossed the apple to Arthur, who caught it easily, “How did we raise such a good man? Here you are, displeased with me, and still bein’ so darn considerate.”

Arthur flinched at the accusation, trying to disguise it by taking a large bite of the apple, focusing on the flesh breaking beneath his teeth instead of Hosea’s gaze on him. “What did John tell you?”

“Said you were mighty confused, mad at me, mad at yourself, said you were being ungrateful,” Hosea sucked his teeth and sighed at the last word. “He’s upset, but not so much since we talked, I think he just feels guilty now.”

Arthur wanted to find the energy to be angry at John, to throttle the teen, but he couldn’t be too upset with him, not when he was right.

“I’m real sorry, ‘Sea, it’s just…” Arthur trailed off, carefully trying to pick his words to best explain himself. Hosea remained silent, fidgeting with the other apple he’d brought, waiting patiently for Arthur to speak.

“You left,” Arthur’s voice cracked and he cleared his throat roughly hoping the sudden rush of emotion would stay down and not rise like they threatened “You a-and Bessie were gone almost three years, we had no idea if you were ok, you didn’t tell us where you were goin’ you just left us! You left…”

“You.” Hosea finished quietly, his eyes closed as the admission hurt him.

“Not just me, John too!” Arthur’s words came easier, that sickly, hot anger coming back after he’d tried desperately to bury it. “You and Dutch talk about raisin’ us, Bessie said we were like the sons she never had-”

Arthur shied away from his own words, flinching at the memories he’d dredged up. Bessie alive, Bessie at camp, Bessie fussing over him, Bessie soothing John when he was still feral and wild. Bessie blushing when Susan and Annabelle sang bawdy songs but still getting up to dance on the table. Bessie and Hosea gossiping with each other in French like a pair of old ladies. Bessie tearing up when he’d called her Ma under the feverish haze of an infected wound. Bessie happy to see him.

Bessie hugging him and John as she and Hosea said goodbye, holding him so tight that he thought he’d bruise, so tight that it felt like she’d never let him go. But she did, and they left, and he never saw her again.

“Son-” Hosea stopped when Arthur started pulling at his hair, the younger man seeking some outlet for this pain lancing through him. “Arthur, I was- I was selfish. Bessie wanted to bring you two, but I didn’t think Dutch would’ve ever let us.” Hosea roughly raked a hand through his hair, looking mad and unkempt as he did. “Maybe I could have fought harder, maybe we could’ve all disappeared, but I just wanted so badly to give Bessie the life I’d promised her. And Arthur, son, if I’d’ve asked, would you have come with us?”

“No!” Arthur exploded, the very idea preposterous and strange. The harsh truth from Hosea only added to the fire. “‘Course not, how could I? Dutch needed me, he needed you too! Sounds like I would’ve ruined your perfect little life anyways-”

“There’s more to life than this gang, Arthur!” Hosea barked back, looking frustrated.

“Not to me,” Arthur laughed painfully. “I ain’t nothin’ without you and Dutch, I wouldn’t be here without y’all.”

“Arthur, that just ain’t true, you got your family, your boy-”

“And I was supportin’ him and ‘Liza through this gang, with yours and Dutch’s help,” Arthur growled out the ugly truth, Eliza had never been pleased with the violently earned money, but she never turned it down, knowing as well as he did that surviving was more important than petty morals.

Hosea opened his mouth to interject but Arthur just ramped over him. “How on earth could you have expected me to walk away from Dutch? Especially with you gone! Do you even know how he was without you?” Arthur took a steadying breath, anxious just thinking about that long, tumultuous year. “Felt like trying to wrangle a damn tornado! Hitting every bank we found, robbing any folk who passed us by, not just the rich ones. Annabelle couldn’t get through to him, he barely even slowed down when we picked up Tilly! It all came down to me every day to keep him from landing us in jail.”

“I-I’m sorry, Arthur,” Hosea looked shaken after Arthur’s outburst. “I didn’t know-”

“Because you goddamn left!” Arthur yelled, seething at this point. “You left and you wouldn’t’ve come back if Bessie hadn’t died, if the life you actually cared about didn’t crumble around you.”

“I am not going to apologize for being with my wife, or for mourning for her.”

“I ain’t asking you to!”

“Then what do you want from me, Arthur?” Hosea shouted, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “How can I fix this?”

“I don’t know!” Arthur shouted. The silence following was only interrupted by each man’s heavy breathing, the peak of their argument crashing to the ground around them. “I-I don’t know. I understand why you left, I don’t want to be mad or blamin’ you, but I do. Guess I’m just a cruel, selfish bastard I suppose. Ungrateful, just like John said.”

“We’re outlaws, Arthur,” Hosea grabbed his coat and turned the younger man to look at him, not letting Arthur hide the wet sheen of his eyes any longer. “Be selfish, the rest of us all are, you’re just too good for the likes of us.”

“I ain’t,” Arthur blushed fiercely, hating when folks talked about him like that. He did the same killing and thieving as the rest of them, they knew he was just as ugly inside as they were. It felt patronizing each time they called him good, like putting lipstick on a pig.

“Prove it.”

Arthur growled and went to pull his hair again, went to yank and tug as if he could pull his thoughts and words straight, but Hosea stopped him with a sharp look.

“I-” Arthur choked on the words, on the embarrassment of his deepest desires, but Hosea was there, desperate to hear them, so he shut his eyes tight and let his words unfurl from the tight knot at the base of his throat. “I wish I’d been enough for you to stop drinking sooner. I wish you and Bessie stayed so I could have kept pretending I had good parents who loved me. I wish you meant it when you called me son.”

Before he’d even finished Hosea had pulled him into a tight hug, and the pair of Arthur’s desires and the tight hug smelling of herbs and apples and gunpowder made him feel like he was 14 again, small and desperate for approval.

“I’m pathetic I know,” Arthur croaked.

“My boy, my dear boy,” Hosea murmured. “You are the farthest thing from it.”

“I am a grown man jealous of my child, I am the definition of pathetic,” Arthur said with a sigh, finally leaning into the hug. “I see you with him and I can’t help but wonder how my life would’ve been better if you’d found me when I was his age.”

“Oh, Arthur, a man can dream,” Hosea said wistfully, pulling back to look him in the eye. “But I would’ve messed you up just the same, I mean did you hear yourself? I’ve damaged you plenty already- but you listen here,” Hosea cupped his cheeks, rasping his thumb over Arthur’s stubble, and gave him a firm glare. “No matter what’s happened, no matter how mad you are at me, you are my son and I am your father, if you’ll have me, despite how I’ve failed you.”

“Ah‘course, ‘Sea, ‘course,” Arthur whispered, trying not to let the blinding joy lighting up his chest show on his face, trying not to show just how settled he felt with that vehement claiming. “Boy needs his grandpa after all.”

“You and that boy,” Hosea’s eyes grew shiny as he spoke, “You make my heart so full.” He pulled back slightly, the guilty shadow returning. “I knew I needed to stop drinking, but it was hard, being sober felt like torture, nothing to dull my pain of losing her. And I was trying, I promise you I was, the boy just…showed me what it was all for, that I needed to get my mind right to be there for you two.”

Arthur absorbed the story, tried to accept this different perspective, even just to sate his unhelpful quell of anger. He wanted more than anything to forgive Hosea, to move forward from this whole mess, though whether he could manage it today, or months down the line, remained to be seen.

“You know-” Arthur stumbled over his next words, the familiar hot knife of grief making its home in his guts again. “I think Bessie…Ma, would’ve been a fine grandma.”

Hosea shakily inhaled, a single fast-moving tear sliding down his face, uncaught in his shock, before he could steel himself against Arthur’s words, all hurting for so many reasons and in so many ways. “You’re damn right, son. She would’ve spoiled that boy rotten.”

They stayed distant from camp for a while more, quiet, finishing their fruit side-by-side, as there was simply no more space for words between them today.

As they slowly meandered back to camp Hosea stuck his hands in his pockets and surveyed the landscape, finally having recovered from every time they’d spoken Bessie’s name, every time they’d remembered her fondly, so Arthur was surprised when Hosea spoke over the quiet rush of wind that’d blown by.

“Tell me something about Miss Eliza, Arthur, I am still grieved to have never met her. Wish I could have known who had raised such a fine, young boy as Isaac.”

Arthur chuckled and rubbed a hand over his eyes, remembering his fatigue from his many visits with Eliza over the past few months, but that wasn’t her, not really. He needed to remember the good moments, the real moments, the things that defined her and their relationship like he did with Bessie. He needed to let her live on in his life in more then just the face of his son and the haunting of his dreams.

“You would have loved her, ‘Sea. She was a firecracker, didn’t take shit from no one, ‘specially me,” Arthur said. “And what’s even worse about y’all not meeting, is that I’m sure she would’ve beat you at cribbage easy.”

“Oh?” Hosea responded curiously.

“Oh yes, she was a monster, made me feel like a damn fool for even picking up the cards, and she swore like a sailor when she played too, here watch this, Isaac!”

It didn’t take long for the boy to dart over to the edge of camp to meet them, eagerly tugging on Arthur’s coat to be picked up, grinning when Hosea ruffled his hair as he was brought closer.

“Isaac, darlin’, what would your mama say when the neighbor beat her in cards,” Arthur asked, nodding permissively when the boy gave him a reproachful look. Elize was no fan of Isaac picking up her bad-mouthing, or of how funny Arthur found it.

“Goddamn son of a bitch cheater! Rematch, fucker!”

Arthur and Hosea doubled over in laughter at the foul words coming from Isaac’s angel face, the little boy giggling alongside them, not knowing quite how funny it was, just knowing it made his daddy and grandpa laugh.

It was exactly what they needed to resolve the lingering tension from their argument out in the wilderness, things settling quicker in their amusement.

Hosea left, still chuckling, to go to Dutch’s side, eager to share the funny moment, and Arthur smiled to himself when he heard Dutch laugh loudly seconds later. When he saw the two older men he smiled even wider. Hosea leaned against Dutch where he sat, the two of them chortling and insensible, losing what little composure they’d gained when they saw Isaac.

And when they’d finally calmed and Arthur had already left them Hosea gently recapped the difficult conversation to Dutch. The younger man, as much a wordsmith as Hosea was, found whatever he could have said lackluster, and instead offered a slice from the apple he’d been cutting, wrapping his arm around Hosea’s waist as the older man ate the offered slice from the knife. They stayed intertwined and tender like that for the rest of the evening, contentedly watching over their odd brood.

Arthur eventually found his way to where John and Tilly were sitting near the horse pasture, after an extensive gift of treats for all the horses if the depletion of apples was any indication. Both of them were intently peeling oranges, Tilly seeming to try and keep the whole thing in one piece as she peeled it off, and John just trying his best to reveal the fruit at all, thoroughly mangling the peel.

When he and Isaac sat to join the boy immediately crawled out of his lap and into Tilly’s, which she welcomed gladly, covering the boy's face and curls in orange-scented kisses, before sharing her well-earned treat with him slice by slice.

Arthur was surprised when after a few more minutes of fighting with it, John shyly offered Arthur the less mangled half of his orange. He was blushing and looking away, probably seconds from retreating somewhere else in camp if Arthur said the wrong thing. So instead Arthur quietly accepted the orange, and the unspoken apology, and enjoyed the evening with his family, feeling lighter than he had in a long time.

Chapter Text

Arthur didn’t quite understand what Dutch saw in Bill Williamson. The man was a raging drunk when he’d been brought in, mad at everyone and the world, bitter when he wasn’t hazy with drink. It’d felt like a repeat of Hosea’s dark year, but without the concern, leaving him with just irritation over the loud, unruly man.

But Dutch had worked his magic and dredged the man up from the piss-poor angry, angry, man he’d found into a somewhat respectable member of the gang. He was sober more days then not and could actually hold a conversation without it devolving into a fist-fight, which was appreciated. Arthur and the Callander boys were strong but Bill was like a wild bear when he was lost in his violence.

His demeanor didn’t improve from his vinegar sourness, and he had earned no favors from Hosea with his lazing about camp, but he could shoot a gun and ride hard, he was kind to Isaac, and he was endlessly loyal to Dutch and the gang, so he was halfway decent in Arthur’s book. At least he was until he had to do a job with the big oaf.

Bill, John, and he were running through the mud-streaked alleys and roads of the small city in which they’d just robbed some shady secret dealings above the general store. It would’ve been an easy, quiet job, but Bill had to get worked up over one of the men inside insulting them and he blew the man’s head off, the loud shotgun blast alerting the law from the street.

And because the lawmen had come pounding up the stairs they had to leave through the window and over the roofs, abandoning their horses for the moment and devolving to a foot chase.

“Bill I swear to god, if you get us arrested ‘cause your head is too goddamn thick I’m gonna kill you!” Arthur growled as he jumped down from the roof onto a wagon, John following close behind.

“Sorry we can’t all be as level-headed as you, Morgan!” Bill shouted back, nearly breaking his leg as he slipped off the roof to the alleyway.

“Just shut up,” John hissed helping Bill up while Arthur scanned the street for incoming law, when he found it clear he ran across to the next alley, keeping the bag of cash they’d stolen close. If they were going to be chased out of town at least they’d be chased out a bit richer.

John ran across next, immediately pressing against the opposite wall that Arthur leaned on to keep an eye on the other entrance to the road they were on. Bill was slower in joining them, wincing and rubbing at his leg, so when a young woman came running down the street, keeping an eye behind her instead of in front, the two of them collided in the center of the road.

“What the hell-”

The woman didn’t hesitate for a second, grabbing Bill by the arm and dragging him into the alley he’d just left, sparing another glance behind her before pulling until Bill was pinning her against the wall, covering her with his bulk.

Arthur and John had to cover their mouths to stifle their laughter at Bill’s shocked expression when she wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him down to kiss her, the two of them curled into the shadow of the buildings surrounding them.

The reason for the impromptu kiss was evident when a pack of angry men came tearing down the street, yelling about finding some girl. Bill leaned in even closer, completely obscuring the young woman from the mob, and Arthur reached up to massage his temples as a whole other mess seemed dropped into their laps.

When the sound of the angry crowd died down the woman finally released her grip on Bill and he pulled back gasping, his mouth and beard smeared in her red lipstick.

“Thanks, honey,” The woman slurred, catching her breath against the wall.

“Hey, loverboy, we gotta go!” John called over, looking up and down the street waiting for their mob to show up.

“Bill, when the hell didja get hit?” Arthur questioned, stalking across the dusty road to poke at the dark red staining Bill’s shirt, dreading the thought of him and John having to drag Bill back to camp.

“What are you talkin’ ‘bout, I-” Bill fingered the bloody patch for a second before freezing, looking back at the woman whose own wine-red dress disguised the bloody wound carved into her side. “Miss…you?”

Arthur groaned at the sight, at the fine tremor of pain running through her, at her uneven blinking. Luckily and unluckily he was right beside her when she seized up and fainted, catching her before she hit the ground.

“Ah, hell.” Arthur panicked as he tried to keep his grip on her and pressed a gloved hand to the warm, pulsing wound, dearly hoping that on top of everything else they wouldn’t soon be wanted for this woman’s death.

“Got ourselves a regular damsel in distress,” Bill said, with a grunt as he moved to help with the woman’s limp body and instead further hurt his leg.

“What the hell is going on over here? I hear the lawmen a few streets down, something huge just happened we gotta get out of here,” John hissed, and he was right. There was an explosion of gunfire and yelling down south where they’d been running, they were pinned in and now had an unconscious bleeding woman to take care of.

“Son of a bitch,” Arthur bit out, taking off his scarf and wrapping it tight around the woman’s abdomen as he thought. “We gotta get back to the horses, we’re fucked on foot.”

“What about her?” Bill asked, taking some of her weight so Arthur could tie the scarf. “We can’t just leave her, she’ll die.”

“You think I don’t know that, Williamson?” Arthur rubbed his temple and grimaced when he realized he’d just spread the blood around on his face. “We’ll take her with us, make sure she ain’t keeling over then send her home.”

“We’re bein’ chased and you want to rescue some girl?” John shouted in disbelief. “We got bigger problems then you wanting to be a goddamn hero!”

“Just shut up and keep watch,” Arthur said with a growl, pushing John ahead of him and Bill as they figured out how best to accomplish this incredibly stupid thing.

They took off down the dusty streets once more, Bill holding the woman in his arms, couldn’t throw her over his shoulder without digging into her wound, Arthur and John scouting ahead, guns drawn, ready for trouble.

Whatever commotion was happening on the south side of the town was enough that the streets were bare of law and they got back to their horses unseen. Boadicea, Brown Jack, and Whiskey all looked mighty displeased with them for the fuss they’d been privy to, Arthur rubbed a soothing hand over his mare’s flank before taking the blonde woman from Bill to let him get into the saddle before passing her back up, John anxiously scanning the streets as they did.

For a brief, shining moment Arthur believed they’d gotten out mostly unscathed, the bag of money still resting heavy on his side, that they’d made it all the way to the outskirts before trouble caught up with them. That belief crashed and burned just as quickly as it was born as another herd of riders on dark, skinny horses came tearing out from where the gunfight had occurred, the sheriff, his deputies, and every fresh-faced idiot with a gun pressed into service chasing after them.

Arthur pulled hard on the reins to turn away from the crowd, hoping they could get lost in the forest and not get involved in this other gang’s mess, but of course one of the smooth-faced morons just had to point over to them.

“Dutch’s Boys! And they got a hostage!”

The man leading the other gang turned and gunned down a few of the officers, including the boy pointing at them, another member shot down one of the lawmen’s horses, much to Arthur’s displeasure, and the whole clump of them slowed as horses reared up in fear or outright fell over the dead horse, nearly killing their riders as well.

With the law distracted Arthur whistled to Bill and John to keep up with him and kicked into a gallop, trying to get as far away as they could before the law could get their feet under them when the leader of the little gang rode up beside him to reveal the calculating gaze of one Colm O’Driscoll.

“Fellas!” Colm called out over the pounding of hooves and gunfire. “Been looking for you lot.”

Arthur grimaced and nodded but didn’t slow down at all, eager to get away from the O’Driscoll’s particular brand of mess.

“We’ll be talkin’ soon, don’t you worry,” Colm said, smacking Boadicea on the flank as he fell back, turning his gun back on the unprepared lawmen and firing.

* * *

Isaac wrinkled his nose as he pulled out the lye-soaked shirt from the big washing pot, the smell ticking his nose and threatening him with a sneeze. Today was laundry day -like every day Auntie Tilly would say- and Isaac was helping. It’d taken a while for him to be able to help, it made him real sad, real angry when Daddy had first brought him, made him think about Mama and the dark, made him lash out and cry, but he was a big boy now, all of seven years old so he helped around camp like he knew he could and he tried hard not to remember his Mama praising him for the same thing.

Today he was dredging the soaking clothes and bringing them over to the ladies where they sat under the shade with the washboards. The shirt he handed over to Auntie was the last one in the pot so he wiped his hands dry on his pants, wrinkling his nose again at the smell and asked, “Is at all done now?”

“Almost, sweetheart, have some water it’s gettin’ hot out,” Auntie replied, nodding over to the barrel they had near the cookfire.

Isaac hurried over, feeling parched only once Auntie had mentioned it. He was just barely able to see over the barrel and if it was topped off he could get his own water but it was only half full so even standing on his toes he couldn’t dip his cup in. He was trying to scrabble up enough to reach the water when Grandpa walked by, grabbing him up by the collar of his shirt and righting the barrel where he’d nearly pulled it down.

“Look at that! A real genuine monkey in my camp,” Grandpa said with a wide grin, filling the cup up and handing it to Isaac in one smooth movement. “Getting into trouble, Isaac?”

“No, sir,” Isaac mumbled into his cup, eagerly drinking it up now that he had it, suddenly desperately aware of how thirsty he’d been. In a few seconds it was gone, trickling down his face and shirt in his exuberance. Isaac handed back the cup with a gasp like he’d been underwater for a long time.

“Good boy.” Grandpa filled the cup up once more and gently guided Isaac back towards the ladies with a hand on the back of his head. “You keep ‘em company, son, your Pa’ll be back soon.”

Isaac nodded absentmindedly, focusing fully on not spilling his water as he slowly made his way back to where Miss Grimshaw and Annabelle were bickering, Tilly interjecting occasionally to side with either one and start up their argument again whenever it died down.

When Grandpa patted him on the head and moved away Isaac looked up only to see he was going to where Uncle Dutch was reading, pulling a letter from his back pocket and dropping it down onto the page Dutch was on to interrupt him.

“Josiah Trelawny as I live and breathe,” Dutch said with a chuckle as he scanned the letter.

“It seems he’s gonna be coming by soon, sounds like he’s got a lead in Salt Lake City.”

“That’s a state away, hope he ain’t expecting us to move just to rob a bunch of Mormons.”

“Oh, it ain’t that far, I’m sure we could figure something out, if the money’s good that is.” Hosea squeezed Dutch’s shoulder, peering over to look at the letter too. “And with Josiah you know it always is.”

Dutch brought a hand up to squeeze Hosea’s hand back before folding the letter up and slipping it into his vest pocket, “Let’s figure it out then.”

The two men adjourned to Dutch’s tent where he had a map of the area laid out on a table talking quietly to one another as they began to play.

Isaac stopped paying attention when he could no longer hear them and instead accepted the cup of water back from Annabelle. Once he’d gotten back he’d offered some to all the ladies, working as hard as they were they all eagerly drank leaving him with one last cold sip. He returned the cup to the stack of dishes like Miss Grimshaw kept harassing Daddy to do and grinned widely when she thanked him.

Without more to do Isaac sat down, leaning heavily against Auntie Tilly, while she scrubbed the shirt he’d given her, and fought the urge to fall asleep to the sound of the washboards and Tilly singing under her breath.

When Miss Grimshaw started talking low and quiet he roused to listen, being sent to sit with the ladies all the time meant he got to hear them gossiping and making fun of the men around camp to his amusement and he hated to miss out.

“That don’t bother you none?” Miss Grimshaw nodded over to where Dutch and Hosea stood close together reviewing the map, Dutch’s hand resting on Hosea’s hip in an artifice to take a closer look at the other side.

Annabelle followed Miss Grimshaw’s gaze and scoffed, readjusting the bandana that held her hair back as she sat back on her knees. “‘Course not, Achilles may have Patrocles but at the end of the day they each have a wife they return to. Different folks just have different needs.”

Miss Grimshaw scoffed herself, “Oh, so your Dutch’s wife now?”

That made Annabelle tip her head back into an unreserved cackle, Tilly rolled her eyes and shook her head down at Isaac as if to say look at all these crazy ladies I am stuck with.

“If I am anyones wife, my dear Susan, would I not be yours?” Annabelle crooned over the washtubs, giggling as Miss Grimshaw flicked the soapy water at her.

“You incorrigible flirt,” Miss Grimshaw said, hiding a blush as she turned back to the washboard. “You and Dutch deserve each other.”

“Maybe so,” Annabelle said, watching as Dutch and Hosea moved around one another, never straying too far, their orbits around one another tight and intimate, watching the way Hosea softly snorted at something Dutch said, the way Dutch smiled lopsidedly. “I wouldn’t be Achilles' wife, I think instead, I’d make a fine Helen of Troy.”

Now Tilly was snorting into her basin, breaking the far off way Annabelle stared at their two leaders, “What the hell is this book? You got fellas named Achilles and Patrocles and then some lady named Helen?”

Isaac giggled with Auntie, he didn’t know what book they were talking about but she was right, the names were awfully silly.

“I’ll have you know Miss Tilly, Mr. Isaac,” Annabelle started, standing with her hands on her hips, playfully glaring at them like they were being lectured. “Helen of Troy was the most beautiful woman in the world-” Suddenly she darted over and scooped up Isaac, spinning him around as he talked, summoning even more laughter from the child. “Gods made their wagers on her beauty, men lived and died for her, that whole story, the whole war, is all because of her!”

Annabelle came to a stop panting, she slung Isaac up onto her hip and looked back at Susan, her silly, giggly self falling away for a moment to a regal, powerful facade, her words emboldening herself. “And that is who I am, someone so beautiful the world crumbles to pieces at her feet.”

“And so very modest too,” Miss Grimshaw replied, breaking through that serious facade easily, sending Annabelle into another round of cackling.

“I couldn't agree more,” Dutch said, suddenly interjecting himself into the conversation, coming up behind Annabelle to wrap an arm around her waist, dipping down to kiss her smile.

Isaac cringed and made a face like he’d seen Uncle John do, loudly complaining when their kiss did not break for quite some time, “Ewwwww!”

Hosea, Tilly, and Miss Grimshaw loudly laughed at Isaac’s interjection and Annabelle and Dutch finally broke apart, Annabelle relentlessly tickling the boy, “I am so sorry, was I ignorin’ my Isaac? Were you jealous, sweetheart?”

Dutch snickered and ruffled Isaac’s hair where he was going red with laughter, trying to pry away Annabelle’s fingers from his belly, before walking back to the table with Hosea, resting his arm behind the older man, fitting into his space easily. “Don’t you worry, you’ll understand it all when you’re older, son.”

The jovial mood of the camp shattered as Arthur and the others came hurtling into camp, hardly giving Mac enough time to call out from where he stood on watch, their urgency evident by the pale, bloody woman Bill was holding onto.

“Need a hand here!”

“Oh, lord,” Miss Grimshaw quickly abandoned the laundry to run over and direct Bill over to the nearest cot in Hosea’s tent to lay her down, Hosea joined soon after bringing the medical supplies and a grim expression.

Isaac watched with wide, scared eyes as Bill walked right past him and Annabelle, the bloodsoaked scarf clearly visible to him until Annabelle turned away, pressing Isaac’s face against her shoulder as she did. “Don’t look, angel.”

“Arthur, you want to explain to me just what is going on?” Dutch asked, rushing up to him as he dismounted.

“Shit went south,” John piped up, glaring at Arthur as he stalked past them. “Bill fucked us at the job, then Arthur insisted we bring the girl back! Complete goddamn shitshow!”

“We weren’t gonna let her die, John!” Arthur growled back before rubbing a hand over his face. “Colm’s in town, they were robbing the bank, it seemed like every damn lawman in the state was after ‘em too. Nearly got caught up in their mess on our way out.”

“O’Driscolls, huh? Ain’t seen them in months,” Dutch mused, rubbing his jaw in thought. “And the girl?”

“In trouble of her own, up and passed out on us, and it didn’t seem like people in town were gonna be real helpful if we dropped her off with them. So, y’know, brought her back.” Arthur awkwardly shuffled, handing over the large bag of money to disguise it. “Figured we could fix her up then send her on her way.”

“Bleedin’ hearts, Arthur, bleedin’ hearts,” Dutch laughed, roughly patting Arthur’s shoulder before returning to his tent, money in hand, muttering to himself about the O’Driscolls.

Arthur watched Dutch retreat, watched the flaps of Hosea’s tent get tied tight after Bill stepped out, leaving Susan and Hosea to tend to her wound, and sighed heavily before coming over to where Annabelle swayed in place, still holding Isaac tight.

“Ain’t no job simple with you boys,” Annabelle tutted, handing over Isaac easily.

“Ain’t no job simple,” Arthur grumbled heading over to his own tent with Isaac happily in tow. “Let’s take a nap, son, Daddy’s tired.”

“Is the lady gonna be ok?”

“She’ll be just fine, Susan and Grandpa ain’t no doctors but they know how to keep the blood inside someone.”

Isaac asked more questions as he was falling asleep splayed out over Arthur’s chest, what the town was like, what they were doing, if Daddy was going to go out again soon, but eventually the both of them fell asleep, curled around each other, the other halves of their half-spoken sentences lost to their dreams.

* * *

“Isaac you need to eat,” Arthur repeated the often heard phrase, holding a spoonful of stew out to the boy who was pushing away from the table, furiously shaking his head.

“No!”

Arthur groaned and threw the spoon back on the plate, giving into his frustration for the moment and splattering the table with the rich brown broth. No matter how well behaved the boy was, feeding him was always a chore. It had become a sore point for Arthur especially as folks continued to tease him about it, calling him soft, but he’d seen how some of the others responded when Isaac got like this and he’d rather be soft. No raised hands or he’d’ve had their hides as soon as they thought it, but forceful nonetheless. Making him stay at the table until long into the night when he’d finally managed to eat, grabbing his face to spoon feed him, threatening him with no more food till he finished this dish. Arthur had had stern words for Miss Grimshaw after that incident though, certain that food would never be withheld from the boy, even as a hollow threat.

He sympathized with the boy, when he was younger he had these same fits, at least before food started being a prize to win, then he learned how to choke down whatever he was handed. But those distant more privileged days of fussy eating weren’t forgotten, certain textures or smells would have had him completely inconsolable, he figured it was much the same for Isaac.

“Alright, c’mere,” Arthur sighed, scooting back from the table to give Isaac room to sit up on his lap, which the boy did with a sullen trudge. Arthur pulled the plate close and rubbed a hand down Isaac’s back when the boy shook his head and whined again. “I seen you eat it before, come on, what’s the problem?”

Isaac idled, rolling his head on Arthur’s shoulder and continuing to whine and sigh, hoping the longer he fussed the sooner the plate would be taken away. When Arthur didn’t relent Isaac finally turned and faced the plate, grabbing the spoon to miserably poke at the cabbage and chunks of beef swimming in the gravy.

“Don’t like it.”

“Is that all?” Arthur huffed a laugh and took the spoon back. “Shit son, gonna stay small and scrawny if you don’t eat your meat, but we’ll figure it out.”

Arthur took the spoon and scooped up the limp, broth laden cabbage and ate it himself, trying not to splatter Isaac with it who watched him intently. He cut the pieces of meat into small chunks and ate most of them up before holding up a spoonful to Isaac.

“Just one bite, then I’ll get the crackers.”

Isaac pouted and weakly pushed the spoon away, though Arthur remained unrelenting. Finally the boy screwed up his face and took the spook to eat the offered chunks of meat, chewing sadly. Arthur paled when the boy gagged and spit it back up onto the table though, his little face growing red in upset.

“I don’t like it,” Isaac cried, close to a full tantrum in camp over the matter.

“Alright, Alright, don’t worry, Copper will eat that,” Arthur grimaced and flicked the half-chewed lump onto the ground where the dog was waiting eagerly. “Good try, Isaac, you still hungry?”

Isaac sighed as forlorn as a seven year old could and nodded sadly, pushing the plate around. Arthur wiped some of the frustrated tears off the boy's face and stood up, placing Isaac back in his seat and heading to his tent where he knew he had a box of crackers in his satchel.

Mac and Davey laughed as he walked past them, the two of them doing inventory of the camp ammo and guns just past the main table.

“Ain’t the boy gettin’ a bit too big to be throwing a fit like that?” Mac called out.

“Shoot, if it were my kid I would have just taken it away if he’s so eager to starve, show him how good it really is,” Davey sneered. As much as the Callander brother’s liked Isaac they were always the first to complain when the boy got loud and unmanageable, preferring when he was quiet and out of the way.

Arthur kicked a wave of dirt in their faces, making them sputter and cuss. “Well ain’t we all just blessed he ain’t your kid.”

He seethed over to his tent and grabbed the box of crackers, feeling rage at the brothers build up to a headache. Isaac was under his care, he wouldn’t have to deal with having his dinner taken away or be forced to choke it down while he was here, but so often he wasn’t and he worried about the boy in his absence.

With a sigh he returned to Isaac handing over the crackers, the boy took them, his bottom lip quivering and his face hot with unshed tears.

“‘M sorry, daddy,” Isaac whispered, turning the box of crackers round and round in his hands in his anxiety, not looking at Arthur or his plate, staring into the distance with his face growing a deeper red in embarrassment.

“Son, s’long as you’re eatin’ I don’t care,” Arthur said softly, pressing Isaac against his hip in a hug, the boy clutching his shirt and hiccuping softly. “We’ll figure it out, don’t listen to ‘em.”

It took a few minutes before Isaac was able to break away from the embrace and face his plate again, armed with crackers. Arthur grimaced at the new damp spot on his shirt but found he didn’t care so much as he watched Isaac focus on submerging his crackers in the broth and scooping up the swimming bits of carrots. Seeing the food disappear bit by bit made him breathe a sigh of relief, another small battle of parenthood that he had managed to scrape by.

“W-where am I?” A soft voice called from Hosea’s tent. The girl was awake, and growing more frantic by the second. “Where am I?!”

Arthur ran to intercept her, praying she wasn’t trying to get up with that gash in her side. Susan had said later that she must have pissed off some cruel sort of man, the wound was a knife stabbed down and twisted, she was lucky she wasn’t dead right now.

He ducked into the tent and she promptly screeched and covered herself up with the blanket, hiding Annabelle’s nightgown she’d been dressed in.

“You stay the hell away from me! Where am I?”

He could have smacked himself for his stupidity if he wasn’t holding his hands up like she was a scared animal. Of course she’d be cowering at the sight of him, here he was a big, terrifying man, and there she was injured, vulnerable and confused in a place she didn’t recognize.

Arthur averted his gaze, keeping his hands up, “I’m very sorry, ma’am, ain’t mean to frighten you. You collapsed on us in town, brought you back here to fix you up.”

When he mentioned town she paled even further, frantically searching around the tent, “Where’s my clothes? Where’re my things?”

Arthur gingerly picked up the small pile of items set aside for her, her hat and shoes, a knife and pouch, everything but the dress and slip that had been taken away by Susan to wash and mend it while the woman had been unconscious. When he got close enough with the pile the girl snatched them from his hands, the hat and shoes tumbling out of her grasp and back to the ground, but all she cared about was the knife and pouch. She frantically opened the bag, the knife pointed at him, and only calmed when she got a look at what was inside.

“It’s all here…” She rifled around, counting under her breath. “What the hell do you think you’re pullin’? Draggin’ girls to unknown places and ain’t even having the decency to rob them?”

“You wanted us to rob you?” Arthur blustered, only growing further confused.

“No!”

“What the hell do you want then?!”

“I want you to make sense, you dumb ox! Why am I here?”

“‘Cause you would’ve died!”

The girl went to yell back at him, then paused, wincing as she tugged at her stitches in an unfortunate way. She looked below the blanket, and traced the bandages on her side.

“Oh…well I’ll be.”

“Someone got you pretty good, friend of yours I’m guessin’.”

“Oh yeah, fellas love a lady who cheats them in cards.” The woman giggled deliriously, leaning back against the pillows with short, quick breaths. “But I got the big moron’s watch, so jokes on him.”

“Let me get you something to eat, you’re lookin’ pale,” Arthur said, turning to leave again.

“W-wait, what’s your name?”

“Arthur Morgan.”

“Karen Jones, it’s a-” Deep shuddering breath as she sat back up, swinging her legs over to Arthur’s distress. “It’s a pleasure to meet you Mr. Morgan, now let me out of here.”

“Miss Jones, you ain’t near well enough to be on your own-”

“No, ‘course not, I just wanna see where I am, now walk me outta here or watch me tear these stitches open.” Karen moved to stand and make good on her promise.

“Oh, Lord,” Arthur hurried over, putting an arm around Karen’s waist and pulling her arm over his shoulders to leverage her to stand, when she gasped at a sudden bright burst of pain Arthur grumbled. “Ain’t none of this necessary.”

“Just shut up and walk,” Karen said through gritted teeth.

“Arthur Morgan, what the hell are you doing?!” Annabelle shrieked from where she and Susan were mending clothes as he pushed through the tent into the center of camp, everyone looking up from their tasks to witness him drag an injured woman out of bed.

“You ask Miss Jones here, she insisted,” Arthur gritted out as he deposited Karen in the seat across from Isaac, pointing an accusatory finger in her face. “You stay here, I’m gettin’ you food, don’t move.”

“Yes sir.” Karen saluted sarcastically.

Arthur rolled his eyes and headed for what remained of the stew pot, leaving Karen to the wolves as the ladies descended on her to inquire about her injury, get her name, find out anything about the young woman they’d taken in.

When Arthur returned with a plate of stew in hand he found Dutch had joined them, speaking to Karen with a warm hand on her shoulder. “Now, Miss Jones, do you have folk we can return you to? Hopefully understandin’ folk who won’t string us up for keepin’ you away?”

Karen barked a mean laugh, her long red nails digging into the table as she braced herself against her sudden pain and fury. “Mister, ain’t no one care about me, I can promise you that.”

“The world can be mighty cruel, girl.” Miss Grimshaw’s face crumpled into soft sympathy.

Annabelle beside her grasped Karen’s hands, smoothing out the clawing bitterness in them. “But it doesn’t have to be that way forever.”

“What kinda game y’all playin’? Why didja save me?” Karen narrowed her eyes and flicked her gaze between them all, suspicion clear in her blue eyes.

“No game, Miss Jones, our dear Arthur here is a regular knight in shining armor, can’t resist rescuin’ the damsel.” Annabelle snickered, gesturing over to where Arthur had joined Isaac, the little boy excitedly showed off his empty plate, his hands flapping eagerly.

“Good boy, Isaac, told ya you could do it.” Arthur kissed Isaac’s head loudly making the boy giggle. “Can you say hi?”

“Hi, Miss,” Isaac said shyly, still flapping his hands like he was preparing to take off. “Are you all better?”

“Y’all got kids here?” Karen choked out, her suspicion washed out in a flash flood of pure shock.

“We’re livin’ our own lives, Miss Jones, outside of what society thinks is correct,” Dutch said in his lecturing tone, adjusting his vest as he stood. “You can stay s’long as you need and soon as you like we can drop you off somewhere safe. We may be bad men but I promise no harm will come to you here.”

“Don’t seem so bad to me,” Karen said, pulling the plate nearer, observing the quiet atmosphere of the campgrounds, the ladies calm and comfortable as can be, the happy dog, the little boy climbing into Arthur’s lap, the men who glanced at her and tipped their hats in greeting, no ill intent tainting their gaze.

“Don’t be fooled, miss, we’re outlaws through and through,” Dutch said with a wink. “Though we may seem a pack of damn fools.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” Karen scoffed into her plate and allowed a small smile to curve across her face.

Dutch gently patted her shoulder and turned to leave again, before stopping and turning on his heel with a finger raised, his mouth quirked in a sly smile. “Arthur, almost forgot, I ran into Colm and Seamus, suppose you were right about them bein’ nearby-”

“Don’t imagine I had much benefit to lie about that,” Arthur said, rolling his eyes.

“Hush, son. They’re laying low now after that whole business with the bank, but they said they want in on our next job.”

“Great,” Arthur drawled. “I ain’t had enough cause to run for my life lately, been missin’ it.”

“This sort of charisma is why ain’t nobody listenin’ to you, son,” Dutch sighed, turning to Karen in an exaggerated gambit for sympathy. “You’ll soon see, Miss Jones, Arthur here’s as mean and tough as a bear, but he’s about as clever and verbose as one too, so don’t be expectin’ any stimulating conversation from him.”

“Guess we can’t all talk and swagger our way out of trouble,” Arthur said with a smirk. “Some of us have to actually have some muscle ‘round here.”

“You rude, ungrateful child.” Dutch gasped in pretend offense. “Isaac you need to teach your Pa some manners, looks like it skipped a generation.”

“Too right, Dutch,” Arthur replied. “Guess whoever taught me them in the first place weren’t a very good teacher.”

Dutch’s offense was real this time and he looked torn between yelling at Arthur and stomping away before Annabelle cleared the air with a high tittering laugh.

“Oh, he got you good there, baby.”

“Darling,” Dutch gave a miserable attempt at a pout. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

“I’m on the side of the winner, you know this,” Annabelle laughed again, pulling Dutch down to plant a red painted kiss on his cheek.

Annabelle and Dutch got distracted in their play fight while Arthur gathered Isaac up and took him away to have some reading time with Grandpa. Karen watched the intimate scenes, the casual snapshots of this cruel, vicious gang playing out before her and felt warm inside, unrelated to the first hot meal she’d had in ages, and wondered if she could finally stop running.

* * *

Karen got better bit by bit over the next week or so. Susan and Hosea tended to her and to everyone's surprise Bill took it upon himself to walk her around camp whenever she asked for it. The two of them bickered and yelled at eachother like they were raring to get into a fight, but he was still the first to volunteer and if he got into one of his moods Karen was usually able to snap him out of it. Not to mention they could go drink for drink once they got into their cups, an incredible feat considering Bill’s apparent second stomach for alcohol but Karen Jones appeared to be of the same breed.

They were a good team, but Arthur was surprised when it seemed like they weren’t fucking, he hadn’t expected Bill to be a man appreciative of a woman’s company if her legs weren’t over her head but he had found himself to be wrong.

Along with Bill Karen was becoming fast friends with Tilly and Annabelle, which only made Arthur preemptively weary at the thought of them three hellcats in cahoots. Though he could admit it was nice having a young woman near Tilly’s age around, it let her act foolish and wild as much as she took care of Karen and showed her how things were done around camp.

It seemed more and more likely that Karen Jones was here to stay. Eager to get to work, citing it was a helluva lot more honest then what she’d been doing, although Arthur could already tell she and Miss Grimshaw were going to be at each other’s throats with the way Karen fought and hissed at the woman when she needed her bandages changed. She had shown no indication of wanting to leave, only mentioning offhand that she’d need to head back to town at some point to rescue whatever remained of her things in the room she’d been staying in.

Arthur had been subjected to a loud noisy kiss on the cheek once he’d come back from town having successfully stolen away with her suitcase left behind in the dirty inn room.

“Aren’t you sweet!”

Arthur did find it interesting that Karen was apprehensive around Isaac, almost scared sometimes if he had to guess. Very unlike the other women who spoiled the little boy she stayed on the edges, skirting any caretaking that might be foisted on her. Arthur didn’t mind so much, there were half a dozen other people able and willing to care for Isaac when he wasn’t around, he was only curious that such a fiery young woman as Karen Jones seemed to quail at the sight of a seven year old.

If the antics of the camp were the most of their problems Arthur imagined he’d have a much smaller headache, but on top of all that and still recuperating from the completely fucked job in town Mac and Davey had gone and got themselves on a different towns shit list.

Arthur, Hosea, and the Callander boys had headed out to scrounge up some jobs and get some supplies in some shit hole called Deer Creek and Arthur was still shocked the town was standing after they’d left. The Callander’s had gotten royally drunk and Arthur was collecting bounties from the Sheriff, grateful not to see his face on the board just yet, normal enough until Hosea had walked out to find his saddle gone.

Mac had just about set the damn saloon on fire, yelling ‘how dare you’ and ‘if I find the dumb sonofabitch responsible I’m taken ‘em to the gallows’. Taking a swing at anyone that came in his reach, and no matter how many hits he took he didn’t go down, not without taking a dozen men with him. Davey was no help, catatonic in his drink and unresponsive until they came back to get him the next day, after which he just kept drinking.

Hosea had been furious at the display, if only because they’d interrupted the work he’d been doing and hadn’t even had the decency to find his saddle. So, as frazzled as Hosea was with the plans he and Dutch were cooking up in preparation for Trelawny's arrival, the Callander boys had been effectively grounded to camp.

The only real benefit was that Arthur and John were too busy to stay around camp and be bothered by the brothers. Not only did they have a new parcel of bounties but Dutch was having them do some favors for the O’Driscolls as they needed to keep out of sight. It was just supply runs and pawning valuables to a local fence, even breaking in a few new horses for them once, but Arthur felt like he was missing a step going down a flight of stairs every time they left the O’Driscoll camp.

Something about the way Colm watched him irritated Arthur, made him ornery and liable to snap at John on their ride back. Not to mention Seamus trying to drunkenly brawl them in his version of fun half the time they came by. Arthur wanted to just toss Mac and Davey at them, watch the idiots kill one another and take it easy. But he probably wouldn’t do that, probably, he liked Mac and Davey just slightly more than the O’Driscoll brothers, although the margins were growing thinner and thinner everyday.

* * *

Isaac didn’t really think that grown ups could still get in trouble before whatever Uncles Mac and Davey had done, but after seeing how Grandpa yelled at them he knew now that grown ups could very much get in trouble. They were stuck in camp and weren’t allowed to go on jobs with Daddy and Uncle John, but for how much they complained they seemed to be enjoying their time not working. They would rush and get all the chores they’d been assigned done first thing in the morning then they’d spend their days lounging around, usually interrupted by Miss Grimshaw hauling them up to make them redo whatever they’d rushed in the morning, or they’d call Isaac over to teach him something, which was always fun.

He’d learned how to sharpen a knife, how to polish a gun, how to use a bottle opener, little tasks that one of both of them would ask him to do later for them. Though they’d had to stop when Grandpa caught them handing their knives over to him, Isaac hadn’t ever seen Grandpa so red-in-the-face mad before, he’d taken Davey’s knife from him to brandish at the men, scaring them to shaking. So now they just invited Isaac over to play cards with them once they’d gotten bored, always wary of where Grandpa was in camp whenever they talked to him.

It always amazed Isaac how some folks around camp could shuffle cards. Mama had said that because she had small hands she could only shuffle at the corners but Aunt Annabelle had little hands too and she could shuffle the cards in the air like a waterfall! And Uncle Mac could lay them all flat and flip them over like a wave! Isaac wanted to learn too but he couldn’t hold all the cards at once and usually ended up dropping then, then Uncle Davey made him play 52 pick up, he didn’t think that was a very fun game.

“Goddammit, kid, what the hell?!” Davey slapped his cards on the table and groaned as Isaac stood on his chair to move his peg to the final hole, skunking both of them for the second game in a row. “You’re cheatin’ you’ve gotta be cheatin’.”

“No,” Isaac giggled. “I don’t cheat!”

“I bet Hosea’s somewhere, tellin’ him what cards to play and shit,’ Mac said, craning his head around to try and find the older man.

“Grandpa went to town,” Isaac teased, straining to reach Uncle Mac’s cards to try and pull the deck together again. “I’m just good at cribbage!”

“The damn boy is mocking us,” Mac groused, picking his cards and the messy pile in front of Isaac, quickly shuffling them over and over again as he glared at the scratched up cribbage board they played with, making the good shuffling sound each time.

“I ain’t playin’ this again, I can’t take it,” Davey lamented, standing up with a huff and heading to his and Mac’s tent, coming back soon with a dented metal box that rattled loudly when Davey slammed it on the table. “Let’s teach you somethin’ new instead, kid, you ever heard of poker?”

Isaac in fact had not heard of poker and he found it very tricky. He couldn’t remember all the types of hands and he kept trying to get points based on how he knew cribbage worked and his little stack of chips was getting smaller and smaller. He was trying to stay calm, because Auntie Tilly always told him that no one likes a sore loser like Uncle Dutch and Bill, but he couldn’t stop from pulling at his hair and whining in frustration when he was dealt bad cards and knew he was going to lose.

“Oh shit,” Mac said, looking up from his hand to see Isaac close to tears. “Hey, now, ain't no need for that, we can stop playin’. Davey’s gonna lose it all on this hand anyway, let's spare him.”

“You fucking wish,” Davey responded, awkwardly putting his cards down as Isaac’s face grew red in embarrassment. “Eh, it’s alright kid, it’s your first time, ain’t gonna be a master right away.”

“But I’m bad at it!” Isaac said, trying not to cry as he threw his cards down, giving into the temptation to pull at his hair in his frustration.

Before him Mac and Davey were panicking at the sight of the upset child, if anyone else in camp saw that they’d made Isaac this upset they would be drawn and quartered without even the courtesy of a last smoke.

“Hey, hey, why don’t we play somethin’ else, we can play Cowboys and Indians, that sound fun? Mac said as he darted over to Arthur’s tent and grabbed the hat left on his cot to slap it down on Isaac’s head, startling the boy so much he released his hair and paused in his misery to push the hat up where it’d slipped over his eyes.

“Cowboys…can I be Daddy?” Isaac lit up still having to hold the hat out of his eyes but his fingers curling excitedly over the brim.

“A’course you can,” Davey said with a grin spreading across his face at the sight of Isaac. “That means no more tears, alright? Cowboys like your pa don’t cry none, you hear?”

Isaac nodded emphatically, wiping his face clean of the few frustrated tears that had slipped past before wobbly standing on his chair.

“Draw!” Isaac pretended to pull out fake guns and shoot both Mac and Davey, who dove for the ground and howled like they’d actually been shot, making Isaac shriek and giggle at their antics.

“Hold on, hold on!” Mac said, waving his hands like he was calling for peace. “This ain’t right.”

“I think you’re right, brother, just a hat ain’t a cowboy make.” Davey sat up, that mischievous smile still firm on his face.

A few minutes later Isaac was ready to topple over with the gear the two men had plied him with, only the buoyancy of his smile keeping him upright. They’d dropped him into a pair of boots that came up over his knee and threatened to send him falling if he tried to take a step as well as slipped a belt, with lasso hanging from the side, and two bandoliers over him. The finishing touch was the empty varmint rifle they gave him.

“Look at that, a bonafide cowboy!” Davey was practically giddy with laughter at the sight of the child, and Mac was no better.

“We better shape up, or else he’s gonna replace us,” Mac wheezed, leaning on Davey as he chuckled.

“You boys love punishment don’t ya?” John rasped, surprising all of them as he crested the hill back into camp.

“We’re just havin’ a little fun, Marston, can you blame us?”

“I swear the boy has more sense then you two do.” In one smooth movement John dismounted from Whiskey and met them at the table in a few long strides, glaring at Mac and Davey over Isaac’s head. “Better hope Arthur don’t see him like this.”

John paused and took in Isaac’s little costume, giving the boy a half-smile and picking him up and out of the boots. “Y’ain’t even have the decency to give him a mask, he’s gonna get caught if we send him out like this.”

“Is Daddy back too?” Isaac asked, still fruitlessly endeavoring to keep the over-large hat out of his face.

“He’s comin’ up with Mr. Trelawny, you remember him?” John said, starting to strip Isaac of all the gear piled on him, setting the hat aside on the table and roughly throwing each other piece at Mac and Davey. When John pulled the gun away he sent them such a murderous look that they quickly made themselves scarce.

“The magic man!” Isaac gasped excitedly, flapping his hands where he stood on the table.

“That’s right,” John chuckled, throwing the boy over his shoulder to the kid’s giggly amusement, before yelling towards Dutch’s tent. “Dutch, Hosea, we got company!”

In the short time it took the two older men to step out and see what John was yelling about Arthur and Trelawny had entered camp, Arthur looking grumpy and frazzled from whatever conversation Josiah had had him embroiled in and Trelawny looking like the peacock he was even after the dusty road they’d ridden up on.

“Daddy!” Isaac yelled, excitedly trying to wriggle his way out of John’s hold and succeeded in kneeing the man in the chest.

“Ow! Jesus kid!” John swiftly deposited Isaac on the ground and rubbed at the new budding bruise on his sternum.

“Good job, son,” Arthur said with a laugh.

“Ah, the young Prince Isaac!” Trelawny said in his lofty, ringmaster tone, a joyful twinkle in his eye as he addressed the young boy. He slid off his horse and got down on one knee to be at eye level with the child. “For being a royal, my boy, you are awfully dirty, look at what I found behind your ear!”

With a flourish Trelawny pulled out a silk bouquet of flowers from behind Isaac much to the boy's delight who eagerly clapped his hands.

“Do it again!”

“Ah, dear boy, I’d love to, and later I shall! But I have some business to address with your grandfathers.” Trelawny handed over the bouquet and patted his fine clothes free of dust before adjourning to Dutch’s tent.

“That’s right, folks,” Dutch called out, greeting the camp at large, arms spread wide like he was addressing hundreds of people and not a dozen. “All this waitin’ will finally be comin’ to an end, that big job, that ticket out of Wyoming is almost at our fingers! Y’all just need to be a bit patient with these old men and soon we’ll be riding out.”

Folks cheered at Dutch’s big talk, Mac and Davey the loudest in their eagerness to get out of camp. Hosea rolled his eyes and ducked behind the tarp, followed closely by Trelawny, but Dutch paused and pointed at Arthur.

“You rest up my friend, get some food in you, ‘cause soon as we got a when and a where you’re riding out to the O’Driscolls to let them know.”

“And you’re sure about this, Dutch? Sure you want them comin’ along?” Arthur said with ill-disguised irritation, his interactions with them over the past week not helping his opinion of the men. “Not sure those boys share your idea of finesse.”

“Arthur, please-” Dutch came over and patted Arthur roughly on the shoulder. “You worry too much! These O’Driscolls ain’t gonna be nothin’ but a funny memory down the road, don’t give ‘em more of your thoughts then they deserve, son.”

“Alright, Dutch,” Arthur said with a sigh. “I trust you.”

Chapter Text

Arthur felt he could only breathe easy once they’d finally crossed the state border from Utah back into Wyoming, having successfully evaded the lawmen who had been chasing them for hours. Though breathing easy implied ease and Arthur was far from that. It’d been a long three days getting to Salt Lake City, pulling off the job, and above all dealing with the O’Driscolls.

“It’s nice to know that you and your boys ain’t all talk, Dutch,” Colm sneered as they rode down the trail, the first thing any of them had said since Dutch had signaled them to leave after the law had first shown up.

The job at the train depot had gone well, just like Trelawny had said there had been a motherload waiting for them. Both military payroll to split and weapons to appropriate as well as a rich developer's seed money sent ahead to secure land and workers, now easily theirs.

“And it is a pleasure to discover that you are not all incompetent buffoons, Colm,” Dutch snarked back, and just like every time the two men insulted one another the whole group stilled, waiting for the moment when one of them would take it too far.

But just like always Colm chuckled and Dutch smirked, the O’Driscoll coming alongside Dutch to slap him on the back and everyone else let out a tentative sigh of relief.

“You are funny, Van Der Linde, I will give you that, ain’t he funny, Seamus?” Colm called back to his brother, who merely cheersed Colm with his flask and took a generous drink. “Since this went so well, how about we have a little celebration, maybe start planning our next score?”

“A fine idea-”

“We can go on back to your ol’ campgrounds, sure you got a drink or two hidin’ away,” Colm’s grin was tricky and unreadable, and Seamus behind him paused, watching their reactions.

Arthur watched Hosea’s brow furrow, the older man confused, watching him watch Dutch as he carefully picked his answer. Colm and Seamus had made offhand comments before about coming back to their camp, jovial enough to pass as a joke if they were denied, but this time it was a direct question.

“I suppose, though it may not be as entertaining as you are imagining,” Dutch replied casually, Arthur and Hosea balked and even Bill, Davey, and Mac riding behind, passing the flask back and forth with Seamus, looked up in surprise. But when Dutch looked over and locked eyes with Arthur his confusion abated, Dutch always had a plan. “Mr. Morgan, why don’t you ride on ahead and let folks know we’ll be havin’ a party tonight.”

Arthur nodded and kicked Boadicea into a gallop, quickly losing the following crowd of outlaws and riding as fast as he could back to camp.

The ride back was too long and too short, about an hour he would guess, but the rest of the group wouldn’t be too far behind him. He blew past John on guard, hardly responding to this startled yell before grinding to a halt in the center of camp.

His hasty entrance got everyone’s attention, Copper barking up a storm, Miss Grimshaw startling over the stewpot and dropping the spoon in, and Annabelle emerging from her and Dutch’s tent with Isaac behind her, book in hand.

When Isaac caught sight of Arthur the bored look on the boy’s face blossomed into surprised joy and he took off toward him yelling, “Daddy!”

Arthur could not resist his affectionate smile at seeing Isaac despite the undue circumstances; these last three days had been the longest they’d been apart since Arthur had brought him home to the gang. He quickly slipped off Boadicea and scooped Isaac up as the little boy ran at him, continuing his stride into camp.

“There’s my boy! You been good?”

“Yessir!” Isaac chirped, looking back at Annabelle who pretended to contemplate it to Isaac’s distress before relenting.

“He was an angel like always Arthur, I’m gonna steal him one day you watch.”

“Good boy. Alright, folks!” Arthur chuckled and turned to the rest of the camp. He kept the boy on his hip and he couldn’t help but think that Isaac was growing like a weed. Felt like soon Arthur wouldn’t be able to carry him around like this, all the more reason to do it when he could. “Dutch and them are gonna be here soon, we got a good score so we’re havin’ a party.”

“Jeez, Arthur,” Karen replied, setting aside the poor knitting she was doing, eager to toss the unsatisfactory task. “I knew you were a sourpuss but I didn’t even think you could make a party sound bad.”

“The O’Driscolls are comin’ too, we can’t trust ‘em as far as we can throw ‘em but we gotta keep the peace,” Arthur said, scanning the camp for understanding when Miss Grimshaw straightened up and started barking orders to folk he knew his job was done.

“We’re havin’ a party?” Isaac questioned, playing with the bullets on his bandolier. Arthur grimaced at the question and ran a hand through Isaac’s hair, pulling the boy closer to kiss his forehead, noting it was shorter than when he’d left, he’d have to thank Miss Grimshaw later.

“We’re havin’ a party, darlin’,” Arthur continued, heading towards where he’d seen a yellow skirt disappear behind one of the wagons. “You and your Aunt Tilly are gonna head into town, see Mr. Trelawny- Tilly!”

Before the girl could continue following Miss Grimshaw and Karen to the back of the wagon to grab the crates of beer and whiskey he called out, catching Miss Grimshaw’s attention as well to let her know he was commandeering her.

“Yes, Arthur- is that my Isaac!” Immediately Tilly was distracted by the little boy, wasting no time in grabbing him from Arthur to blow raspberries against his round cheeks, the boy giggling madly where he dangled in her grip.

Arthur wanted to enjoy the little scene, the sound of their laughter and ease, but he could feel the mounting pressure of the posse approaching their camp, O’Driscolls in tow.

“Yes, yes, Tilly, come on,” Arthur grabbed her elbow and gently guided her, and Isaac, set down on his own feet, holding her hand, back to his tent where he grabbed some of Isaac’s things scattered around and stuffed them all into his satchel, a book, the boy’s nightshirt, the box of dominos, before slipping it over Tilly’s head.

“Arthur, what’re doin’?” Tilly asked, obviously confused as she fingered the fraying strap of the bag.

“You’re gonna take Isaac and you’re gonna go into town, find Trelawny’s caravan, and stay there tonight,” Arthur answered, now guiding Tilly over to the horses Isaac in tow. “There’s money and food in my satchel if he can’t put you up but shouldn’t be no problem-“

“Arthur, why?” Tilly asked, cutting to the chase as she watched Arthur saddle one of their spare Walkers.

“Like I said, these O’Driscolls ain’t trustworthy and I don’t want them around the boy and I especially don’t want them around you.” Arthur turned and offered a hand to Tilly to boost her up into the saddle. Tilly was young and beautiful and sweet and those boys would just foam at the mouth at a chance to ruin her.

“Well what about Karen then?” Tilly looked back trying to catch sight of the other girl, ready to call her over to join as soon as she did.

“Miss Jones can make her own choice whether or not she wants to participate, but I ain’t givin’ you an option, Tilly, I am telling you to go.”

Tilly turned back to him with her deep-cutting gaze, scouring through his gruffness to the layers below of murky fear and sour paranoia, before taking the offered hand to step up into the saddle, adjusting her skirts where they lay. “Alright, Arthur, I hear you.”

Arthur settled a bit, knowing he wouldn’t have to keep fighting the girl and went to grab Isaac, eager to get the two of them in town before the O’Driscolls could spot them. But of course nothing could be so easy as Isaac dodged his reach and Arthur suppressed a sigh.

“I don’t wanna go, Daddy! You keep leaving and you just got back!” Isaac whined, the boy looked close to tears, backing away from the horse and twisting his fingers round and round in anxiety.

Arthur caught up to Isaac in three quick strides and picked the boy up once more, keeping a firm grip despite Isaac’s attempt to break away. “It ain’t gonna be for long, darlin’, you two can come on back tomorrow.”

“No! Don’t wanna!” Isaac’s face grew red and splotchy as he started crying, still trying to push himself out of Arthur’s arms.

“I know,” Arthur muttered, dropping a kiss on Isaac’s face despite the boy's best attempts at wiggling away. “I know, I’m sorry, but you be good now for Auntie, your Pa loves you.”

Arthur didn't drag on the goodbyes for much longer, unable to look at Isaac’s teary little face for very long before crumbling and giving the boy whatever he wanted to make him smile again. He handed the boy over to Tilly who situated him in front of her on the saddle, and luckily Isaac quieted, smart boy knew not to fight and thrash on horseback unless he wanted to become well acquainted with the ground.

“We’ll be fine, Papa Bear,” Tilly teased, stroking her thumb across the deep furrows of Arthur’s brow where worry lived. “Be back before you know it.”

Isaac gave a sad little wave and Arthur smacked the Walker’s flank, sending the horse trotting away towards town. The sight of them leaving both relieved and amplified Arthur’s anxiety, but he could not dwell on it, they had company coming, so he turned away and got to work.

With all of them working they got the camp presentable in no time, Arthur even packed away all of Isaac’s things to further hide the evidence of the boy before the folks arrived. He was going around doing his last checks, making sure they had no vulnerabilities exposed to Colm’s sharp tongue when he passed by Dutch and Annabelle’s tent and heard Karen talking inside.

“I don’t understand why you’re gettin’ all dressed up, them boys is just gonna be grabbin’ you all night lookin’ like that.”

“What you really need to understand, Miss Jones is pretty ain’t just a thing we are, it’s a weapon,” Annabelle responded, her tone lofty and rich, in the way she got when she started talking about big things, things beyond Arthur. “Those boys will be so distracted by us when I’m done with you, that they’ll be more stupid than before.”

Arthur could see through the crack in the tent flaps Annabelle gently cradling Karen’s face as she applied her lipstick on Karen’s lips, the younger girl stunned to silence as the red was painted on.

“That’s how men get their pockets picked and their money stolen, how they get tricked by men like Dutch and Hosea, that’s how they find themselves dead in a ditch. Cause they got too stupid,” Annabelle brought Karen’s face even closer, delicately holding her chin, the red on the girl's mouth bright and warm in the low lamplight of the tent. “Just you remember, they get too forward, they try and push themselves on you cause they think you’re asking for it? Well, then you get to kill them simple as that, that’s your right as a woman and an outlaw. Or if you don’t want to do the dirty work? You got all these fellas around camp will do it for you. You’re not alone anymore, sweet girl, and you’re not defenseless. You are a lioness, and they’re nothing but stupid pigs.”

Karen nodded, breathless and awed and Arthur finally snapped out of the draw that Annabelle had and walked away. He often forgot, beneath all of Annabelle’s silliness with Isaac and the way she teased and bitched at Arthur that the woman was fearsome. That she came to them not swimming in silk and lace and fine things, but soaked in blood with men's skin under her sharp nails.

He shuddered to think of Karen taking after Annabelle.

Soon enough their waiting was ended by the clattering of hooves and men and the posse was upon them. Dutch hopped off his horse, his arms spread wide, a bulging saddlebag thrown over his shoulder.

“We return with quite a bounty! Today is a good day!”

Dutch’s declaration aroused cheers from the camp and the posse and Annabelle came up to properly greet him, her lipstick leaving a wine-red stain on his cheek. Colm and Seamus seemed unable to rest as they took in the scene before them, their humble home, yet luxurious compared to what Arthur had seen of their camp, the number of men, and the women. Arthur was feeling better and better for having sent Tilly and Isaac away.

The party kicked into gear and beer and whiskey were flowing generously, Miss Grimshaw had a game of poker running and had drawn in most of the men, including Seamus who seemed shocked every time Susan pulled one over on him. It seemed like a normal party, laughter and singing and good times had by all. But all it did was cover up the tension of having the two wolves among them, feeling more vulnerable with the spots they laid down to sleep at night in eyesight.

Arthur sat on the edges, observing the goings on, watching how Annabelle continued to reach for things just over Colm’s shoulder, pushing her breasts into his face as she grabbed it, then would go to lounge in Dutch’s lap who grinned like the cat who caught the canary.

Mac, Davey, Bill, and John were all well on their way to drunk, John half-passed out on the table trying to keep up with the other three, and Seamus coming right along with them. Colm sat with Dutch and Hosea, and Annabelle who flitted between them all, the three of them presumably talking business with how hard they each gripped their beers, as if imagining how easily it could become a weapon.

Arthur was staying as sharp as he could, taking a long time to drink his one drink, he wasn’t going to let them be caught unawares. He was so vigilantly watching Colm and Dutch talk that he nearly jumped out of his skin when Karen slid into his lap, her hair and makeup askew and Davey stumbling out of the woods adjusting his pants behind her.

“Havin’ fun, sourpuss?” Karen slurred, the drink heavy on her breath.

“Not as much as you I imagine,” Arthur chuckled, adjusting his grip on the girl before she tumbled onto the grass.

“Oh I’m just fine,” She giggled, before leaning in to whisper loudly. “Don’t tell but Mac is bigger.”

“I promise, I did not need to hear that,” Arthur groaned, doing his best to keep from being sick all over the table with his newfound knowledge.

“You know I don’t think either of those boys say more to me then when we’re rollin’ around together,” Karen mumbled. “I wouldn’t be surprised if they didn’t half remember my name.”

“That bother you?”

“I’m used to it.” She shrugged halfheartedly, her voice sounding delicate and strained. “Let’s just say I ain’t the type of girl fellas take care of, I’m the girl they cheat on their wives with and leave in a ditch.”

Arthur shifted uncomfortably, this would normally be a matter for Susan or Annabelle, the more uncomfortable feminine matters. And even though he wasn’t going to send her away for it he certainly wasn’t equipped to comfort her.

“I don’t think that’s true, I think you’ve just been dealt a bad hand,” He slowly replied, worried anything he said would upset her further, so he was surprised when she curled into him, holding him tightly as she tucked her head against his shoulder. “You alright, Miss Jones?”

“I-I’m sorry, Arthur, I’m just drunk but-” Karen hesitated. “Can you hold me for a bit? I’ll be out of your hair soon, just-”

Arthur didn’t say anything as he clasped her tightly to him, rubbing a hand up and down her back to soothe her, not speaking up at all about her shuddering breaths or the mascara-tinted tears dripping on his shoulder.

They sat together for a while at the edge of the party and noise, but it wasn’t long before their silence was interrupted and Arthur was annoyed all over again.

“Ain’t this sweet? A real gentleman, eh, Morgan?” Colm said with a grin as he slid into the seat beside Arthur. “Wouldn’t think a man like you would take someone’s sloppy seconds but I guess it takes all kinds, huh?”

“Bet you’re mad ‘cause you can’t even get the seconds let alone first,” Annabelle said, with a mean laugh, from behind Colm, sauntering over from the main party, appearing calm and friendly though Arthur could see the way her jaw tensed in irritation. “Now let me get my silly girl out of your hair, Colm.”

Annabelle gently pulled Karen away, soothing her and wiping away the streaked make-up as she guided her towards her tent, giving Arthur an appreciative look over her shoulder and a cold glare to the back of Colm’s head.

“She’s quite a spitfire, ain’t she?” Colm asked, knocking back the rest of his drink. “Surprised Dutch can handle a woman like that, but I guess she’s as much a fool as you all for his signature charisma.”

“Can I help you, Colm? Or didja just come over to make an ass of yourself?” Arthur growled, moving to leave when Colm grabbed his arm and tugged him back down.

“Hold on there cowboy, I was actually comin’ over to see if there was something I could do to help you.”

“Best help you could give me is leavin’, Colm, I ain’t in the mood.” Arthur tried once more to leave and was once more pulled back down.

“I like you, cowpoke, you’re a big, surly bastard that’s too tough for anyone’s good.” Colm’s grin grew ever wider, pinning him down with an arm around Arthur’s shoulders. “You ever wonder about makin’ some real money? Gettin’ away from all these responsibilities?”

“Think you’re barking up the wrong tree,” Arthur said, pushing off the offending arm, more and more disgusted with Colm’s continued presence as he kept talking.

“I seen you out there, ” Colm oozed. “Working your ass off, doin’ whatever Dutch and Hosea ask you to without getting anything better then those drunken idiots.” Colm jutted his chin out at where the other fellas were drunkenly laughing at nothing, stumbling over the camp seats they were trying to sit in. “Seems to me like they ain’t appreciating what a valuable asset they got in you, eh, Morgan?”

“If you got something to say, Colm, just say it.”

“I mean I won’t lie,” Colm said, ignoring Arthur’s rising frustration. “It is impressive seein’ such time-honored con men at work, convincing all of you there’s some purpose at the end of this, that y’all’re better than us. Don’t you wanna just cut the crap, Arthur? Get out before they throw you away?

“I owe them my life, I believe in Dutch.” Arthur did not try to hide the threat of violence in his voice. He simply could not believe Colm would try this under Dutch’s hospitality, practically under the man’s nose.

“Ah’course, can’t match that charisma now can I?” Colm said with a hint of steel, a suggestion of irritation. “All I’m sayin’ is we’ve always got a place for someone like you on our payroll, Arthur Morgan.”

“It don’t matter how good your money is, I wouldn’t be caught dead working for you filthy bastards,” Arthur growled before finally stalking away.

“Don’t say I didn’t try to save you, Arthur!” Colm called out with a chuckle, his slithering voice following Arthur, chasing him, plaguing him as he escaped the noise and firelight off into the plains surrounding them. Those words rang in his head, fueled the fire of anger burning in his chest and fed the deep dread that he had so long tried to stifle.

The wolf had tried to snap its jaws around Arthur, and though he’d broken away, he knew the beast was not sated.

* * *

What a fine mess we find ourselves in. The O’Driscolls have finally shown their true colors.

Not long after Salt Lake City Dutch had us packing up and leaving quick as could be. We had all expected to be moving after the job but what we weren’t expecting was Dutch keeping most us men behind, watching our old camp, waiting for something.

It weren’t one day later until the O’Driscolls and their band of merry idiots were riding in, blasting their guns, yelling and hollering, and throwing fire bottles around.

They were going to kill us, all of us, I suspect that’s what Colm had meant when he said he’d tried to save me. He had as good as told me and I had no idea, I should’ve killed him that night, shouldn’t’ve let them walk away.

We confronted them, Colm and Seamus talked some nonsense about wanting their gang to be the one folks fear, wanting territory, guns, men, money, all the tenants of an outlaw life, claiming we we’re standing in their way.

Hosea laughed in their faces and Seamus drew his gun, fitting to leave a bullet between Hosea’s eyes, but Dutch beat him to it. After that it was a real showdown, fire building up, their young fools dying left and right. Some of us got hurt, Davey got a bullet through the leg and Mac the gut, miracle of miracles we do not lose him over this, and John broke his wrist falling down trying to get away from a mad racing horse.

Based on the crazed look I saw in Colm’s eye after watching his brother die, I do not imagine that will be the last hurt he will inflict on us.

Arthur sighed and tucked his journal away, blowing out the lantern flame beside his cot that he’d been writing by, though even in the darkness he knew that sleep would be far from him. Knowing that the O’Driscolls had been prepared to ride into their camp and slaughter them all had only left him paranoid and jumpy, he stayed long on watch shifts, kept his guns at his side at all times, and slept fitfully, waiting for the moment when he’d need to defend everyone.

The only thing that actually brought him back to his tent at all at night to pretend to sleep was Isaac. Arthur’s absences back to back and sending Isaac away from the party had left the boy clinging to him when he could, not to mention the injured men frightened Isaac. Mac’s horrible pained groans could send the boy to tears.

Arthur laid with Isaac squeezed against his side, Copper splayed on the other side of the boy, sandwiching him in, which always led Isaac to sleep faster than anything else. Arthur tried to focus on Isaac’s sleeping face, on the rise and fall of his chest, on the way he mumbled and twitched his way through dreams, all these things that proved he was alive beside him.

He was slowly drifting off, trying to embrace the warmth of the two small bodies with him on the cot and the weight of Isaac’s head cushioned on his chest when he saw movement through camp, quickly throwing him into wakefulness. He scrambled to grab his gun and was going to move Isaac off of him when he saw that it was Hosea, oddly still awake, heading towards Dutch’s tent which was still gently illuminated from within.

Arthur rubbed a hand over where his heart was pounding violently against his ribs, the sudden onset of panic and adrenaline with nothing to do with it made him nauseous and he laid back down wondering if this new state of vigilance would ever die down.

From behind the covered walls of Dutch’s tent, he heard the two men softly talking, and no matter how much he tried to close his eyes and go to sleep the sickening energy rushing through him kept him awake and listening in.

“Couldn’t sleep, old girl?”

“I could ask you the same thing, Dutch,” Hosea said quietly, the thin outline of his silhouette coming to join the hunched form sitting at the table inside. “That was a disaster.”

“I know, I know, can’t sleep, can’t stop thinking, Hosea.” Dutch’s hands gripped his head, Arthur could imagine the way his white-knuckled hands gripped his pomade-slicked hair, how his eyes were wild and unfocused. Dutch got like this when he felt cornered when it felt like there was no right answer, no way out. He hadn’t seen him like this since Hosea had left.

“It ain’t all been bad,” Hosea soothed. “Least we got a lot of money out of that whole mess with them O’Driscolls.”

After a moment of tense silence, Dutch took a deep breath and finally his hands relented their tight grip.

“I am glad to hear you say that.”

“You ever thought about us retiring? Getting out of the life?”

Arthur felt his stomach twist, hearing Hosea talk about leaving again, even hypothetically, even years down the line, Arthur could not handle the very idea. Felt like he was staring down a cold, dark well with no sign of the bottom, especially as he talked about running away with Dutch. What would the rest of them do? What would Arthur do with all these folks depending on him? Looking to him for guidance? He could feel his heart picking its pace up again, the panic returned but with none of the flash fire of adrenaline, instead, it coiled low and painful in him, made his whole body ache in fear of the future.

“What’s this about, Hosea?” Dutch asked.

“Is it so outlandish to think that I’d want to retire someday?” His voice dropped lower, almost drowned out by the ambient noise of the wilderness surrounding them. “With you by my side?”

“We ain’t so old as to be considerin’ retirement yet, what are you really gettin’ at?” Dutch stood from the chair, leaning against the table to face Hosea.

“Well…Arthur,” Hosea said simply, and Arthur froze where he lay, afraid that if he moved or breathed they’d know he was listening. “He’s been at this 12 years now, makin’ a fine name for himself on bounty posters, and now that Isaac is here-”

“You see, that is why I was against the boy stayin’ with us.” The hushed conversation between the two of them became hissed and tense in a second. “We still have ambitions, Hosea, this money ain’t changin’ that! Living life how we please, uprooting the poisonous grasp of society on the land of the wild and free, big plans, and I need Arthur right-headed and focused by my side. Isaac is splittin’ that focus.”

“It ain’t the boys fault-”

“I never said it was!” Dutch interrupted. “I only suggested we send him somewhere more stable than we can provide.”

“Here you are preaching about creating this new life outside of modernity, running away from progress and change, and you want to ship that kid right back to it just cause he’s inconvenient to you?” Hosea’s voice threatened to rise, threatened to turn into a proper yell, his sharp wit thrashing against the constraints of quiet.

“I’m not sure I much like your tone, old friend.” Dutch gritted out.

Arthur could see their two silhouettes, lit by the lantern, they looked ready to punch one another, and Arthur had seen them do it before when they were all younger, but those days were long gone. Hosea took a deep breath and a step back from where he’d gotten in Dutch’s face, scrambling for a semblance of calm.

“Isaac needs Arthur, and Arthur needs Isaac, we can’t just send him away, it ain’t that easy-”

“Then he’ll stay!” Dutch threw his hands up in exasperation. “I’m just an old man talkin’ about the past, Hosea, I ain’t sayin’ nothing about the present. He’s here now, for good, so why am I still gettin’ yelled at?”

“The boy could have died!” Hosea said, hidden tension and fear seeping into his words. His well-crafted mask cracking. “We all could have died if we’d been a day too late in moving out of the camp!”

“But we weren’t,” Dutch growled, grabbing Hosea by the arm. “I took care of it, I took care of everyone, I have everything under control.”

Arthur did not resist the urge to hold Isaac closer, hating the heavy weight of truth that Hosea pushed down on him unwittingly. Isaac had never been in more danger than when those O’Driscolls planned on razing their camp, hadn’t been so close to death since the day Eliza died. And it felt like they all could have prevented it if they’d just stopped and thought about who they’d been throwing their allegiances in with. The imagined disappointment in him from Eliza was just as heavy as Hosea’s truth.

“Bah, to hell with this.” Hosea shook off Dutch’s hand gripping him and stomped out of the tent. “You and I can talk circles around each other all night long and only come out the end with a headache, I’m goin’ to bed.”

He didn’t get far before Dutch grabbed his hand and pulled him to a stop, a more open, vulnerable look on his face than Arthur had seen in a very long time.

“I didn’t put up any more fight about the boy because he makes you happy, you know, all I want is you happy, Patrocles.”

Arthur wanted to avert his eyes as Dutch raised the captured hand to kiss the back of it, the intimacy scalding to witness, not meant for nobody but the two of them.

Hosea sighed, deep and weary, before placing his hand against Dutch’s cheek, “I know, Achilles, I know.”

Arthur did turn away at that, those names, those tender ancient invocations were so weighted with meaning, so rich in love and care and worry for one another that it hurt to witness. When he dared to look back the two men were gone, the flaps of their tents still and the lanterns all doused. Only the swirl of dust in the air and the smear of footprints confirmed they’d been there at all, that Arthur had heard all that he had.

He felt childish almost, having listened to the two of them argue over him and his fate. It was only by Dutch’s grace that he could live these two lives of his together, intertwined, and if he suddenly revoked that grace? Made Arthur choose? It would hurt, terribly it would hurt, but he knew he’d have to walk away. He knew Dutch’s fears weren’t unfounded.

But what life did he have outside this gang? What life could he provide for Isaac? He was a weapon made manifest, he wasn’t built for society and life among normal, peaceful people. He was made to dole out Dutch’s will and to protect Isaac, as hard as that task continued to be.

As much as he appreciated Hosea trying to save him and Isaac he knew it was foolish.

What he needed to do was buckle down and do what he was made to do, he needed to hold on to this life with both hands, needed to throw all that he had into it to maintain it, needed to focus. And god damn him if he would let someone like the O’Driscolls jeopardize that.

So he slept, knowing the machine of his body only functioned when it could rest, and knowing that tomorrow was another day to keep himself in Dutch’s good graces and convince the man that he above all others was loyal to this gang, this life.

* * *

No matter the worries from the O’Driscolls and the injuries they’d sustained their lives continued on as normal as they could be in New Austin. Their anxieties and fear soon died down to normal levels, Mac survived the horrible wound, Davey was walking again and Arthur managed a full night's rest once in a while.

They began venturing out from the camp, getting jobs, taking in the unique landscape around them, even having fun again. Games of all kinds around camp, Tilly beating everyone in dominos, Dutch cheating at poker, Hosea and Isaac ruining everyone's day in cribbage. Karen and Susan led everyone in songs around the fire at night, the one thing that was guaranteed to stop their bickering.

Annabelle got Dutch a gramophone for his birthday and the whole camp danced the night away, the ladies spinning between the men, Isaac standing on Arthur’s toes, John exaggerating how bad he was at dancing and nearly dropping Tilly on her ass who just laughed at him and pushed him over in retaliation, starting up a childish grapple as if they both weren’t well on their way to being grown.

Annabelle had even dug out hers and Hosea’s old shoes from when they’d performed in a vaudeville act together, way back in the day when Bessie was still alive before they’d even picked up John. Dutch and Arthur would use the cover of distraction to loot people's saddlebags and pockets, having clearance to hang around as family of the performers, and what a distraction it was. The two of them were great dancers, but together, pitted in unspoken competition, they were fantastic.

All of them whooped and hollered and cheered as Hosea and Annabelle danced on the makeshift stages of the tables, Isaac especially enchanted with how they moved and the sound of the tap shoes on wood. Hosea had been unwilling to start in the first place but more unwilling to let Annabelle win, and Annabelle was a swirl of skirts and hair and laughter. Their grand finale left them both panting and sweaty, Hosea keeled over and gasping for breath, Dutch scolding him for such activities in his advanced age, which only earned him a smack but smiling bigger than anyone had managed in a long time.

However, not everything was perfect in New Austin, namely the awful, terrible weather. The sun was hot, no clouds or rain for miles, just the overwhelming waves of New Austin sunlight. Even in the shade of the valley, their camp was in, it was too hot, the air around them seeking to burn them alive. So today, after watching Isaac wilt in the heat, Arthur had taken him a few yards south of their camp, to the refreshing banks of the San Luis River, and was pleased to find that despite the raging fire of the sun, the water was blessedly cool.

They whiled away the cooler hours of the early morning fishing and trying to catch tadpoles before eventually shedding their heavy clothes to submerge themselves in the languid, chilly water.

It had been too long since Arthur had heard Isaac’s madcap giggling but he heard it plenty as he stood in the center of the river and threw Isaac upstream, catching him as he floated back down the river over and over again. It was easy to say he hadn’t had this much fun in a long time, neither of them had, and it was all the better that it was just the two of them.

The hottest part of the day had come, and their activities had left both of them breathless and exhausted. Arthur floated now near the bank of the river on his back, his hat laid across his face to block out the sun, and Isaac lay contentedly across Arthur’s chest, the pair of them buoyant and lazy as they lounged.

It was looking to be a perfect day, nothing except the chirping of birds, the splashing of water against rocks, and the waves of heat coming down to lay heavy over their water-chilled skin as they drifted until a sharp voice broke through the peace.

“Arthur Morgan I swear to God.” Annabelle groaned from the river bank, Arthur removed his hat to squint up at the woman, surprised to see her in her nicest dress despite the heat.

“You goin’ to church or somethin’?” Arthur said, moving to sit on the rocks and look at her, Isaac grumbled and slipped back into the water darting around like a fish.

“No, you moron!” Annabelle sniped, tapping her foot impatiently. “We have a meetin’ in Armadillo, remember? My contact on the army supply wagon wants to meet us in forty-five minutes and you’re splashin’ around!”

“I hear ya, I hear ya, stop shriekin’ at me, ya damn harpy,” Arthur said, pulling himself out of the water. “We got plenty of time.”

“Call me a harpy one more time,” Annabelle said, straightening her skirts. Once Arthur moved towards his pile of clothes she turned back to the river suddenly friendly and loving as she talked to Isaac. “Sweetie, you wanna come into town with Auntie?”

Isaac lowered in the water to blow bubbles one more time before exploding out of the water, nearly dousing Annabelle with her perfect make-up and curls. The boy giggled when she gasped but obediently dredged himself from the water to dress as well, his hair stuck to his face and the back of his neck like moss on a rock.

Annabelle placed a gentle hand on Isaac’s shoulder, holding herself back from giving him a full hug, “You are such a talent in the water, honey! If you went down to the bottom and a frog came back up I wouldn’t even be surprised!” She leaned in conspiratorially, her voice dropping to a hush. “It’s especially impressive considerin’ your Uncle John can’t swim a lick, you’ll have to save him if he falls in.”

“Uncle John can’t swim?” Isaac swiped thick strands of hair from his face to look up at Annabelle, mischief twinkling in his eyes.

“Don’t tease him too much about it, boy, that’s my job,” Arthur said with a chuckle. As soon as Isaac got close to Arthur he wrapped the boy up in a towel, aggressively rubbing the boy dry to make him laugh, “Come on, son, let’s get goin’ ‘fore Auntie Annabelle has a conniption.”

“Save me from your father, Angel.” Annabelle rolled her eyes and cuffed Arthur on the back of the head.

Eventually, despite their bickering, Annabelle and Arthur managed to get the three of them on horses and headed through camp towards Armadillo.

“You three get back quick now, it’s a scorcher today, no need to be runnin’ around needlessly,” Hosea called out from his spot in the shade, idly fanning himself with his book.

“We got work!” Annabelle replied, riding tall as Artemisia primly trotted ahead of Arthur, with that sly smile he recognized from her pride and excitement in a plan of hers coming to fruition.

“That’s my girl.” Dutch tipped his hat when they passed him. “You keep safe now.”

“Always,” Arthur said, grabbing Isaac as the boy tried to lean down to reach for Copper.

As they turned down the trail Annabelle turned in her seat to blow a kiss to Dutch who made a big show of pretending to catch it and slipping it into his vest pocket. John behind Dutch retched and gagged in fake disgust, Arthur felt half tempted to do the same.

“Y’all are too much, he’ll still be there when we get back.”

“Well, sorry for bein’ affectionate, Arthur.” Annabelle kicked her horse into a trot. “I’m sure if you had yourself a lady you’d be the same way.”

Arthur cleared his throat awkwardly and kept up the pace, following close behind as the tension built. From what little he could see of her face from the side Arthur could see Annabelle peeking at him, starting and stopping sentences with no conclusion. The edge of Armadillo was in sight before she spoke again.

“I’m sorry, Arthur. It ain’t your fault you’ve got such poor luck.”

“We don’t need to talk about this in front of the boy,” Arthur said nervously as they pulled to a stop in front of the saloon. He dropped down from the horse and grabbed Isaac, watching the two of them, trying to decipher the grown-up conversation flying about his head.

“I was talkin’ ‘bout Mary, Arthur, ain’t your fault she treated you awful-”

“I wouldn’t say-”

“Well, I would!” Annabelle slipped off her horse and jabbed a finger in Arthur’s face. “You deserve better than what she put you through, it’s indecent! And she thinks her family is so high and mighty but she-”

“Annabelle.” Arthur stopped her ranting with gentle hands on her shoulder. “I appreciate you gettin’ yourself in a tizzy, but that was a long time ago. I really don’t think this is worth it, now come on, we got work to do.”

Annabelle glared at Arthur for a moment longer, before nodding and heading into the saloon to find her contact. “This ain’t over, Morgan!”

Arthur rolled his eyes and fished around in his pocket for some change, handing it off to Isaac. “Auntie and I are gonna talk business, you go get yourself some candy and the horses some treats ‘fore joinin’, you hear?”

“I hear.” Isaac took the coins and diligently counted them before running over to the shop across the way.

Arthur sighed and cracked his back, watching the mirages ripple on the horizon from the heat and wishing he was still back in the river.

* * *

Isaac was bored. Daddy and Auntie had been talking to the military man for forever and he’d already fed the horsies and eaten all of his sweets and he wasn’t allowed to wander on his own. Even inside it was so hot and he was tired. He wanted to go swimming again or even just go back to camp, but he was so bored of just sitting here.

Daddy had given some more coins to play with when Isaac’s whining and fidgeting got too annoying. He’d felt bad for interrupting them and embarrassed in front of the stranger, but not enough to turn down the measly entertainment he’d been handed.

Right now he was trying to make the coin dance over his fingers like Uncle Dutch could, he could get it over two fingers before it dropped into his lap. He picked it up and tried again, going slow, focusing hard, and managed to get it over a third finger! Before he just about launched it onto the ground.

“Here, angel, let me teach you a new trick.” Aunt Annabelle grabbed the coin where it’d fallen and held it in her palm, making it obvious to him where it was, acting like Mr. Trelawny when he did his tricks around camp, then she did all the fancy flourishes and seemed to invisibly throw it from one hand to the other.

“How’d you do that?” Isaac asked in awe.

“It’s called misdirection, you make a big show with one hand,” Auntie said with a flourish, easily making the coin dance along her gloved hand. “That way they don’t pay attention to what you’re really doing, it’s how you pull the best tricks. Here, sweetheart, like this-”

She had placed the coin back in his hand and was about to guide him on what to do when a stampede of horses suddenly rode into the center of town, followed soon after by the unmistakable sound of shotguns fired into the air.

Immediately Daddy knocked the table over and pulled Auntie and Isaac behind it, the military man readying his gun beside him.

“Van der Linde’s! Where are you slimy dogs?”

Isaac shook and covered his ears with his hands, closing his eyes as tight as he could and hoped then when he opened them the bad men outside would be gone.

“Better come out soon, or we’ll be asking each and every person where you’re at.”

“Annabelle, take Isaac and go out the back door, there’s houses back there, you take him and you hide.” Daddy took the repeater off his back and started reloading it, watching the men in the street from the mirror behind the bar. “Isaac, you go with Auntie back to camp, I’ll be right there.”

“I don’t want to go!” Isaac shrieked, plastering himself to Arthur’s front. “I don’t want you to go in the sky!”

Isaac was crushed as Daddy grabbed him tight to his chest, putting aside the gun for a moment to run a hand over his back and through his hair, insufficient soothing for the way Isaac felt the whole world crumbling around him.

“I know, I know you don’t, but I ain’t dyin’ today and neither are you, go!”

Daddy shoved him into Auntie’s arms and as quick as he could blink she had darted out the back door and into the dusty, long desert behind the saloon. As the door shut behind them Isaac yelped as the whole building seemed to explode in gunfire, bullets breaking the back windows and falling to the dirt around them.

All around them, other townsfolk ran to the edge of town, and soon enough he and Auntie were lost in the swell of people and Isaac’s crying was met with the sound of all the other crying kids around them.

She could see other town members either cowering in their homes or running out to the edge like she was if they weren’t men gearing up to take out the loud intruders. Annabelle quietly started making her way over to the congregation of escaped town members to blend into as she plotted her way back home. Isaac flinched terribly with each loud gunshot he heard, he felt sore with how tense he was in Annabelle’s arms and even her frantic shushing and soothing couldn’t do anything to calm him down, not when at any moment any one of those guns, of those bullets, could mean the end of Daddy.

“Everything’s gonna be alright, honey,” Annabelle tried to placate the fear-stricken boy. “Don’t you worry, your daddy’s the best in the business he ain’t-”

Suddenly two riders rode up coming from the outskirts, masks up and guns drawn. Isaac saw twin green vests on them before Auntie hastily dropped him, swirling around and pulling out a gun from her skirts as she faced the two men.

The rest of the townsfolk cowered and screamed as she leveled her gun and blew half the skull off the first rider, deftly stepping out of the way of the now-crazed horse. Isaac screamed, feeling bile and sickness rise at the sight of the face opened by the gun, scrambling out of the way of the horse and clinging to Annabelle’s legs. He pressed his hands to his ears again, trying to quiet the ringing that deafened him from how close to the gun, he felt the sheer force of it rattling around in his chest.

“Honey, don’t look,” Annabelle yelled, flicking the gun open and reloading it quickly, keeping one eye on the second rider circling the group. “Everything’s gonna be-”

Suddenly the second rider came back around, galloping past them and, before Annabelle could level her gun again, he reached down and grabbed her, dragging her up onto the horse in one lightning-fast move.

“Let go of me!” Annabelle screamed, thrashing against the arm around her waist and trying desperately to point the gun behind her.

“Annie, Annie, that any way to talk to an old friend?” The man shouted as he grabbed the hand holding the gun and broke her wrist over his knee, forcing her to drop the sawed-off and leaving her screaming in jostling pain.

Isaac scrambled to run after her, his head still ringing and his breath coming in shaky uneven puffs. Everything around him seemed dark and hazy, his vision narrowed in on the sight of Auntie desperately fighting to break away from the rider’s grasp.

“Colm, w-what the hell are you doing?” Her voice faint, shoving at the arm around her throat.

“Oh, just a little ol’ fashioned revenge, Annie,” Colm chuckled darkly. “Can’t let Dutch have somethin’ as nice as you after what he did to me now can I?”

“No! Put her down!” Isaac screeched, running as fast as he could to up to the rearing horse.

“Makin’ all sorts of friends, ain’t you?”

“Isaac, baby, stay away!” Annabelle yelled, getting enough leverage to grab his arm and bite down, blood dripping down from her red lips.

“You bitch!” Colm growled and hit her in the head with the butt of his gun before hissing in her ear and gripping the reins tighter. “I hope you were a damn good whore ‘cause that’s all anyone will remember you as.”

Just before Isaac’s hand could close around Auntie’s ankle the man sneered down at him, and with his shiny leather boots kicked him hard in the chest before urging the horse into a gallop. Isaac went flying, landing on rocks and loose sticks in the dirt, leaving him bruised and gasping with tears welling up. Without another look back the man rode off into the wide expanse of the sweltering desert, dragging Auntie kicking and screaming along with him.

* * *

Arthur burst out of the half-intact doors of the saloon, the last of the O’Driscolls gone he finally had his chance to break away before more of them turned up, or worse, lawmen poking their noses where they didn’t belong.

Mr. Richards followed behind him but Arthur hardly paid him any mind, the job with the supply train was well and truly bust now, they needed to get the hell out of dodge if Colm and his brood of half-baked morons were stalking the sands looking for them.

He whistled loudly for Boadicea and when she trotted over from down one of the alleys he let out a small sigh of relief, she was a good horse, a smart horse, knew when to make her exit. Arthur didn’t even wait for her to come to a complete stop before he was jumping into the saddle, urging her into a gallop and leaving behind Mr. Richards in the dust of the half-settled gun battle.

The O’Driscolls had left all at once, well those few that lived after he was done with them, running from the fire and hell they had turned Armadillo into. Arthur didn’t care much why they had left, only that they had finally stopped harassing him, and more importantly, had headed west, opposite of the camp.

He kicked Boadicea to go even faster and leaned down over her neck as she sped down the mere whisper of a road east, but once they reached the crossroad Arthur quickly pulled her to a stop, the horse rearing up in surprise as he pulled back hard on the reins. But he couldn’t spare a thought to his unusually harsh treatment of the mare, instead he stared in pale dread at the spector before him.

Eliza.

Eliza.

Maybe he had gotten hit in the fight, maybe one of Colm’s idiot boys had actually managed to kill him, because Eliza was standing in front of him. She looked just like he’d last seen her, sickly pale, milky white eyes, her fingers still curled as if they were holding the shotgun, and the dark festering bullet hole in her forehead.

Arthur felt uncontrollable shivers crawling over his back as he stared at her, but he could not look away from her heavy stare, even under the film of dead eyes.

She stepped forward on silent feet, no stirring of the dust around her or imprints in the dirt left behind her, Boadicea whinnied and reared again, her eyes rolled around in panic and Arthur sympathized, but his grip on the reigns and around the horses ribs was tight; frozen in place watching Eliza approach him.

She came to a stop just at his side, close enough where he could touch her if he tried, but he did not, the air around her grew stony cold and the shivers were full shaking now. Then with her gnarled, trigger-pulling finger she pointed back at Armadillo, remaining completely still besides that.

Despite the direction Arthur still could not look away from her, felt his breathing grow shallow and infrequent the longer their gazes remained locked. A drop of thick, dead blood oozed from the death-blow and traced down her face, over her nose and dropped to stain her green dress, and he still could not look away.

Her face contorted in a snarl and her other hand reached up and grabbed his jacket, pulling him down to her level with surprising force, even through the many layers he wore and the searing heat of the New Austin desert he felt like he was freezing from her touch. She pulled his face as close to hers as she could, with her throat long dead, long uninhabitable of words or thoughts, she slowly and silently mouthed one word, suddenly breaking the terrible spell he was under:

Isaac.

All the chill that permeated his limbs and stilled him rushed away, gathering like a solid brick in his stomach, the dread hitting him all at once. He pulled on the reins and turned Boadicea like a bullet back towards Armadillo, not sparing another glance at the specter haunting him, though he could feel her eyes on his neck all down the empty, flat road, nothing to protect him from her gaze.

Men were milling about the center of town, dragging bodies away, assessing damage, and looking for someone to blame. When Arthur came racing in they turned and snarled at him, ready to drag him off his horse and into jail, ready to accuse him, but he paid them no mind.

“Isaac!” He yelled, darting down alleyways, leaping over fences and crates, looking for the boy amidst all the drab brown of the town.

It wasn’t until he made it to the outskirts of Armadillo that he heard the frightened screech in return, “Daddy!”

Arthur slipped off of Boadicea immediately and it wasn’t a moment later when Isaac came tearing around the corner of a sun-cracked, split-open tool shed. His knees felt weak as he dropped to them to catch Isaac as the boy ran at him, it felt like he’d been staring down the barrel of a gun and discovered that it shot blanks. He felt that dark presence weighing heavy on his neck lift, Eliza content now that her boy was found once more.

“Why ain’t you back at camp?” Arthur said, frantically inspecting Isaac, seeing the fine layer of dirt and grime cut through with tears. “Why are you still here?”

“Aunties gone,” Isaac gasped, clinging to Arthur. “Some man took her, said he was gonna kill her!”

“Damn, O’Driscolls.” Arthur swelled to stand, still clutching the boy he hurried back to Boadicea, getting ready to mount up when Isaac’s gasping breaths turned into choking sobs.

“Daddy, she’s gonna die, she’s gonna die!”

Arthur took a deep steadying breath, weakly trying to sooth the boy as he cried himself hoarse. He had two choices, get back to camp, make sure Isaac was safe, and get folks together to most likely find Annabelle’s body or ride out now and endanger Isaac’s life to potentially find Annabelle alive. He didn’t want to make the choice, but he knew what his answer was, and he prayed Annabelle wouldn’t start haunting him as well for making her wait for a rescue.

“Darlin’, you listen to me, we’re gonna go back, then me and everyone else are gonna go find her and bring Auntie back home.” Arthur finally mounted up, clasping Isaac to his chest as the boy continued sniffling and crying. “Then when we get back I ain’t never lettin’ you out of my sight.”

Arthur could not know as he set off back to camp what the next few hours would entail, he could not know the massive fight that would await them in the O’Driscoll’s camp, or the bloody mess they would find of Annabelle, and the men surrounding her. Bite marks and gouges, men missing fingers and ears from where they’d gotten too close to her.

Yet somehow Colm had made it out without a scratch. Nothing remaining of him but his men, his handiwork, and the boiling resentment in Dutch’s eyes as he held his dead lover.

He could not expect the terrible understanding he, Hosea, and Dutch would have at the end of the day. All of them bereft of a lover and friend, all of them having to bury a woman they loved with their own hands, all of them widowers in their own way. All of them mourning and forced to continue on and live lives that could only hope to honor the women they’d lost.

He couldn’t expect any of it, but he felt it nonetheless, preemptive grief and fear and rage lived deep in his bones. It was only the astounding relief of having reunited with Isaac that kept it at bay as he rode hard along the scrubby desert, clutching the boy to his chest as tightly as he could.

Chapter Text

The summer of 1894 found them deep in Oregon and mourning the loss of hot southern summers. Oregan was rainy and gray and funneled all their days into dry and wet, today was dry so the camp was lively and abuzz with activity as they caught up on what they could not do when it was wet.

Abuzz with activity and talk.

Yesterday Uncle, a loathsome, work-averse drunk who had been hanging around with the gang, had brought back a trembling blood-soaked working girl. The sight of her had startled the whole camp, everyone talking and fussing like they’d never seen blood before, Isaac especially had been queasy, looking pale and shaky as he stared at all the red sprayed over her.

They weren’t even able to get a name out of her with how terrified she was of them all, or more likely of what she’d left behind. Uncle had found her in one of the back rooms of the saloon after drunkenly stumbling through it, her fella for the night dead as dirt with a letter opened buried in his neck and his blood soaking her undergarments.

Arthur would never admit it but he had been somewhat impressed when Uncle had said that he’d helped the girl dispose of the body before getting her out of town unseen, and she hadn’t once refuted the story.

Karen and Tilly had quickly taken the girl to get cleaned, getting her warm and dressed and looking less like a killer before the poor girl passed out cold in their tent. All of it was reminding Arthur of when they’d first found Karen, and Dutch coming into the tent to loudly tell the girl that she’d have a place with them as long as she needed only furthered the familiarity.

Arthur listened to Dutch preach, angrily cleaning the rifles, earning more than a few sidelong looks from John beside him, and as soon as Dutch left the tent, a big smirk on his face and thumbs in his belt loops Arthur threw down the oil-soaked rag and stalked after him.

“Guess I’m finishing this on my own!” John yelled after him, throwing a handful of rocks at Arthur’s back.

Arthur didn’t respond besides leaning down to grab a much bigger rock and turning to whip it at John’s head, who barely managed to duck and avoid it. Before John could retaliate further Arthur caught up to Dutch at his tent where the man was grabbing his damn philosophy book again.

“Dutch, what are you doing?” Arthur said, slamming a hand down on the book and drawing Dutch’s attention.

“What on earth are you talking about?” Dutch groused trying to yank the book back to him, glaring at Arthur when his grip was too strong to break it.

“We’re still fightin’ O’Driscolls left and right and you’re taking in the third person in a year!” Arthur yelled. From off to the side the ladies shushed him, Arthur waved them off before hissing quietly at Dutch. “We can’t afford this! It ain’t sustainable, not a one of them can go out on a job! We got the cook, fine, but Uncle is downright useless, and the girl shakes like a leaf!”

“Her name is Abigail Roberts.” Dutch sat down with a heavy sigh, watching as Miss Grimshaw took his place inside the tent beside the girl’s side. “And God help me but she reminds me of Annabelle.”

“Ah’course she does,” Arthur groaned, taking his hat off to run his hand through his hair in frustration.

The past year or so had not been kind to any of them following Annabelle’s death, least of all Dutch. Arthur could see the way he’d wanted to fall apart at the seams, to tear away the charismatic front until nothing finer than killing and revenge remained, but despite the temptation, despite the overwhelming grief and loss and rage, Dutch had managed to keep himself together. Through pure determination, Hosea’s steady hand, and forward momentum Dutch had kept it together, but even a man as mighty as he was soft sometimes.

“Abigail ain’t quite as frightening as Annabelle was when we found her,” Dutch sighed fondly, thinking back years and years ago when the girl he found stranded in the desert, leading a handful of other women away from captivity at a camp now full of mangled corpses, nearly killed him for startling her. “But she’s got that smoldering, righteous fury in her eyes like she’ll call down lightning on you if you look at her wrong.”

“Or stab you with a letter opener,” Arthur muttered.

“It’ll be one year in a couple weeks, Arthur, one year since I failed her.”

“You can’t blame yourself-”

“Oh, I can assure you I do not,” Dutch growled. “It’s that bastard, Colm, wish I’d shot him with his brother. And now he and all his rats keep following us around, I know I’ve taught you that revenge is a fool’s path but God sometimes I wish I was a fool.”

“Well, we’re some sort of fools, all these charity cases we keep taking on,” Arthur said in a harsh whisper.

He watched the flaps of the tent that closed off Miss Grimshaw and Abigail for a while before his gaze eventually found Isaac, standing up on a crate beside Pearson who was surely boring him with some falsehood as the boy helped peel carrots for the stew pot. The boy had been stronger than he had any right to since Annabelle, but he was distant and quiet, and he only grew more so as Arthur was busier and busier these days. It felt like every new person they took in was another massive step away from Isaac.

“Son, have some compassion,” Dutch grasped his shoulder and turned him to look out at the warm scene of the camp. “We have found more kindred spirits who are looking to escape the crushing confines that society wishes to impose on them, who are we to deny them their freedom? All of us have worked long and hard for this way of life, it’s only right we should be able to provide it for others.”

“Well, how good is that freedom if it’s just gonna end in gunfire or starvation?”

“They know who we are, they can decide if this is the life for them, it is up to us to make sure there is a life for them to have.” Dutch roughly slapped him on the shoulder before taking out two cigars, handing one over to Arthur, and lighting them both. “We will find a way, Arthur, of that I can guarantee.”

* * *

They would all discover that ‘finding their way’ meant working like dogs. If any gunman around camp wasn’t on guard duty or sleeping then they were out hunting or finding a score. Dutch had made it clear that if they didn’t have anything to show for when they returned to not return at all, and Isaac was learning that the standards for Daddy were higher than most.

Mac, Davey, and Bill could all come back with two rabbits and some watches and everything was fine, but if Daddy didn’t come back with a minimum of $50 and a buck then he was sent right back out. Isaac didn’t see his Pa for more than a couple hours every other day at this point.

Uncle Dutch had tried explaining to him how important it was for Daddy to be out working so often, with varying levels of success, but all that Isaac understood in the end was that Daddy was away.

So to occupy his time while Daddy was gone Isaac helped the ladies with chores, holding their knitting, folding and divvying out the clothes, and bringing meals to Miss Roberts even though she was still quiet and unresponsive. He helped Mr. Pearson with dinner by helping him prepare the ingredients and listening to him talk about his days in the Navy, having a captive listener made the cook much cheerier and Isaac didn’t mind so much, it reminded him of Grandpa’s stories around the fire. Mr. Pearson had even taught him to gut fish and break down chickens! And in between helping he cleaned up after Copper, made sure he stayed out of the chuck wagon, and did little jobs around camps for folks.

One of his jobs today was reading and writing letters for Uncle Mac and Davey. Isaac had been helping them for a few months now to keep in contact with their sister Leann who they hadn’t seen in years. One of the reasons being they were both too proud to ask anyone else around camp for help, but they liked Isaac cause he didn’t say much about it, and giving him a few cents for helping them made it seem less pathetic.

It was a good thing Mama wasn’t around when he read some of the letters out loud for all the cusses in it. The last time the Callender siblings had seen one another Mac and Leann had gotten in a massive fight and nearly burned down their house because the two boys were hitting the road, stealing, killing, getting their faces on bounties, and Leann still hadn’t forgiven them.

But at the same time, she still replied each time they wrote to her, making it very clear she never wanted to see them, but sending portraits taken of her and her children. Davey had made Isaac swear not to tell anyone that the two men had teared up at the sight of the picture.

Though Isaac didn’t like the picture that much, seeing Leann in the fancy clothes made Isaac think about the picture of Mama in their tent, or Grandpa's picture with Grandma Bessie, or the picture of Annabelle that Miss Grimshaw kept near her bedroll, even Daddy had a picture of his mother in a nice frame. Pictures were for dead people.

After he’d finished the letter and Davey had given him some coins Isaac had trudged away, his stomach hurting the more he thought about the portraits. Mama looking pretty and serious, not like the laughing, rolling in the grass Mama he remembered from his last day with her. Or Annabelle’s picture from a long, long time ago when Daddy was young and Isaac wasn’t even born yet, smiling wide like she did when she was performing, no fear or hurt in her eyes, no trace of knowing she’d be stolen away by the O’Driscoll’s.

The more he thought about it the more his eyes got hot and his stomach hurt, he didn’t want people getting fussy over him, he didn’t want everyone looking at him all sad. He’d been running off to cry for months because it made everyone so upset, and he was getting bigger, big boys didn’t cry, lots of his uncles around camp had made that clear, but he couldn’t help it.

He had just decided to run over and hide under the wagon by Daddy’s tent, panicking as his breathing started getting shorter and shorter, the last flashes of Mama and Annabelle before he never saw them again plaguing him, when suddenly he was airborne.

“Alright, my boy, let's get started on those lessons,” Hosea said as he scooped Isaac up under his arm like a sack of potatoes. However, it wasn’t until he sat down on the cot and planted Isaac on his knee that he realized the boy was squirming and fighting to slip out of his grip.

“No!” Isaac whined, thrashing until he fell to the ground, and before Hosea could stop him he crawled under the wagon, curling up into a ball as far as he could get from where Hosea might reach him.

“I thought we were past fighting about this, you’re gonna sit once a day and get taught, no fussing,” Hosea groaned, muttering about his knees as he leaned down to look under the wagon at the teary-eyed boy. “Now come on out from there.”

“Uh-uh,” Isaac hiccuped, the tears flowing faster despite how much he wiped them away. “Go away, Grandpa, ‘m not crying.”

“This ain’t about the lessons is it?” Hosea sighed, getting comfortable where he was lying down, watching Isaac rock and cry with a concerned twist in his mouth.

“I miss ‘em,” Isaac whispered to his knees, his face flushing in embarrassment, no matter how often he was comforted about this same thing the dark, sad feelings would always come back up, never gone for long. “I miss Mama and Aunt Annabelle and Daddy, I want ‘em back.”

“Your Pa is still alive, dear boy, I’m sorry he’s been away so much.”

“Are things ever gonna be normal again?” Isaac asked miserably.

“I think you’re going to have to get used to the fact that we have a very fluid normal,” Hosea chuckled sadly. “Things are always going to be changing for us, we’ll move places, get money, lose money, take in more folks, lose people we care about; it’s the life we live.”

“I hate it,” Isaac mumbled sadly, pulling himself into an even tighter ball.

“You know, when your father was young he had a lot of big things to deal with too. A lot of sadness, a lot of anger, strangeness, anxieties, and he couldn’t keep them all inside.” Hosea sat up, grabbing his satchel off the bed where he’d left it. “To help him, 'cause he’s never been much of a talker, I got him his journal, you seen it?”

“Mm-hmm, Daddy draws good,” Isaac said quietly, crawling closer to see Hosea, confused where this was going.

“That’s right, he does,” Hosea chuckled, withdrawing a slim leather notebook from his bag. “Now I was going to give this to you on your birthday, but it seems like you might need it sooner, huh?”

The allure of sharing something with Daddy finally drew Isaac all the way out from under the wagon to lean against Hosea and run his fingers over the coarse edges of the paper.

“You can write down all this sadness you got in you, maybe it’ll make it easier to handle.” Hosea held Isaac tight and kissed his head as he handed over the journal. “You can journal about what you do every day and show it to your Pa when he gets back so he can know what he’s missin’ out on. Maybe even write down all the good memories you had with your Ma and Annabelle, focus on the bright times and not the bad.”

“Thank you, Grandpa,” Isaac said as he flipped through the pages, feeling the smoothness of the fresh pages and the feel of the supple leather on the front. “I’ll try.”

“That’s all I ask,” Hosea kissed Isaac’s head one more time before standing up with a groan. “Now come on, we’re learnin’ ‘bout the Revolutionary War today, birth of the Nation and all that, real exciting.”

Isaac paid attention through the lesson as best he could, but he couldn’t resist the distraction of the smooth feel of the journal and the thrum of potential in its blank pages.

* * *

Arthur rolled his shoulder and his neck as he trotted into camp, wincing at the tight knots of tension coiled in them. It hadn’t been more than two weeks since Dutch had been pushing them all to go out and scrape all the money out of the surrounding area that they could and no matter how much he brought in it always felt like it wasn’t enough. Not only were they funding their life here at camp but Dutch had been talking lately about maybe finally settling down, traveling down to California, buying some land, and living the lives they’d always talked about.

It was a pretty dream, but a dream that Arthur wanted so he went out and robbed and lied and swindled his way into whatever pay he could find every chance he could, hoping it’d all lead to the day he could bring his son home, a real home.

He was so distracted by thoughts of a bed with four walls and land all his own that he nearly knocked someone over hopping down from Boadecia.

“Oh, Lord, sorry I- Miss Roberts?”

“Mr. Morgan, pleasure nearly gettin’ killed by you,” She said sharply, the cowering girl they’d found was up and out of the tent, smoothing down her clothes and hair and glaring at him something fierce.

“As I said, I’m mighty sorry, but I must say it’s nice to hear you talkin’ finally,” Arthur remarked, untying the two turkeys he’d had tied to his saddle as he kept talking. “You’re completely mute when I leave and now you’re usin’ full sentences when I return, it’s a miracle.”

“It ain’t nothin’,” Abigail waved off his words before pulling her shawl tighter around herself. “I just needed to stop feelin’ sorry for myself.”

“If you say so,” Arthur said, striding up to Pearson’s butcher table to lay down the two birds, surprised when Abigail trailed after him.

“You run around doin’ lots of work, right?” Abigail tentatively asked. “Is there any…fuss about me in town?”

“Haven’t seen any bounties if that’s what you’re wonderin’,” Arthur said, pulling out a cigarette as he continued to walk with Abigail around camp, offering her one as well. “Though I haven’t gone to the saloon since you got here, so I don’t know if they’re on to you.”

“Even if they aren't, I'm sure none of them even notice that I’m gone,” Abigail sighed and blew smoke out in a lazy trail, kicking rocks as they passed them. “I don’t wanna go back, but I got nowhere else to go.”

“Don’t know what you’re getting yourself so worked up about, Dutch said you can stay.”

“Oh yes, leavin’ the life of prostitution for the glamorous life of an outlaw, couldn’t be more excited,” Abigail said sarcastically, waving her cigarette around as she talked.

“Daddy! Daddy!” Isaac yelled, running across camp where he’d been sitting with Tilly, Copper close on his heels.

Arthur kneeled to grab the boy in a hug, grunting as he was knocked over, leaving him vulnerable to Copper’s attack.

“Down boy! Damn dog- I told you you’re gettin’ bigger, son,” Arthur chuckled, standing with Isaac shaking his sleeve in excitement, still trying to bat the dog away. “But not too big yet!”

Without a hint of straining Arthur snatched Isaac up and threw him over his shoulder, the boy shrieking as he tried to keep himself up from where he hung upside down, Copper taking advantage to jump up and lick his face.

“He’s very sweet,” Abigail said with a laugh behind her hand. “I was shocked when they said he was one of y’alls, I couldn’t imagine such a thing.”

“Oh yes, he’s all mine. Our life might not be as respectable as prostitution,” Arthur said with a sarcastic flare, earning a slap on the shoulder from Abigail. “But I can still raise a fine boy, so can’t be that bad.”

“No mother helpin’ you?” Abigail pointed over at Karen collecting empty bottles around the campfire. “I’m sure she’s part of the reason.”

Arthur laughed loudly, finally setting Isaac down when the boy started smacking his leg, his face flushed with the blood rushed to it and he leaned against his Pa to catch his bearings.

“Karen ain’t the mother, but sure, everyone helps, that’s what we’re here for: each other.” Arthur rubbed soothing circles into Isaac’s shoulder as he spoke, knowing talk of mothers could upset him. “Anyways, I told the boy we’d go to the river when I got back. Salmon are jumping upstream and he don’t believe me, so I’ll see you later, Miss Roberts.”

“Um, Mr. Morgan-”

“Arthur’s just fine.”

“Arthur, next time you go out for supplies, could I come?” Abigail nervously tugged a lock of hair that had fallen out of her bun. “I’m not quite sure where I want to go and seein’ if I even can go back would help me.”

“I’m sure whoever’s goin’ would be pleased to bring you along, just remember you got a place to stay if you need it.” Arthur gestured out to the pleasant buzz of activity around the camp, tugging Isaac along in a headlock as he headed towards the woods, the boy pretending to bite and fight him along the way.

“Thank you, Arthur.”

* * *

Isaac mulled over the expanse of pages before him, it’d been a couple days since Grandpa had given him the journal and he wasn’t quite sure what Daddy found so interesting in it. He’d practiced his letters, doodled a little bit, though it wasn’t as good as Daddy’s drawings, and tried writing down what he did each day. Unfortunately what he did each day was boring.

He’d taken Grandpa’s advice at least and written down the good memories he’d had with Mama but that’d only made him more upset as the memories didn’t take that much space. The clearest memory he had of her was the last day he’d seen her, and thinking about that only started him crying and shaking, he could barely see the page he was trying to write on, and the good parts of the day were overshadowed by the very bad parts of the day.

Trying to note his untainted memories of Mama was hard too as Isaac had been so young when Mama died, and Daddy had told him so many stories to help him to sleep, he had difficulty separating what he remembered and what he remembered Daddy telling him. So he generally left that handful of pages alone, afraid of the weight of his shoddily written words.

Additionally, he hadn’t had any nightmares in the past couple days to write about, mostly because he’d had trouble sleeping. When Daddy was away he couldn’t sleep so well in the tent, so he’d started sleeping by the scout fire to stay in the light alongside whoever was on watch that night. Sleeping next to the fire meant he could sleep quickly and dreamlessly, the light guiding him peacefully, though his rest was fitful and intermittent. He’d wake up at wolf howls or the hoots of owls, and especially when someone came to take over guard duty and they didn’t expect him to be there. He didn’t care so much though, because if Daddy came back during the night Isaac would be the first thing he’d see and Isaac would be pleasantly surprised upon waking.

His wandering thoughts finally returned to the blank pages he was staring at and he snapped the journal shut, done with the fruitless exercise. Copper lazily raised his head to watch as Isaac left to go see if Mr. Pearson needed any more help today, chores were also boring but at least he would be doing something. When the dog saw him walking towards the food wagon he quickly followed, bumping into Isaac in his eagerness.

Isaac tried to push the dog away but to no avail, once he caught sight of food there was nothing that could deter him. Isaac ran towards the bucket Pearson kept under the butcher's table of scraps and discarded bits of the animals he broke down, grabbed a fatty bone, still bloody and slick in his hand, and threw it outside of camp as hard as he could; Copper shooting after it.

“Good throw, son!”

Isaac startled and turned to see Uncle Dutch watching the bone fall past the foliage surrounding them from where he sat in his tent, turning to Isaac with an amused twinkle in his eye when it disappeared.

“Thank you, sir,” Isaac mumbled, shyly dragging his food through the dirt. Dutch didn’t often talk to him, and he always worried about embarrassing himself, and Pa in some way, when in front of the gang's leader.

“Are you busy, my boy?” Dutch got up from what he was working on to pull out his pipe and light it, visibly thinking something over as his eyes narrowed, puffing absentmindedly as he considered Isaac.

“No, sir. I tried journaling like Daddy does but it’s boring.”

Dutch laughed and tipped his pipe as Isaac, “I agree wholeheartedly, we’re more readers than writers wouldn’t you say? Though I don’t know your father as a thinker so I don’t know what he’s filling it up with.” Dutch rolled his eyes before the inquisitive look on his face returned. “Well if you ain’t busy why don’t you join me? I’m curious ‘bout something.” Isaac obediently followed Dutch to the table he’d pulled into his tent, atop which all the camp funds were spread out and sorted into piles surrounding the camp ledger.

“I know you and Hosea are practicing your letters, he teaching you math as well?”

“Sometimes, but we mostly read and write,” Isaac blushed, feeling self-conscious that he wasn’t measuring up to whatever Uncle Dutch was asking of him. “But I can count up points for cribbage and dominoes!”

“That’s one thing you got over me, son, I have never understood cribbage, no matter how much Hosea tries to teach me” Dutch chuckled as he reached over the table for a stack of bills. “How about this then, I have twenty-five $5 bills, how much money is this?”

Isaac chewed his lip and concentrated before tentatively answering, “$125, sir?”

“Very good! And if I used that $125 to buy some supplies and I spent $60 then how much would I have left?”

“$65, sir,” Isaac answered confidently, feeling less self-conscious as Dutch kept asking him hypotheticals, adding piles of different amounts of bills, counting up coins, long strings of purchases, and scores to find the end amount, it was much easier than the problems Isaac feared he’d be asked and forced to fail at. Even when Dutch moved to harder questions, dividing into even takes or finding the amount due for the camp funds from a large sum, they were easier when Dutch handed him the money to count physically or brought out paper and pen to write out the divisions.

“You are brilliant!” Dutch praised, clapping Isaac on the back as he found the answer to his latest question with Dutch’s gentle nudges towards the right answer along the way. “Of course, I should have expected as much from my grandson.”

“R-really?” Isaac stuttered, shocked that Dutch had called him such. As far as he could remember Dutch had only claimed him as a grandson but a few times before now, and each time was more surprising than the last.

“‘Course! You know, maybe I’ll have you help me with the money more often.” Dutch muttered to himself as he finished up some of the final marks in the ledger and started putting all the money back in the box. “It’s a good skill to have, and Lord knows I could use the help, at least when you’re older.”

“Ok…Grandad, that sounds fun!”

Dutch looked over at him with an amused quirk in his mustache but didn’t press further, instead, he closed up the box and pushed the table away slightly before motioning for Isaac to sit beside him on the bed.

“You know, countin’ money wasn’t the only thing I called you in for. I heard you and Hosea the other day,” Dutch said quietly. “You’ve been awfully out of sorts since Annabelle died, haven’t you?”

“I’m alright, promise,” Isaac said hastily, his face flushing knowing that Dutch, and maybe other folk in camp had witnessed his little episode beneath the wagon.

“Well that’s too bad,” Dutch sighed, pulling Isaac into his side. “Was hopin’ someone else could sympathize, I ain’t been right since she was taken away from me.”

“You miss her?” Isaac asked quietly, leaning into the rare embrace.

“More than I could have possibly imagined,” Dutch said with an uneven breath. “I was very fond of her, and I don’t think it’s right that she ain’t still here with us.”

Isaac shook his head morosely, leaning heavily on Dutch’s shoulder.

“She didn’t deserve it. And she was so scared when he grabbed her. I just… I just miss her. and-” Isaac hiccuped, the memories and feelings overwhelming him slightly. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes and willed it all to go away. “Things were better when she was alive, I just want her back.”

“Aw, son,” Dutch said with a sympathetic smile. “I won’t deny that our situation was better last year, and I won’t say that Annabelle wasn’t a part of that, but there are lots of factors at play, my boy. Sometimes life gets harder and there ain’t a clear reason why, but if we all stick together I know we’ll get to the good parts again.”

“You promise?”

“Cross my heart.”

* * *

A few days after doing math with Dutch I called him grandad again. After he called me his grandson I thought it was ok. He told me he preferred Uncle, I mentioned when he called me grandson and he said it had been a passing fancy.

I don’t understand what that means and when I asked Grandpa about it he looked real sad, so I left without an answer. Daddy isn’t here but I think he’d be sad too.

I’ll just call Dutch uncle, it’s easier that way.

* * *

“Isaac! Where are you, kid?” Uncle John started yelling as he crossed camp, looking under wagons and tables as he passed them.

Isaac watched him from his spot up in a tree on the edge of camp, wondering how long it would take the man to look up. When Uncle John retraced his steps looking frazzled and terrified, Isaac finally spoke up, drawing him over to the base of the tree, not interested in scaring his Uncle to death.

“What’re doin’? Gonna get yourself killed,” John heaved a sigh of relief upon seeing Isaac was not missing or dead or some other awful fate that had sprung to his mind upon not finding the child. “Well, come on down, we’re goin’ into town,” John said, holding a hand up to help Isaac down.

“Why?” Isaac climbed down the tree carefully, falling into John’s arms when he was close enough.

“Supply run, maybe we’ll throw you in a bath while we’re there,” John teased tugging on Isaac’s ear before setting the boy down on his feet.

“Oh!” Isaac said his eyes growing wide before he suddenly darted to the other end of camp, John following him, confused. “Miss Roberts!”

Abigail looked up from her sewing, cursing when she pricked her finger, “Yes, Isaac?”

“We’re going for supplies, you should come!” Isaac eagerly started tugging on her hand trying to get the woman to stand.

“Well, yeah, suppose I could.” Abigail reluctantly stood, looking up at John shyly. “If that’s alright with you, Mr. Marston?”

“Y-yeah, of course,” John stammered. Isaac stared up at his uncle confused, seeing a flush to his face barely hidden by his scant facial hair.

“Abigail, you broke him!” Karen said as she came up behind John, aggressively bumping shoulders with him as she checked the ammo in the repeater she had. “He’s driving us to town, can’t do that if you turn him stupid. Well, stupider.”

“Shut up, Karen!” John growled, turning and walking towards the wagon, his flush only redder in his embarrassment.

“Aw, ain’t he cute when he’s humiliated?” Karen teased. “You just wanna shake him till he cries don’t you?”

“If you say so,” Abigail said with a laugh, letting Isaac hold her hand and guide her to the wagon.

After more teasing from Karen, and almost riding out of camp without the list from Pearson, they were finally off, heading towards the fishing town Abigail had recently been bundled out of.

Driving down the main road Isaac wrinkled his nose at the overwhelming scent of fish guts and cold ocean air, he shivered and wrapped his arms around himself when a harsh breeze blew through, chilling him.

“It’s pretty gross here, ain’t it?” Abigail asked him with a conspiratorial smile on her face, when Isaac nodded she threw half of her shawl over his shoulders and pulled him in tighter. “Can you imagine how foul the men smell?”

It didn’t take them long to reach the general store, and Isaac thankfully got used to the smell of fish at that point, but he’d wished he’d worn his scarf and gloves along with his coat to come on the run. When Uncle John helped him down from the wagon he stuck close to him, leaning into him for warmth. John absentmindedly brushed down his hair, blown wild from the wind, as he spoke to Abigail.

“We’re gonna get what we need here, you go take care of your business and if you still want to come with then you know where to find us.”

“Thank you for all your help, all of you. It was mighty kind of you.” Abigail patted John on the chest as she passed him by, going to hug Karen before leaving.

“Why is your face all red, Uncle John?” Isaac asked, peering up at him.

“It’s cold out, come on,” John replied gruffly, heading into the store with Isaac and Karen trailing along behind him.

Isaac was happy to be taken out of camp, at least until he remembered how boring supply runs were. All they had to do was drive the wagon up and hand over the list, then the store folks would load up the wagon and they’d just turn right back to camp, so all Isaac could do was just wander around the store, get yelled at by the owner not to touch things, and try not to fall asleep standing up.

He was looking at the shiny stacked cans of coffee when he noticed movement at their wagon outside the window above the display. A group of men in dark coats milling about smoking cigarettes. They weren’t talking to one another, just looking around the street, one of them moving to look down the back alley of the store. Occasionally one of them would ground out their half-smoked cigarette on the back of the wagon. Isaac ducked away before one of them looked back and saw him spying on them.

“Uncle John, there’s weird folk at our wagon,” Isaac whispered, tugging on John’s jacket.

“There’s weird folk everywhere, kid, it’s fine,” John said, waving Isaac away before grabbing a crate of canned fruit and pushing his way out the front door while Karen counted out the money to the cashier.

Both Isaac and Karen jumped at the wall of noise that erupted from the front of the store, yelling, John dropping the box, the cans spilling all over the ground, and gunshots.

Everyone in the store dropped down to the ground and covered their heads as the front windows exploded inwards, John crashing back through the door soon after.

“O’Driscolls! Back door,” John gritted out, holding his arm tight where it was slowly growing dark red.

Karen cursed and picked up Isaac, making sure he had a tight grip on her in turn with his face buried in her neck before following after John, running with her head down low and curling over the boy.

Isaac squeezed his eyes shut as tight as he could, wishing he could do the same for his ears and stop hearing the horrible commotion following them as John guided them through the streetways full of screaming people. He wished he was bored again, he would take being bored every single day if it meant they would just stop getting shot at.

“We’re gonna head to the saloon, see if Abigail can hide us.” John finished tying his bandana tight around the oozing wound in his shoulder and drew his revolver before guiding Karen towards the piers, the O’Driscolls yelling behind him.

“How’d they find us?” Karen whispered, holding Isaac a little too tight in her anxiety as she and John ran down the dock to hide behind a shed.

“That’s a question for when we ain’t bein’ chased.” Uncle John said quietly, peering over Karen’s shoulder to watch the group of O’Driscolls angrily pushing through the crowd trying to find them. Before turning away John patted Isaac’s back, “Keep your eyes closed, we’re gonna be fine.”

John brought them through the maze of the docks as quickly as he could, avoiding anyone seeing them and keeping an eye out for O’Driscolls following them, his finger hovering over the trigger of his gun.

Karen raced forward as they approached the edge of the dock, the saloon in sight before she came to a screeching halt, almost falling over with how quickly she stopped before ducking back behind a crate.

“They’re ahead of us!” She hissed.

Uncle John looked over and cursed when he saw two O’Driscolls running by, shotguns in hand, yelling directions to find them.

“Where are the damn lawmen when you want ‘em? We need idiots for idiots.”

Isaac shuddered in Karen’s hold, his nails digging into her shoulders as he shook. They were going to get caught, the O’Driscolls were going to shoot Uncle John and Karen and he’d be all alone. He tasted the New Austin desert dust in his mouth, he saw the thick darkness that lay behind cellar doors spotting his vision.

“Baby, you need to breathe,” Karen whispered, shaking Isaac as much as she could without dislodging the boy. “Come on, deep breaths, everything’s gonna be alright.”

“Karen, go,” John said, pulling Karen up to stand and pushing her forward towards the empty street. The two of them ran, John keeping one hand on Karen’s back as he pushed her forward, scanning the streets with his gun.

They were met with screams as they burst through the doors of the saloon, to which John harshly shushed them, still pushing Karen deeper into the building.

“Shut your damn mouths, where’s Abigail Roberts?” John shoved Karen behind the bar, earning a frustrated glare in return for the manhandling.

“S-she went out the back,” One shaking working girl piped up, pointing at the back door. “Said she was leavin’ for good.”

“Shit,” John cursed and ran towards the door before pointing back at Karen. “Keep your head down and keep Isaac safe or else we’re both in trouble.”

“Sure, leave me with childcare,” Karen halfheartedly complained, still clutching Isaac too tight as she listened for the slam of the door as John left.

The whole saloon was silent, the world outside was silent, nothing for long, laborious moments; and even when three O’Driscolls did walk in they were quiet at first. Saying nothing as they scanned the cowering masses.

“You know…” One of them started. “Even if we can’t find Dutch’s Boys we can still take a girl or two home with us, can’t we?”

“Focus you idiot,” The one in the lead replied before unholstering his pistol and pressing it up against the nearest girl's head, sending her to broken, gasping tears. “Where are they?”

“B-Behind the bar, they ain’t ours, please don’t hurt me!”

Before the girl could even finish her stuttering sentence Karen had dropped Isaac, grabbed her gun, and shot the leading O’Driscoll through the eyes.

The other two yelled and dove for cover, looking around for even more assailants and glaring bloody murder at Karen when they saw she was the only one.

“Y’know fellas, I met your boss a couple years ago, and I can only imagine the thing that stank worse than his breath was you morons.” Karen cocked the gun and shot at the foot of one of the men where it showed between the legs of the tables.

The gunfight between them didn’t last long, Isaac stayed in a curled ball at Karen’s feet but every shot made him flinch hard enough to smack something against the bar and once more he felt like he couldn’t breathe. Karen fired the rest of the bullets available to her and ducked down to reload, watching the entrance of the bar anxiously with each bullet she loaded in.

It was pure luck that she finished just before one of them rounded the corner, blood draining from various close calls with his guns drawn, but Karen filled his gut with lead before he could pull the trigger. What was unlucky was the final O’Driscoll diving over the bar and tackling Karen, throwing her gun away as he slammed her head against the wooden walls.

“You bitch.”

Karen brought a hand up to her neck in time before the man started choking her, giving her just enough precious air to stomp him between the legs as viciously as she could, before grabbing a bottle behind her and slamming it down on his head.

The hit was enough to make him back off for a second and Isaac screeched as the man slammed into the bar beside him, crawling away towards the end of the bar as fast as he could. Looking back over his shoulder Karen had climbed on the man's lap and had her red-painted fingers wrapped around his throat, trying to choke the ever-living daylights out of him.

With a broken gasp, the man scrambled for his belt, pulling out a hunting knife and plunging it into Karen’s thigh with a powerful fury, when she screamed and let him go the man took out the knife and jammed it into her back before pushing her off him.

Isaac choked at the sight, sure that he was about to watch someone else die right in front of him. Positive that the rough texture of the wood beneath his fingers would be another grim reminder that came to him in his moments of panic, terrified that the last thing Karen would see would be the twisted, cruel, bloodstained smile of the O’Driscoll.

But Isaac was proven wrong. Karen reached back for the knife and pulled it out with an earthshaking shriek, jabbing the man in the side of the neck with it before he could stop her, his hand lightly resting on hers where he’d tried too late.

“Karen!” Isaac yelled, running back to her, his hand shaking and pale where he hovered over her injuries. “Are you ok?”

“No, honey, I ain’t,” Karen wheezed, leaning back against the bar with a gasp. “Rip up his shirt, press it on the wounds. O-or go get John, honey, please.”

Isaac nodded shakily and started pulling fruitlessly on the shirt, trying to rip it without an ounce of strength left in his body as adrenaline and panic vied for dominance. He hesitated when more noise started up in the bar, terrified that more men had found them with Karen half-dead beside him, but to his utter relief, Uncle John appeared at the end of the bar, Abigail behind him. He was clutching a new dark red spot on his side but he dropped to his knees to look over Karen regardless. The two of them secured Karen and John’s wounds efficiently with bandages and towels soon dark red with blood.

“We need to go, now,” John wheezed as he stood. “Wagon’ll be slower but even if we find horses to steal Karen and I ain’t in a position to use ‘em.”

With much effort John hauled Karen up to stand, the woman blinking sluggishly as her head lolled on his shoulder. Despite how he winced and groaned with every step John weaved his way through the saloon, kicking the back door hard when he got there.

“Are you gonna be sick?” Abigail asked him as she grabbed his hand and tugged him along. “Cause now’s the time, this place deserves it.”

Isaac shook his head though she wasn’t looking at him, she was hardly talking to him in the first place, but it didn’t matter, Isaac was just trying to focus on not lying.

Luckily, despite the noise inside the saloon, the backway was clear and the alleys were quiet. John led them all back to the street and, with no O’Driscolls in sight, to the wagon, quickly laying Karen down in the back as gently as he could.

“Abigail, grab Karen’s gun, hop up with me, Isaac lay down in the back with Karen. Stay quiet, don’t move.” John grumbled, limping over to the driver’s seat and shouting in pain as he pulled himself up.

The two of them followed instructions, though both equally dazed and terrified, and soon enough John was thrashing the reins and directing the horses out of town without anyone on their tail. The road they took back was circuitous and longer than any of them were comfortable with how pale Karen was looking but no one followed them and they could return to camp with at least that small comfort.

Isaac trembled where he lay beside Karen, praying that she wouldn’t die, that she could make it a little longer. He gripped her hand and tried to pretend the chill was from the sea air.

“Damn, O’Driscolls, damn,” John mumbled as they traveled down the wooded stretch up to the camp. His grasp on the reins weakened as they traveled and he had to keep shaking himself awake when he slumped over. When he started pitching forward into the horse’s asses Abigail jostled him awake and grabbed the reins from him.

“You’re gonna kill us all like that.” Abigail took the time to pull John’s arm over her shoulder and keep him at least somewhat upright as she took the reins and kept driving them forward.

“Why’d you come back?” John slurred, leaning heavily against her.

“After all that? I cannot rightly say,” Abigail sighed the picture of calm under pressure except for the tremor in her hands.

“Thanks anyways.” John slumped across Abigail, nearly sending her off the side, the rush of adrenaline finally wearing off for him to pass out as they crossed the threshold into camp.

Isaac barely understood that they’d gotten back, he couldn’t comprehend that he was home safe and could move from his frozen spot beside Karen without getting them all shot. There was yelling and commotion all around him and one by one the injured people got taken down and away from the wagon until finally someone came up and got Isaac.

He still wasn’t completely aware of what was happening around him until he felt a big, warm hand pressed against his back, holding him tight, and smelled the familiar scent of hair pomade and cigarettes.

“Daddy…Daddy there’s bad men,” Isaac mumbled, gripping his father tighter, waiting for all the noise and confusion around him to die down and become sensible again.

“I know,” Daddy said gruffly, his voice tight as he carried Isaac through camp. “I can’t let you out of my sight for a second, can I?”

“I’m sorry,” Isaac said weakly, the crash into utter safety from the pure hectic panic from the last hour made Isaac’s eyelids heavy and he felt himself drifting off even as he held onto his Pa tighter. Isaac fell asleep to the yelling of people trying to keep Karen and John alive, and to Daddy talking to Mac, Davey, and Bill about taking care of some folks before they caused too much more trouble.

* * *

Daddy and them came back. I didn’t even know they’d left, they’d gone when I was sleeping. I was so scared ‘cause they were all covered in blood, but it was O’Driscoll blood, folk seem to think that’s ok.

Daddy, Bill, Mac and Davey all went out and found where the O’Driscolls had been hiding out and took care of them all. Grandpa said it had to be done ‘cause with Karen and Uncle John recovering we weren’t gonna be able to move for weeks.

Everyone was so happy to hear what they’d done, even Uncle Dutch, who usually don’t like risky behavior, seemed proud of them. Uncle wanted to throw a party to celebrate, but Daddy says he’s just always looking for an excuse to drink.

We didn’t ‘cause folk are still recovering, now Daddy and Bill need healing too, but Uncle John at least woke up, and they got the bullet out fine.

But Miss Grimshaw said that there’s a chance Karen doesn’t make it because of how deep the knife went. Those men might’ve killed Karen, we have to see if she makes it through the night, and they could have killed Daddy and all them too.

I couldn’t figure out how to tell Daddy how much it scared me. I know it’s good those men are gone, but I know what those men can do. I don’t care how good it is if all the O’Driscolls are dead, I’m tired of seeing so much blood.

Chapter Text

Oh, what trouble we find. Dutch’s newest girl Enid well and truly fucked us.

She started getting into the pants of the sheriff and they got to talking, she found out about the bounties on Hosea, Dutch, and I and fancied herself a bounty hunter. She told them where the three of us would be, and we got ambushed, and somehow those incompetent buffoons got us all locked up.

John and them came and broke us out before they could hang us, big stupid shootout as we ran away but God help us we escaped. Getting locked up wasn’t really the problem, we’ve all spent a night or two in a cell. No, Enid was the problem.

I ain’t seen Dutch as furious since Annabelle’s death. When he told the folks back at camp they were none too pleased either and the poor girl met the business end of Susan’s gun.

Isaac was inconsolable. Not only the girl’s death, he didn’t see it but he didn’t need to to be upset with it, but the fact that my neck had been so near on the line. He’s afraid of losing me, as foolish as that might be, afraid he’ll be left alone.

And I can tell him over and over again that the gang ain’t ever gonna let him be abandoned, but he ain’t satisfied cause I can’t promise him I’ll never be taken away.

He’s getting older, becoming more aware of the nature of our work. I’m worried that just keeping the boy alive ain’t enough anymore.

* * *

“Pa! Catch!”

Arthur looked up at the sound of Isaac’s voice and nearly bit his tongue off when he saw the boy hanging off the side of the wagon looking at him with an intent he recognized. As soon as Isaac caught Arthur’s eye he kicked off the side of the wagon and jumped at his father.

With some quick thinking and luck Arthur snatched the boy out of the air to swing him onto the horse. “Boy, you are going to be the death of me,” Arthur groaned with a hand on his rapidly beating heart. “You tryin’ to get trampled?”

“I knew you’d catch me,” Isaac replied simply.

Arthur sighed, looking up to the sky as if to say, ‘You see our boy Eliza? You see how he tests me?’

He needed whatever strength Eliza was willing to give him. They’d finally snuck out of the valley they’d been in and evaded the damn lawmen again, ran from Enid’s burnt body and somehow avoided the noose. And now they’d been on the road for almost three weeks, Dutch unwilling to stop until he felt secure that all the bad business was long down the road. So everyone was restless and irritable, except for John and Javier who were busy making asses of themselves competing for Abigail's attention. Looking back at the wagon Isaac had been riding in with the ladies he saw the two men trailing close behind it and he figured Isaac had literally jumped to get away from their same foolishness.

“We’ll set up camp soon, son, won’t be like this for too much longer.” Arthur said, patting Isaac’s shoulder as the boy focused on braiding Boadacia’s mane.

“That’s what you said yesterday,” Isaac whined, thumping his head back against Arthur’s chest with bruising force.

“I meant it yesterday too, weren’t my fault those squatters took some potshots at us.”

“‘Course not, it never is,” Isaac muttered.

“What was that?”

Before Arthur attempted to reproach him for the back talk, Miss Grimshaw suddenly pulled the wagon beside them to a halt, forcing the two behind her to do the same.

“Gross, not again!” Karen very helpfully yelled.

“Oh, Lord, Tilly help her down,” Miss Grimshaw fussed, walking quickly to the back and shooing away John and Javier, looking pale and nauseous as they stared. “Miss Roberts you have to tell us when you’re feelin’ sick, at least give us a chance to get you on solid ground.”

Abigail stumbled out of the wagon, Tilly doing her best to lower her gently while Miss Grimshaw got a tight grip on her arm. Arthur winced and covered Isaac’s eyes as he saw the vomit down Abigail’s front and across her skirt.

“She gonna be alright?”

“Go tell Dutch we’re stoppin’,” Miss Grimshaw called out, waving over her shoulder. “And for God’s sake, John, Mr. Escuella, give the girl a little breathing room!”

Arthur watched Abigail be led off the trail towards the river nearby and just prayed that she wasn’t coming down with something. He couldn’t imagine anything worse happening to them right now than an outbreak while they were on the run.

He weaved his way up to the front of the caravan, which had slowly come to a halt as more folks realized Miss Grimshaw had stopped, and found Dutch and Hosea, Dutch staring at the horizon and Hosea staring at him.

“Abigail’s sick again, we’re stopping’ for a bit,” Arthur said tentatively, worried about how Dutch would react. After the whole thing with Enid, Dutch had been a little on edge, finding fault with every potential campsite they could pick, always urging them forwards.

“She’s been sick every day for a week, I’ll go check on her,” Hosea said, the worry lines carved deep into his forehead. As he passed Arthur he grabbed his arm and pulled him down enough to whisper, “He’s stopped talking to me, we gotta get him to rest.”

Arthur nodded and patted his would-be father’s hand on his arm, hoping he could seem competent and not just as worried as the old man was. Isaac stared between all three of them with his big eyes and Arthur could tell the boy was understanding more of what was going on than he should.

“Y’know Dutch, was unfortunate that we stopped but this is as fine a spot as any to set up,” Arthur said, coming to a stop beside Dutch, where he had not looked away from the horizon the whole time he and Hosea had been talking. “There’s a river nearby, we passed one town and there’s another couple miles east, looks like good hunting too.”

“That look like a storm to you, Arthur?” Dutch finally spoke, pointing at the dark clouds he’d been watching. “We don’t want to be caught up in that, especially not with Miss Roberts under the weather.”

“Whether we stop or we’re on the road it’s gonna come regardless-”

“We can cut south,” Dutch interrupted, looking over at Arthur with a distant look in his eyes, a look Arthur recognized from Hosea’s absence. “We can outrun it, get somewhere better, drier, won’t be hard.”

“Or we can buckle down and prepare for it,” Arthur said gently.

“I’d rather run as long as I can, Arthur, see if I can’t stay a step ahead.”

“Listen, what happened back there was bad, but we have to face facts, old man, we’re out of supplies and we’re runnin’ out of food. If Abigail really is sick and she gets everyone sick we’re dead in the water, and even if she isn't we ain’t makin’ any money out on the trail, Dutch!” Arthur knew yelling was only going to get Dutch’s hackles raised but he couldn’t help it, he was frustrated. “This ain’t 15 years ago, we got a lot more folks to take care of and you’re giving us a lot less to work with.”

“Arthur do not mistake my caution for uncaring, son,” Dutch bit out, running a hand through his messy hair. “I-I got a plan, we just need to get out of here, keep going south…”

“Why’re we leavin’? Rain’s not so bad,” Isaac piped up, startling both men as they’d forgotten he was there. “Everything smells nice and all the frogs come out and Copper and I splash in the puddles!”

“Then you and Copper get baths, ain’t that right?” Arthur said, laughing when Isaac wrinkled his nose in annoyance. He let Isaac distract them until Dutch’s gaze unfocused again and he turned back to the black clouds. “Just take a second, Dutch, really think about it. Would it be so bad if that storm blew over us?”

Dutch sighed, weary and heavier than a man his age had any right to feel, heavy with all the responsibilities of leading, before finally he shook himself and took a deep, fortifying breath, “No, son, it wouldn’t be the worst we’ve faced.”

Then Dutch turned back to the caravan, to the restless people milling about, smoking and talking amongst themselves, complaining of the hard riding and the endless trail. He addressed them looking more like himself, his arms spread wide, speaking with a voice that could reach thousands. “We have found our new home, ladies, fellas, let’s get to work!”

* * *

They were so adept at moving that it’d only taken them a few hours to set up, and only a few more days after that to get the lay of the land and the resources available to them. Everything returned to normal as soon as it always did, no matter where they went the people, the money, and the chores all stayed the same. The only thing that changed was the scenery, as well as what new ways the rest of the gang could find to annoy the crap out of Arthur.

“Looks like someone's bein’ foolish and chasing married women,” John said with a mischievous smirk across his face, brandishing a letter as he approached Arthur

“I told you, I don’t care what you boys get up to, some of us got work to do,” Arthur grumbled as he hauled a massive hay bale from the wagon over to where the horses were grazing. “Go gossip with the other ladies, I’m sure they’re dyin’ to hear it.”

“You are so right, Arthur,” John rasped, as he turned away, that damn smirk not leaving his face. “I’m sure Tilly and Miss Grimshaw would love to hear about how Mary Gillis is writin’ you- ow!”

Arthur dropped the hay bale as soon as he heard Mary’s name and slammed into John’s back to rip the letter out of his hand, sending the other man sprawling with a grunt of pain.

“What the hell, Arthur!”

“Moron,” Arthur growled, stalking away from his abandoned chore, passing by Abigail who scurried over to John spitting grass and dirt out of his mouth. He could hear her helping him up and asking him to talk but the further he walked away the less he cared.

It felt like everything in camp went silent as he looked over the envelope and saw Mary’s looping handwriting. He couldn’t even begin to think of how she’d found him, his whole mind was overrun with what she could want, why she’d suddenly broken her silence after so long.

Before he knew it he was sitting with his back against a rocky outcropping, completely hidden from the camp behind him, striving for some semblance of privacy as he pulled out the worn, creased letter he’d gotten from Mary almost three years ago. He read and reread the letter, even though he’d as much as memorized it by this point, straining to remember that night when he and Annabelle had read it, how she’d comforted him afterward like he was a child, how he’d shaken and cursed himself, how he shook even now looking at it.

He needed to remember the heartache, needed to remember how being cast aside, being left behind had scarred him so terribly, he needed to remember so no matter what Mary had written to him about this time he would not be swayed and led down a path that would only bring him pain.

“Lord, Annabelle,” Arthur tipped his head back, folding the soft letter again. “Bet you’re kickin’ yourself that you ain’t here for this.”

Finally, he took the bent, dirt-streaked envelope and cut it open, pulling out a letter and a pamphlet for some fancy school named Cornwall College. He immediately tossed the pamphlet to the side, he didn’t care so much where Jaime was going to school, though he was proud of the young man, but he was just desperate to know what Mary had to say.

Dear Arthur,

How you must hate me, for what I said and what I did and this letter I write now. I know I said I was going off to get married and that the two of us were done. I know I said a lot of things and I meant them, and one of those things is that I would pray for you and your boy.

I have thought about you both frequently these past years. I wonder sometimes if I had left my life behind if I would be mothering him, or at least caring for him where his mother can no longer. Though I am sure you are a wonderful father and he is not lacking because I am not there, you were always so kind and patient with Jaime.

So be sure that I am not writing to you to doubt your ability to care for Isaac, though I still worry over his safety and yours.

There is a boarding school opening in a few months, Cornwall College, available to boys between 6 and 18. I suggest you send Isaac. It would allow him to get an education and keep him safe from your reckless life. My husband and I could care for him when needed and we would help in covering the tuition.

I know your mentor preaches against such lavish things as stability and esteemed learning but please, Arthur, please consider it. Though we are apart I only want what is best for you and your son, and I only hope you agree with me that this is it.

Sincerely,

Mary Linton

Arthur felt his breath crush in his lungs. Just like Dutch Mary thought Isaac was better off far from him, though he should have expected this. She’d never been one for their life on the road, and throwing a child in the mix must have had her worried sick these past years. Because apparently the woman he’d loved had been thinking about him and his son for three years, despite her nice, normal life with her fine, respectable husband he was still taking up space in her thoughts. But despite how selfishly happy the idea of that made him, he couldn't stop himself from harshly tugging at his hair as panic and rage raced through his veins, because deep down, deep, deep down he had to wonder if they were right.

As long as Isaac was with him the boy was in danger. It had been a miracle when Colm had rode in and stolen Annabelle that Isaac hadn’t gotten more hurt than the bruise on his chest, that he hadn’t been taken and brutalized like Annabelle had. And even if he wasn’t in danger the boy was growing up without a home, without a modicum of stability, even at such a young age he carried all those same anxieties and tensions that Arthur had growing up under the rule of his father, though for different reasons, it still had Arthur’s heart clenching painfully.

But he could sit here and rationalize it all day long he still didn’t want to give up Isaac, he didn’t want to lose this connection with his son now that he’d gained it, and he especially didn’t want to give up the last bit of Eliza that he still had that didn’t scare the daylights out of him. And even if it was better for the boy Arthur wouldn’t be content with him miles away under the supervision of strangers. Arthur had seen what people in power would do to those weaker and smaller than them, he’d seen what adults would do to children knowing there was hardly anyone in the world who would care to stop them.

Living away from Arthur was probably safer, but as far as he was concerned the boy was in danger every second he didn’t have his eye on him.

He snatched up the pamphlet from where he’d tossed it aside and looked it over, in big, bold words it described much of what Mary had been talking about. Fine teaching by qualified women, clean boarding and three warm meals a day, longevity, and ties to further educational institutes. It was what any parent could dream of for their child.

Arthur snarled at the paper and just barely resisted the urge to tear it into pieces. He was emotional, he wasn’t thinking straight, he needed to talk to Hosea about all this. Just because he didn’t want to send Isaac out to middle-of-nowhere Kansas to live with strangers didn’t mean it wasn’t still an option he should consider.

So with all the patience he had left he folded up the pamphlet and Mary’s letter and slipped them into his journal, wondering how long he could hide this from everyone, how long he’d need to take to prepare himself to discuss this. He walked back to camp knowing the answer would be longer than he’d want.

* * *

“Copper! Copper, here boy!” Isaac called as he walked through camp, he’d had an idea earlier that morning to teach Copper how to read and though he didn’t have a plan yet once he found the dog Isaac was sure that he’d figure it out from there.

He’d just come back from the river where Copper liked to chase birds and was now looking under all the wagons for where the dog might be sleeping, it was when he was under the ladies' wagon that he saw Abigail and Uncle John. He started scooting back as fast as he could, when they were alone together they were usually gross and kissing, but before he could back out from under the wagon he heard them talking.

“Abigail, what?” Uncle John sounded exasperated.

“I’ve been tryin’ to have a conversation with you for three days now and that’s how you greet me?” Abigail sounded mad. “Real charmin’, Marston.”

“I just got knocked on my ass by Arthur, woman, I’m not interested in bein’ harped on by you for whatever you think I did wrong.”

“Listen to me,” Abigail hissed. “I have somethin’ important to tell you, somethin’ life-changing.”

“No need to be dramatic, I ain’t Dutch,” John scoffed. “If you got a lead on something you should go tell him, I’m busy.”

“Just- just hush for a moment, John, for once in your life.” Isaac heard Abigail take a deep breath like she did whenever she was frustrated with John or Javier and he could see her awkwardly shuffling in place before gently grabbing Uncle John’s hands. “You know how we’ve been spendin’ a lot of time together lately? And how I was sick for a while? I realized it’s ‘cause I’m…pregnant and you’re the father.”

Isaac gasped softly, he’d never really been around other kids, especially not babies, and if it was Uncle John’s kid then it would be his cousin!

“You’re lyin’,” Uncle John gritted out after a long moment of silence, stepping away from Abigail and away from her grasp as he paced in agitation. “Could be anyone’s kid, you’ve been ‘spendin’ time’ with lots of other fellas ‘round camp, go bring them your sob story.”

“John!” Abigail’s voice cracked as she gasped and Isaac didn’t have to see her to know that she’d started crying. “How could you be so cruel to me? Now that I’m pregnant you ain’t even gonna pretend to be nice no more? What kind of man are you?”

“Not a dumb enough one to be caught up in this, goodbye Abigail,” John growled and stomped away, Abigail following close behind.

“We have to talk about this, John, you don’t just get to walk away!”

“Watch me!”

As they made it to the center of camp Javier caught sight of Abigail crying and marched right up to John, furious on her behalf. “Ey, cabrón what the hell did you say to her?”

“This is none of your business, Javier! Please just stay out of it,” Abigail said, trying to both clean her face and grab John before he could make it to Whiskey.

“Oh, are you sure it’s not Abigail?” Uncle John said meanly, whirling around to glare at her. “Are you really sure it’s not any of his business, ‘cause if he wants it he can have it.”

“John Marston, come back here!”

Isaac crawled out from under the wagon to see John saddling up and riding out of camp and Javier futilely trying to comfort Abigail. Her face was red with tears and anger but underneath it all she looked terrified.

* * *

That night Arthur fell asleep to the sound of rain and woke to bright, blue endless skies.

Familiar skies, skies he hadn’t seen in a long, long time, a view he remembered when he and Eliza would sit on the hill, watching Isaac splash around in the reeds and chase frogs. He looked down from the neverending sky and saw just that.

Isaac, so young and innocent that it hurt to look at him, unburdened by closed cellar doors and the sight of an empty grave.

And beside Arthur, her hair spilling out of her braid as the wind teased and pulled it, her eyes crinkling with love as she smiled at her son, her skin warm and flushed, her heart miraculously beating: Eliza.

“Hi, Arthur,” She said. “Been a while.” Arthur hadn’t realized until that moment that he’d forgotten what her voice sounded like. That as the years had passed his memories had become more and more flat, pictures of her beneath glass, static and unchanging and silent.

“H-how? You’re-” He grabbed her hands, marveling at the warmth,

“Don’t hurt yourself, big guy.” Eliza tangled their fingers together before sighing. “This is a dream, you won’t remember it when you wake up. You never do.”

“I remember when you scare the shit out of me, why wouldn’t I remember this?”

“Ain’t it always easier rememberin’ the bad?” Eliza laughed meanly, patting Arthur’s cheek like he was a child. “Big, tough man like you can’t have any softness can he?”

“Tell that to the boy,” Arthur said, gesturing to where young Isaac was hopping along like a frog chasing dragonflies. “I’m plenty soft with him.”

“It’s true,” Eliza sighed longingly, dropping her head down on Arthur’s shoulder. “You’re a fine father, Arthur.”

“If that’s what you think then why’re you tormenting me most nights” Arthur halfheartedly growled. “Hard enough getting a full night's sleep and then you come along to guilt me, ain’t you got better things to do than haunt my sorry ass? Heaven ain’t good enough?”

“You haven’t thanked me for saving Isaac’s life.”

Arthur sighed and ran a hand through his hair, pushing away all the things that could have gone wrong if that terrifying specter of Eliza hadn’t approached him in the New Austin desert two years ago. The boy had been alive for so short a time, and yet he had almost been dashed away more than Arthur could bear. Felt like he couldn’t protect him from all that would hurt him, needed ghosts and things to pick up the slack, a fine father indeed.

“It’s much appreciated, ‘Liza.”

“Thank you, but that ain’t why we’re here.” Eliza sighed and tipped her head back, which scared Arthur cause she only did that when she was gearing up to lay into someone. “I know about Miss Mary’s little letter. Who the hell does she think she is trying to parent my son?”

“I mean…it might not be the worst thing for him,” Arthur begrudgingly offered.

“Oh really?” Eliza stood up, still barely taller than him while he sat, and glared bloody murder at him. “I’m sure if she told you to eat your gun that’d seem like a fine idea too!”

“Eliza, you’re not bein’ fair-”

“What’s not fair is that I’m dead!” She screamed, the peaceful, loving exterior breaking down to show her messy, ugly turmoil. “I shouldn’t have died! I should still be there taking care of Isaac! We should be working together so that we can raise him right. I hate those men, and some days, Arthur Morgan, I hate you so much I can’t stand it!”

Arthur didn’t say anything, just stood up and held Eliza, crushing her to his chest as she sobbed and pounded her fists against him.

“I want to see Isaac again, I want to hold him,” She sobbed. “He’s growing so fast and I only get to watch, it’s not fair, it’s not fair.”

Her words devolved into heart-wrenching wailing, and Arthur had to try very hard to resist the mist gathering in his eyes as he heard her lament and cradled her through her crying.

“I know, darling, it’s awful.” He kissed her head and wished against all logic that he could wake up to a world where she was alive once more. “You just tell me what you want and I’ll do it.”

“I don’t know,” She said, barely making the words out through her sobs. “I don’t know the right answer either, he don’t deserve all the trouble he’s been livin’ through, he deserves to be safe. But Lord if it won’t just kill him if you send him away.”

Arthur nodded and held her tighter, trying to imprint the living memory of her on his brain, trying to note every detail of this impossible landscape so he could remember the good as well as the bad, so he could share it with Isaac who remembered even less than he did.

“Here’s what’s gonna happen,” Arthur said, rubbing a hand up and down her back, and suddenly he was reminded of Eliza when she was pregnant, months after she’d first told him, sobbing and screaming at him and freaking out. She’d been afraid of bringing Isaac into the world, of being a mother, of being alone. And why wouldn’t she? She wasn’t even twenty years old at the time. But Arthur had bundled her up, got her to calm down and take a breath, and reminded her that he wouldn’t leave her high and dry, that she’d be stable enough, and that she’d be a great mother. “You’re gonna keep watching over us two fools, for which I am grateful, and I’m going to think long and hard about what’s right for Isaac, and maybe the two of us can pull together enough sense to figure it out.”

Eliza laughed wetly and squeezed him back before pulling back enough to see him, she stood up on her toes and kissed his cheek, brushing her thumb over the scar on his chin.

“You’re a good man, Arthur Morgan, I’m sure you’ll make the right decision.”

He shook his head and smiled, turning with Eliza in his arms to see Isaac running up to them, squealing in excitement as he brandished the frog he’d finally managed to catch. Eliza shrieked and ran away, scolding Isaac through her laughter about messing with dirty things, and before she could get too much farther Arthur grabbed Isaac and held him out, the same way Isaac held the frog and continued chasing Eliza around, laughing at the familiar foolishness.

They exhausted themselves running around the hill and by the time Arthur finally relented and fell to the grass with a grunt they were all mud-spattered and smelling like frog pee. Isaac red-faced and panting where he splayed between Arthur and Eliza smiling like fools up at the big sky, exhausted and content together.

Arthur awoke with a start to Isaac shaking his shoulder, feeling like he’d just left something warm and lovely, like there was something important wavering on the edge of his mind, but no matter how hard he tried to catch it and recall it slipped away. In a daze he pulled the boy close and looked around the camp, searching for whatever new danger had cropped up, surprised and confused for a moment at how much bigger Isaac was then he’d expected him to be, but the confusion left him as he woke.

“Wha- What is it?” Arthur rubbed at his eyes when he didn’t see anything immediately, feeling the lack of sleep draw on his weary brain. “What’s the matter?”

“I-I-” Isaac stammered, his breathing coming faster and faster as he tucked himself against his Pa’s side. “I couldn’t sleep ‘cause it was dark, a-and then I heard somethin’! It sounded like someone’s here.”

“Ok, c’mere, let’s look together,” Arthur groaned, rolling out of bed, keeping a hand on Isaac’s shoulder as the boy clung to him.

“But i-it’s dark,” Isaac whispered, staring out at the shadowed campgrounds, the main fire long since doused.

“Ain’t nothin’ out there I can’t handle, you just stick close,” Arthur said, still blinking sleep out of his eyes.

Their camp wasn’t large and it didn’t take them long to check the tents scattered around and the perimeter before eventually finding Javier sitting out on an outcropping of rocks smoking a cigarillo. The younger man waved to the two of them in greeting.

“Ey, couldn’t sleep?”

“The boy thought he heard somethin’,” Arthur said, relieved he wasn’t actually going to have to deal with anything tonight, hoping he could get him and Isaac back to bed now. “What’re you doin’ up? Y’ain’t on watch.”

Javier took another drag of his cigarillo, “John and I got into a fight-”

“Abigail again?”

“Oh, in a big way,” Javier chuckled meanly. “He came back drunk, started acting like a jerk and yellin’ at Abigail, I kicked his ass and threw him out of camp, and now she won’t talk to me either. Think I’m done with all that, tired of it.”

“It’s about time, if I’d wanted to hear all the yowling and hissing you three get into I’d throw a couple cats in a sack and be done with it,” Arthur said, rolling his eyes. “See, Isaac, ain’t nothin’ to be scared of, just Javier finding some sense.”

Arthur figured the sound of him leaving was what Isaac had heard, and he felt the boy shrink against him as he came to the same conclusion. To his dismay, the revelation didn’t ease the tension pulling Isaac’s shoulders taut, and instead, the boy started shaking and sobbing into his side. Arthur would have laughed at Javier’s panicked expression at the sight of the distraught kid if Arthur wasn’t so worried himself. With hardly a glance back at the other man Arthur pulled Isaac away, wishing dearly he was more coherent then he was now to deal with this.

“Alright, what’s the worry, what’s goin’ on?”

Isaac remained unresponsive and no matter how Arthur cajoled him or tried to draw him out Isaac wouldn’t leave the refuge of Arthur’s shirt, his hysterics only growing more intense as they kept walking.

Finally, Arthur just hauled the boy up and into his arms, letting him bury his face in Arthur’s shoulder and allowing Arthur to hold him securely, giving him some semblance of control as he was helpless to watch his son fall apart in front of him.

“I’m tired,” Isaac finally wailed, his voice cracking horribly under his tears. “I can’t sleep and it’s dark when I wake up.”

Isaac’s crying reached a higher pitch and Arthur squeezed the boy tighter to him, hoping that it would be enough to calm him. He’d somehow managed to comfort the boy all these years, thankful that the pressure of the tight embrace seemed to alleviate the worries as they had for Arthur as a child but despite the hug Isaac still cried, his breathing growing quicker as his anxieties loomed.

“What if we get attacked? I don’t want to get hurt, I don’t want you to get hurt!” Isaac gritted his teeth and clung to Arthur with everything he had. “I don’t want more people dying.”

“No one’s dyin’, son we’re safe, everything’s fine.”

“We think we’re safe at every camp!” Isaac’s voice broke in his frustrated peril. “And most times there’s O’Driscolls around the corner! We’re all just waitin’ to die.”

Arthur balked as Isaac cried even harder, horrified to hear just what was plaguing the boy. “Son, deep breaths, please, there’s nothin’ to worry about, not while I’m around, nothin’ is ever gonna happen to you, I swear.”

“But what if you die too?” Isaac whispered, his voice hoarse and broken. And Arthur knew that no answer he gave the boy would ever be enough, especially not in the darkest part of the night when all one's nightmares seemed to loom larger. So he held the child, rocked him, pleaded with him even to get him to go back to sleep, and through it all he could not help but wonder how disappointed Eliza would be with him at the state of her son, with how the only life he was able to provide left him so rattled and scarred.

He whispered apologies into the night and just hoped he would not see her in his dreams, he was sick of nightmares.

* * *

The next day Arthur felt like no matter how much he blinked or washed his face his eyes were unbearably dry, exhausted as he was from the sound of Isaac crying and worrying himself over such terrible things. And it didn’t help that Mary’s letter had been burning in his mind, her letter, the school, and his inability to decide on whether or not he should send Isaac. All of it left him worn out.

Every time he thought about what plagued Isaac he decided to send the boy, but then he could only imagine what an anxious wreck he would become with his son so far away, and so he’d decide to keep Isaac with him. He’d made himself dizzy running through each choice, trying to decide which had the least chance of ruining Isaac’s life and leaving him alive and well at the end of it.

After wearing himself out all day thinking, then properly exhausting himself trying to get Isaac to eat he’d finally decided to discuss it with Hosea and Dutch, though Arthur had a suspicion what his answer would be. Leaving Isaac passed out and curled around Copper Arthur ventured into camp, lit only by the dwindling campfire, and found their two leaders looking over some maps and notes they’d acquired from contacts throughout the area.

“Arthur, take a look at this,” Dutch said once Arthur approached them, as if Arthur had been with them all evening, barely looking up from the pile of paper and handed over a sweat-stained folded page with cramped words written in bleeding ink. “Hosea ain’t so sure this lead is worth the risk, but if the money is what they claim then it’d be just the nest egg we need to head out to California.”

“Maybe later, Dutch, I need to talk to you two,” Arthur said, throwing the note back on the pile without sparing it a further look. Arthur’s dismissal drew a suspicious glare from Dutch.

“You’re the one always complainin’ that we don’t have enough work, what could be more important?”

Arthur started pulling his journal out to grab Mary’s letter and the pamphlet when a horse came screaming into camp, nearly running over them before it reared and turned at the last second, dumping John on his ass.

“Jesus Christ, Marston!”

“Son, there you are!” Dutch said, getting up to pull John to his feet. “Where the hell have you been? We’ve been looking for you, it’s been days.”

“Avoidin’ Abigail,” John grumbled, pushing Dutch’s arm off of him and stumbling, now that Arthur could see him he could tell the other man was drunk as a skunk and not running from a gunfight like he’d graciously suspected. The drunkard fell into a seat and stole Hosea’s beer, draining the rest of it before speaking up again. “She told me she’s pregnant, says its mine-”

“Congratulations, John!” Hosea interrupted, excitedly patting John on the shoulder.

“It’s not mine, she’s lyin’,” John said, earning looks ranging from confused to angry. “She probably thought I’d just roll over and let her walk all over me but I ain’t that dumb.” John tried to stand, his expression stormy if unfocused. “I’ll go tell her right now, serve her right thinkin’ I’m so stupid.”

“No, you’re even dumber,” Arthur growled and shoved John back into the seat. “What the hell are you talkin’ ‘bout? Why would she lie?”

“Listen, I don’t care what y’all think.” John took Dutch’s drink as well and finished that off. “I don’t want her no more, someone else can take her, and if she ain’t lyin’ about the kid then that can be someone else’s problem.”

“She ain’t a toy John! You can’t just throw her away, ‘specially not when she’s pregnant with your child.” Hosea said. Arthur could tell he was just barely resisting the urge to slap John around, for having been drunk for the better part of a year Hosea had little to no patience for drunken nonsense and his sobering method of choice was violence.

“A child is a blessing, son, be grateful.” Dutch said, clapping John’s shoulder.

“Well I’m not.”

“You know you are one lucky bastard, John,” Arthur said, gripping the table with white knuckles. “Dutch, Hosea, and I? Well even if we wanted to leave our ladies behind we don’t got the choice because they up and died on us-“

“Arthur,” Hosea barked, glaring at the man. “Be reasonable, son.”

“Don’t know what he’s thinking!” Arthur yelled, gesturing at the man, so drunk he could barely stay upright. “Throwing his family away just like that.”

“It ain’t my fault Bessie, Annabelle, and Eliza died!” John yelled back, grabbing Arthur by the collar to stand up, shaking him as he kept yelling, his breath foul with beer. All the air between the men seemed to get sucked out, their lingering ghosts invoked in such ugly circumstances. “So I don’t know why I have to shack up with the camp whore just ‘cause.”

Arthur shoved John away making him trip and fall over the chair, sprawling in the dirt with a pained grunt. Arthur just watched him struggle to catch his breath, unable to deny the frustration and rage building up in him, to ignore the desire to just pound Marston to a miserable paste. Hosea came up and put a hand on his chest, like he could see the violent intent in his eyes. Dutch pulled John up again and did the same.

“Boys, ain’t no need to get hostile over this,” Dutch said sternly, sounding more like his younger self trying to get Arthur and John to stop dissolving into childish squabbles. “I’m sure we can have a civil conversation.”

“Let’s take a walk, Arthur, let John get cleaned up.” Hosea tried to push Arthur away from where he was glaring daggers at his so-called brother but he easily resisted.

“When Eliza first came up to me do you think I believed her right away?” Arthur growled. “I’d been gone for three months, it could’ve been anyones, we’d only slept together once. It wasn’t like we were fucking and living with each other for months like you and Abigail.”

“So what? She promise she ain’t sleep with no one else? ‘Cause I know Abigail-”

“No, you pig, she chose me. No matter who the real father was, she wanted me to be the kid’s pa. She was asking me for help and that’s exactly what Abigail is asking you.” Arthur could scream for how frustrated he was with John's flippant, uncaring attitude. “And I’ll tell you John I believe it’s your kid wholeheartedly, ‘cause why else would she go to you over anyone else here for help?”

“You’re an asshole-“

“And you’re a pathetic, spineless, moron who needs to do the right thing and take care of that girl.” Arthur jabbed at John over Dutch’s shoulder. At this point he barely recognized that Dutch and Hosea were still here, his vision had completely tunneled to see only John. “Listen to me, John, as a man, we take care of what needs takin’ care of, and that girl is tellin’ you she needs help.”

“Well then she should ask someone else ‘cause I ain’t buyin’ that's my kid!” John snarled, trying to push Arthur away but only succeeding in nearly falling down again. When John finally got his feet under him he threw his hands up in irritation. “Keep yellin’ all you want, Morgan, ‘cause guess what? I’m not gonna let you or Abigail bully me into lying down and taking this!”

“Son, let’s talk about this” Hosea implored, trying to reach John beyond Arthur.

John ignored him and turned away, stalking over to his horse and mounting up despite the wobble in his step. “I’m done with this, done!”

Great job, run away again, Marston!” Arthur called after John, following him down the path until he reached the edge of the firelight. “Kid couldn’t ask for a better father!”

John’s only response was the clattering of hooves as he raced away from camp.

“You’re gonna be the one to explain to Miss Roberts that he’s gone again,” Dutch said when Arthur finally turned away from the empty path, arms crossed, the very picture of disappointment.

“Gladly, I didn’t say nothin’ that wasn’t true,” Arthur said, clenching his jaw like he was working over the last nerve that John had just been pummeling.

“Maybe it was true, but it wasn’t the most helpful thing you could’ve done, Arthur,” Hosea said with a sigh, falling back into his chair and massaging his temples. “Lord, what’re we gonna do with that boy?”

Arthur shook his head and walked away, leaving Dutch and Hosea to their talk. It was obvious that their argument had woken up most of the folks in camp by the grumbling and whispering he heard as he passed by supposedly sleeping forms and tents. Only when he passed the ladies tent did a single tendril of guilt worm its way through his heavy armor of rage.

Abigail stood clutching a tent pole looking like a ghost with her pale skin and paler nightgown. From where she stood she had a perfect view of where they’d been fighting, of where John had ridden away, belligerent and drunk, and the tendril grew, breaking through more and more of his burning rage. Yet when she looked over at him, her expression clearly frightened, Arthur buried that fledgling guilt, said nothing and walked back to his own tent. Whatever happened he would not apologize for saying what needed to be said.

* * *

He regretted yelling at John only when they couldn’t find the slippery bastard. When a few days passed they didn’t worry so much, but when it’d been a week and they still hadn’t seen any trace of him then folks started getting antsy. When weeks turned into a month Abigail became inconsolable, switching from crying to yelling moment to moment, and the brunt of her frustration was doled out only on the most deserving.

“Arthur Morgan!”

Arthur winced as Abigail yelled at him as soon as she spotted him riding into camp. Bracing himself for a lecture or a slap Arthur hopped off of Boadicea, and was promptly dragged out of camp and into the woods by Abigail, who was much stronger than she looked.

“Did you find him?” Her anger had a thread of panic under it, but Arthur didn’t point it out, especially not when it was so deserved.

“No, there’s no sign of him in town, he’s gone.”

“God dammit,” She yelled, gripping her hair tight as she tried to stymie her frustrated tears. “What the hell am I gonna do?”

“He’s just scared, Abigail, he’s never had to deal with something like this,” Arthur sighed and clenched his jaw, trying to see through his boiling rage at John to some sort of understanding of the man’s situation to try and comfort Abigail.

“Well, neither have I!” She screeched. “I’ve never even held a baby! If a girl got pregnant at the saloon the owner had her sent away until she spit out the kid and dumped ‘em somewhere and then she’d come back, this is all brand new to me!” Her angry rant suddenly broke and her fear won over, spilling hot tears down her face. “I wanted John to be there. I thought- I thought he loved me.”

Arthur moved to hug Abigail but she only swatted his arms away, breathing heavily as she tried to get herself under control. So Arthur stood there, clueless and uncomfortable as her attempts to calm herself failed. “Just tell me what you need, Abigail, I’m here to help.”

“I just need you to bring him back, Arthur, you scared him away, that’s how you can make this right.” Abigail’s hands dug into her shirt above her stomach like she’d claw in and rip out the baby and all of the complications it’d brought about if it could. “I can’t do this on my own, I need him, I need help, I need someone to help me take care of this goddamn kid.”

“Abigail, listen,” Arthur said softly, pulling her hands away and holding them gently in his own. “If God forbid, John never comes back, you won’t be alone. We won’t kick you out or leave you behind, we’ll all help you. Everyone’s been helpin’ me since I came back with Isaac, they’ll do the same for you.”

Abigail’s eyes grew wide and she gripped Arthur’s shoulder, “If John doesn’t come back, will you do it?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Will you help me raise the baby? We’ll get married, we’ll say it’s your kid.” Her mind was going a million miles as the pieces of her new backup plan fell into place and she gripped him hard by the shoulders, as if afraid that he would run away as well. “You’re so wonderful with Isaac, and you actually have done this before, please?”

Arthur could not resist the first sign of hope he’d seen in the girl since John first stomped out of camp, could not resist the allure of fixing things and taking care of his loved ones.

“Ah’course I will, but John might still come back. I’ve known him a long time, and he ain’t as reprehensible and crude as he might lead you to believe.”

“I hope so, Arthur, I really do.” Abigail’s ballooning hope deflated a little as he watched her, her firm grip collapsing into curled fists as she leaned against Arthur. “Do you think I can even do this? That I’ll even be a good mother? I’m so scared, Arthur.”

“I think you’re gonna love that kid so much that it’ll scare you even more,” Arthur sighed and ran a comforting hand over her back, letting her bolster herself in the embrace. “All that matters is you try your hardest, that’s all you can do.”

“Don’t know why you’re so hard on yourself then.”

“‘Cause that’s the other part of bein’ a parent,” Arthur sighed and strained to find Isaac between the trees, the heavy question of his attendance to the school flitting about Arthur like a buzzing horsefly. “You never know when you’re doin’ it right.”

“That ain’t exactly comforting,” Abigail wheezed.

Arthur winced and scratched the back of his head, he always was two seconds away from sticking his foot in his mouth. “Just know that, even if John comes back, I’ll be here to help every step of the way.”

“Oh, Arthur.” Abigail sniffled and hugged him tighter.

Eventually the two of them returned to camp and no more was said about their little deal in the coming days, but the longer John stayed away the more Arthur secretly, wretchedly, hoped he wouldn’t return. He knew he could take care of Abigail and her baby, he knew he could keep them safe, and he wasn’t quite sure John could do the same. But all there was to do was wait and see if he’d be proven wrong.

* * *

Everyone in camp was upset. Uncle John had been missing from camp for over a month now. Daddy reassured everyone over and over that he wasn’t dead, he was just stupid and Isaac had believed him for the first few weeks, but the longer it went, the more dread pooled in his stomach and made him nauseous, and the more he heard Abigail crying.

He’d been heading to the river to go swimming when he heard the familiar sound of stifled sobs echoing between the trees and followed it to where Abigail was sitting and sobbing like her heart was shattered and pained.

“Auntie? What’s wrong?” Isaac asked, despite knowing the answer.

Abigail immediately sniffled and tried to recover, wiping away the tears and smoothing back her hair. “Oh, nothin’ sweetpea, I-I’m just bein’ silly I- Didja just call me Auntie?”

“You and Uncle John are having a baby, so you’re gonna be Aunt Abigail, right?” Isaac said plainly as he sat down beside Abigail whose eyes were misting up again.

“Oh, honey I hope so,” She said, her shoulders shaking with barely contained sobs, before giving him a wobbly smile. “You’re really gonna call me Auntie? I thought that was just for Tilly?”

“I called Aunt Annabelle that too, before she died,” Isaac sighed, stopping himself short as he tried to shake the sad thoughts out of his head. “But you’re not just Auntie, you’re gonna have a baby and it’s gonna be my cousin and we’re gonna be best friends!

“Oh, honey.” Abigail pulled him into a hug and kissed his head. “You’re such a strong little kid, I can’t believe it sometimes, we could all learn somethin’ from you.”

“I ain’t that strong, I wake Daddy up at night all the time ‘cause I’m scared,” Isaac said sullenly, he hated that he was still such a baby, that he still couldn’t get through a rough night without waking up his Pa. He could see the effects of the interrupted sleep on him the days after and it only made guilt prick at him like thorns.

“You wanna know a secret?” Abigail whispered and Isaac eagerly nodded. “Your Pa’s as strong as he is 'cause he’s got folks to protect, it makes him braver.” She took one of Isaac’s hands and pulled it to her belly which had begun poking out over the last couple weeks. “But when I have my baby, you’re going to have someone little to help take care of, and they’re gonna make you braver too.”

“Really?”

“Really, really, sweetpea.” Abigail kissed him again. “They’re gonna look up to you and want to play with you and I bet you’re gonna be the best cousin ever.” Her voice dropped off into a murmur as she watched the birds flit amongst the top of the trees. “If my child is half as good as you, honey, then I’ll be the proudest mama in the world.”

Isaac stayed with Abigail for a long time, and it was so peaceful where they sat, and so warm where he was cuddled up to Abigail that from one blink to the next he’d fallen asleep leaning against her, and she against the tree they were sat next to, the heartache plaguing her over the last month alleviated enough to slip off into a nap.

When Isaac awoke later, groggy and confused, the sun was painting the sky orange and pink as it set and Abigail was still sound asleep, so Isaac resigned himself to stay so as not to wake her, she above everyone else deserved some rest.

As he was making himself comfortable he realized it wasn’t the setting sun that had awoken him, but men’s voices in the clearing behind them. Isaac stiffened in fear, sure that it was O’Driscolls coming to kill them all, and hoping that if he just stayed quiet they’d go away and leave them all alone. But as he continued listening he realized it was just Daddy and Grandpa and he was so relieved he could have cried.

“When we find him, I’m gonna kill him I swear,” Arthur growled, pacing as he talked. Isaac figured they were talking about Uncle John and he just hoped Daddy was kidding.

“I’m frustrated with him too, Arthur, but Abigail gets the final say so hold your fire,” Hosea said in a tone that made it difficult to tell if he was joking or not.

“Lord, Abigail.” Daddy slowed to a stop, sounding tired and anxious. “I cannot believe she’s gonna be havin’ a baby, this ain’t a place for children.”

Something in Daddy’s tone made Isaac’s gut twist in anxiety.

“Isaac’s been doin’ awfully well these last couple of years, you’re raising a fine young boy,” Hosea reassured Arthur. “I’m sure Abigail will do the same.”

“‘Sea…am I doin’ the right thing? By havin’ him here with me?”

“What an idiotic question, you’re doin’ your best, that's all we could ask for.”

“My best seems to only cause him misery,” Arthur sighed, the pacing starting up again judging by the shifting and crunching of leaves beneath his boots. “He’s scared of things no kid should be scared of, he asked me a month ago what’ll happen to him if I die, and I never have a good answer for him besides y’all will watch him. He jumps at loud noises and he’s convinced the O’Driscolls are gonna turn up and the worst part is he ain’t wrong to be afraid! But what kind of life am I giving him if that’s true?” Daddy paused and took a deep breath before speaking again, so solemn and quiet that Isaac could barely hear him. “What if I could send him someplace where he could be safer?”

Isaac was going to throw up. Daddy wanted to send him away because Isaac was so scared and whiny because he was too much of a baby. If Isaac had known this was a possibility he would never have woken Daddy up at night, he would have just stayed in bed and shut the hell up. Being terrified was better than being alone.

“I see you’ve got a lot on your chest,” Hosea said after a long silence, Arthur’s words still hanging heavy in the air.

“Mary sent me something,” Arthur said, followed by the crinkling of paper, Daddy taking something out from his journal and Grandpa ripping it out of his hands.

“What do you mean Mary? Thought she made it clear she wanted nothing to do with you no more, what the hell is this?” Hosea groused, then fell silent as he read before speaking up, even angrier than before. “Oh, I see, Mrs. Linton thinks we ain’t fit to care for him is that it?”

Isaac had always liked the picture of Daddy and Mary, it was his favorite second only to the portrait of Daddy, Grandpa, and Uncle Dutch, but if this Mary lady was trying to send him away then he decided he didn’t like the picture, or Miss Mary, very much at all.

“She’s only tryin’ to help, ‘Sea.”

“And are you just considerin’ this school, a place we know nothin’ about, somewhere hundreds of miles away I might add, because Mrs. Linton suggested it?” Hosea sounded stern and Isaac could only hope that’d be enough to change Daddy’s mind. “She’s got a husband, son, listening to her ain’t gonna win her back.”

“It ain’t about that!” Daddy exploded. “I’m glad she's happy and safe, Hosea, and that’s all I want for Isaac. If this place is the best way to give him that then shouldn’t we at least consider it?”

Grandpa sighed and Isaac’s heart fell to his feet, that didn’t sound like the angry man from a few seconds ago who seemed ready to tear Daddy a new one for even considering it.

“Alright, alright, we can look over our options, no harm in that I suppose.”

No more fight. They were going to send him away. He was never going to see Daddy and Grandpa and all his Aunties and Uncles again, he was never going to meet his cousin because he was a frightened, useless burden.

His breathing was reedy and thin and his vision was blurring around the edges, his heartbeat an awful cacophony in his ears, and the only thing he could think of was hiding.

If they didn’t know where he was they couldn’t send him away, he just had to hide long enough for Daddy to forget about the school, forget about how weak he was, and then he could stay with him forever.

His shaking and trembling must have woken up Abigail cause he could feel her soft hands on him, shaking him, trying to get him to look at her, he could hear her trying to coax him through his panic. But he didn’t have time, he needed to go before it was too late.

Isaac took a deep breath, getting just enough air to see properly again, and took in the concerned expression on Abigail’s face before he scrambled away and ran as fast as he could in the opposite direction of the camp, tripping and scraping himself on branches and bushes but he didn’t stop running. Even when he heard Abigail calling his name, even when he heard Grandpa and Daddy yelling after him he didn’t stop.

He’d run for days if it would keep him with his family.

Chapter Text

When Isaac ran off I thought I had never been more terrified. That was a lie. Each hour that has passed has proved that wrong.

There are so many things out there that could hurt him, the cold, falling and breaking something, wild animals, wild men on the road, anything, everything.

I will not be sane or sensible until we find him, and Lord help us all if we don’t.

* * *

It didn’t take long after Isaac had run away to realize he wanted to turn right back around and go home, but the anxiety from Daddy and Grandpa’s conversation was so overwhelming that all he could do was keep going forward. He’d found some berries and drank water from a stream but he kept falling and his wrist hurt badly from where he’d caught himself after tumbling down a ravine, and now that it was dark he couldn’t see two inches in front of him and the pleasantly cool day had dropped down to freezing. But no matter how miserable he was, how sore and scratched and bug-bitten his legs were, he kept walking, putting as much distance as he could between him and the idea of being sent away, hiccuping and sniffling all the while.

He realized when he looked back that he’d become thoroughly lost and had no idea how to find camp. The dark silhouettes of the trees pressed against him like living beings, watching him stumble through the underbrush, threatening him with their looming presence. Every whistle of wind or crack of a twig made him flinch and an owl hooting in the branches above made him burst into sudden tears in fright.

All he could do was hope Daddy would find him soon, though the idea of being found didn’t soothe him. Running away was a stupid, dangerous thing to do and it wouldn’t surprise him if this was just another reason Daddy might have to send him away. He could not convince himself that he hadn’t just made everything worse with his rashness.

Suddenly, he heard howling in the distance, and his blood ran cold.

His mind went blank with panic and he crashed through the underbrush as fast as he could with one arm still clutched to his chest, hoping against hope that something would come and save him.

He heard rustling behind him and he looked back despite the darkness, desperate to see what was chasing him, the scant light from the moon and stars shining distantly through the crown of the trees only enough to highlight every strange, dark, terrible palace danger could be and not enough to show the tree root in his path. Isaac tripped and went flying, crashing down the hill behind it.

Where before his wrist had been sore and stiff, rolling on it as he tumbled down the hill was agonizing and the scream it ripped out of him was just as loud as the howling.

Isaac couldn’t get up off the ground for how much pain he was in. His screaming quickly turned into loud, panicked sobs, and he started counting down the seconds till when the wolves showed up to eat him. He wanted Daddy to be here, protecting him, Daddy wouldn’t ever be scared of some wolves, he would be the scariest things in the woods. He never should have left, he never should have left.

When rustling started up in front of him his crying only grew heavier as he curled into as tight a ball as he could manage around his injured arm, he was surrounded, and there was no way out, stupid, stupid. The rustling broke at last, but instead of the snarling, snapping maw of a wolf bearing down on him a very familiar horse galloped into the clearing and pulled to a sharp stop mere inches away from him.

“Uncle John?” Isaac croaked, still curled around his arm on the ground, looking up to see the last person he’d expected to find tonight dropping down from Whiskey’s back who was panting and sweating like he’d run miles before arriving before Isaac.

“Boy, what the hell are you doin’ out here? Where’s Arthur?” Uncle John said, rushing to Isaac’s side while watching their surroundings, ever vigilant even as he looked over the boy.

“Daddy’s not here, I ran away,” Isaac sobbed, leaning into Uncle John, unbearably relieved at the presence of his family and, for once in his life, someone who had a gun. “Uncle John there’s wolves out there and I got hurt and I wanna go home.”

“Alright, alright, c’mere,” John rasped, saddling Isaac on his hip, being mindful of the fragile arm. “Now what made you do somethin’ stupid like run off into nowhere? A good way to get yourself killed.”

Isaac whined and buried his face in Uncle John’s shoulder, not interested in things like consequences, more concerned with sticking as close to his Uncle as he physically could.

John moved to mount up again but stepped back as Whiskey whinnied anxiously, cutting the ground in fear as he stamped, before rearing up and darting into the trees. Uncle John cursed and held Isaac tighter, drawing his gun out with the other hand when the bushes parted around four skinny, hungry wolves stalking towards them, quiet as leaves falling on the ground.

Uncle John couldn’t spare a moment to put Isaac down, instead whipping his revolver out to aim at one of the wolves while pressing Isaac’s face into his collar. A deep, rumbling growl reverberated from the approaching wolves, but not loud enough to muffle the sharp sound of John cocking the hammer on his gun.

One of the wolves snarled and dove at them, but was swiftly silenced by a bullet shot clean through its skull. Isaac jumped with each gunshot, holding on so tightly to John that he was worried he’d bruise him.

Despite the volley of ammo loaded into the attacking wolves one of them still had enough energy to dart around the sight and lunge at the softest part of the man before them: Isaac desperately clinging to his side.

Isaac gasped as he felt the whoosh of air of the wolf leaping at him, followed by John harshly kicking it to the side and shooting it where it lay on the ground. The realization that he’d been mere inches from the bared teeth of the wolf didn’t come to him until long after the clearing had gone silent, leaving him shaking so hard his teeth rattled in his head.

“They’re all gone, I got you, kid, everything’s alright.” Uncle John holstered his gun and panted heavily, before bringing his fingers to his mouth to whistle for Whiskey. The horse loyally returned soon after, immediately huffing at John once he approached like he was made at him for the wolf attack. “Got yourself into all sorts of trouble, huh?”

“Don’t leave me, don’t leave-” His panicked hyperventilating broke into pained exhalations as his arm flashed in hot pain again. “I-I wanna go home.”

“Hey, hey, calm down, gonna make yourself sick. Let me see that arm.” Uncle John managed to pry him off his vice grip around his neck and stand Isaac up in front of him, gently turning his arm under the light of the moon to see the damage. Isaac did his best to stifle his panicked crying but couldn’t the pained yelp as Uncle John squeezed right where it hurt.

John cursed and dug around in his saddlebags, pulling out a rumpled, dirty shirt and tying it up like a sling to support Isaac’s wrist. “That should last you till we get back, try not to move it too much.”

“Are you really coming back? Please come back, Auntie Abigail misses you.”

John sucked his teeth and took his time in putting Isaac up on Whiskey, avoiding answering until he got up behind the boy.

“Apparently I gotta, who’s gonna keep an eye on you, huh?” John tried to joke, the humor falling short as he held onto Isaac almost painfully tight, his worry evident in his strength. “How much trouble am I in?”

Isaac shrugged, picking at the frayed threads of John’s shirt, “Uncle Dutch and Grandpa are worried, and the other folks in camp ain’t happy- you’re in trouble with Auntie Tillie and Miss Grimshaw for sure.” Isaac tipped his head back to look up at Uncle John. “But Aunt Abigail just cries a lot, she cries all the time.”

Uncle John tsked and urged Whiskey forward reluctantly, “And your Pa?”

At the mention of Daddy Isaac’s relief curdled with anxiety. He’d wanted to be rescued, but being delivered back to camp almost safe and sound made his whole attempt at running away seem even more foolish. It felt like since Daddy wasn’t the one to find him in peril then he wouldn’t care that Isaac had gotten hurt, and Isaac would still get sent away, and all of this would be for nothing.

“Daddy’s real mad you ran away, really, really mad,” Isaac whispered, gripping John’s arm across his waist painfully. “Do you think he’ll hate me?”

“I don’t think that’s possible,” John laughed. “Me? He’ll just plain kill me when he sees me, but he’ll smother you to death after this, little man. I’d say you got it worse.”

“Daddy was talkin’ ‘bout sendin’ me away, I don’t wanna go,” Isaac mumbled. “I want to stay with everyone. I want to meet my cousin.”

“Your cousin, huh?” Uncle John said. “Is that what she’s calling it?”

“That’s why you’re coming back, right? For the baby?”

“Maybe if I was a better man,” John said under his breath as he kicked Whiskey into a gallop, still clutching Isaac tight. “Maybe I just got tired of running.”

* * *

Arthur growled as he pushed through the underbrush, his hands shaking in what he wished he could call rage. Anger was easier to deal with, anger was familiar, and yet no matter how many times he worried and agonized over Isaac, fear never felt quite as comfortable as the rage. They’d been looking for hours and nothing. Javier, Mac, Bill, and Davey had headed out in different directions to try and find Isaac and Arthur, Hosea, and Tilly and been traipsing through the forest searching for a glimpse of the boy.

At this point, half the reason Arthur was so frightened was he was waiting to turn a corner and see Eliza ready to finally drag him down to Hell for losing her son.

Hosea had managed to keep a handle on Arthur’s panic but when it turned night and they needed to head back to grab lanterns there was nothing that could be done to assuage Arthur’s fears. All he could think of was finding Isaac’s lifeless body, the thought of the tiny, innocent, broken body was burned into his mind, so much so he worried he’d manifest it at this point.

“Ok, we got the damn lanterns, we need to go,” Arthur said, turning on his heel, ready to dive into the forest to keep looking.

“Wait, Arthur-” Tilly grabbed his arm, looking over his shoulder.

“We ain’t got time, Tilly, we gotta go back-”

“Arthur, look,” Hosea said, turning him around to see the rider entering camp.

It took him a second to understand who he was looking at, so shocked by the sight of John that he almost missed the smaller, second rider sitting at the front of the saddle, looking scraped and sore and red-faced from tears.

“Isaac,” Arthur breathed before rushing forward to grab him from the saddle, hardly looking at John, only concerned with his son returned to him. “What were you thinkin’? Of all the stupid, reckless things-”

“Careful, think he broke his wrist,” John said, quietly as he dismounted. Pointing to Isaac’s swollen wrist hanging in a makeshift sling. “Found him out in the woods, halfway to a wolf's dinner.”

“Daddy, ‘m sorry,” Isaac said miserably, not meeting Arthur’s gaze.. “I’m sorry I ran, please don’t send me away.”

“Isaac, son,” Arthur tipped the boy's face up to make eye contact with him, matching lakewater eyes looking back at him, welling with even more tears. “You are never leavin’, not after that stunt. I ain’t ever lettin’ you go, you hear?”

“I hear,” Isaac laughed wetly, eagerly submitting to Arthur’s overprotective inspection and concerned muttering.

It took a few more minutes for the panic to properly leave Arthur, to assure himself that Isaac was in his arms, in one piece, and as safe as he could be. Once it did recede he finally recognized that John was back after his cowardly jaunt away from camp, but no matter how much he tried he could not muster the same rage he’d been harboring for the other man just a few hours ago.

Damn him but John saved his son, which granted him some forgiveness in his book.

“Thank you, John, I owe you- well I’d say my life but I owe you something worth a hell of a lot more than that for saving my son."

“Don’t mention it, it was on the way,” John halfheartedly joked. “Now, I know you ain’t too keen on me right now, but-”

“Listen, I still might cave your skull in tomorrow for being the biggest idiot I’ve ever seen, might even do you some good, but I ain’t the one you need to apologize to.”

“John?” Abigail called out, hopeful and terrified all the same.

Arthur turned to see her walking over to them with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, Tilly, who must have gone to wake her up and share the news, watching with Hosea. Arthur backed away, not desperate to intrude on the argument the two were bound to get into, but as he passed her Abigail paused for a second to take in Isaac.

“You scared us half to death, young man, best not be doing that again,” She scolded, the iron in her voice not quite so strong as she kept stealing glances at John like he’d disappear if she didn’t keep an eye on him.

Isaac shook his head emphatically as he leaned into Arthur, his uninjured hand tightly clasped in his Pa’s, “Sorry, Auntie.”

Abigail ran a hand through Isaac’s hair and took a deep breath, her face screwing up into righteous fury as she turned to face John who was shuffling awkwardly next to Whiskey, looking seconds away from riding off again.

“John Marston you miserable coward,” Abigail growled, getting up in his face and poking at his chest, surreptitiously inserting herself between him and his horse. “What kind of man runs away from his unborn child?!”

“‘Fore you start layin’ into me, woman,” John said, holding a hand up to stop her from saying anything else. “One last time, are you sure that it’s my kid? Hand to God, swearin’ on your mother’s grave sure?”

“You run away for a month and that’s the first thing you have to say to me?” Abigail looked so furious that she couldn’t quite decide how to manage it. “Of course it is, and God help my child for havin’ you for a father, John Marston-”

“I’ll stay, I’ll stay, just shut up, for Christ’s sake,” John grumbled, crossing his arms and glaring down at Abigail. No matter how much bigger and scarier he looked than her it only looked like a child pouting after being scolded.

“Seriously?” Abigail blinked at John in surprise, along with everyone in camp pretending not to eavesdrop. “Just like that?”

“I’m not happy with you, gettin’ pregnant, tryin’ to boss me around,” John groused, hesitating for a moment and glancing over at Arthur and Isaac before taking a deep breath and managing to spit out a full sentence, each word ripped from him like a rotten tooth, a necessary pain. “But I don’t want to be the type of man that runs away from his problems, not anymore.”

“A problem? We’re talkin’ about a child-”

“I cared for you before all this,” John interrupted. “I wanted to make you happy, and I still do, and I ain’t so terrible that I don’t want to be a father, but you scared me, woman. You can’t push all that responsibility onto someone and expect them to take it well!”

Arthur watched the tense reunion from afar, waiting as Hosea finished tending to Isaac’s broken wrist, and felt his gloves creak as he clenched his fists. He could not help the bitter, spiteful thought that he took it a hell of a lot better than John did, that some men were simply better suited for expectations than others.

“If you change your mind and you leave me again-” Abigail swallowed around the painful lump in her throat as she jabbed at John’s chest, the horrible future she contemplated washing over her like a storm. “I will never forgive you, I promise you that.”

“I’m done running, I’m here now,” John said, gently grasping Abigail’s sharp accusatory finger and cautiously pulling her into an embrace. “Ain’t nothing you can do about it.”

“Oh, John.” Abigail finally broke and started crying but gone were the dreading, terrified tears, of the past month. Abigail cried relieved happy tears, into John’s shoulder, looking lighter than she had in weeks with the profound relief she felt.

Arthur felt conflicted watching the two of them hold one another. He was relieved that John had pulled his head out of his ass and came back to do the right thing, and he was pleased that Abigail got the husband and stability that she’d been so stressed about. But a small voice of his, a feeling he’d tried to bury down deep, was horribly jealous watching the two of them.

Husband and wife, in a way, would get to stay together and raise their child, and God forbid anything should happen to them, but it just made him miss Eliza, made him mourn the fact that Isaac wouldn’t get that, that no matter what Arthur did he could never restore his mother.

Marrying Abigail and raising her child was a futile attempt and, as much as it was her idea, he’d been looking forward to it. Hopeful at the idea of someone helping him raise Isaac right, of having one more try at the humble family life; but it wasn’t meant to be. Seeing Abigail and John sway in place, watching him dry off her tears and the two of them talk quietly between themselves, he could see that he wasn’t meant to break them apart.

He picked Isaac up once Hosea finished making a splint and a new, clean sling, unable to deny the urge to hold his boy close, his son who miraculously still lived, his son who he had failed so many times in so many ways and would surely continue to do so, and yet, by the grace of God, remained with him. Isaac didn’t complain for a second, clinging to him as greedily and unabashed as he to his son, still shaken from his adventure outside the camp.

Arthur approached the campfire, ignoring the fuss as people converged on John and Abigail behind them, congratulating and scolding John in equal measure. He didn’t even care when Dutch emerged from his tent, staring at John with so inscrutable an expression followed by so jovial a welcome it’d make his head spin to think about it. Instead, he sat down beside the fire, took out the creased pamphlet from his journal, and handed it to Isaac.

“I’m sorry ‘bout what you might have heard, but I promise, son, you ain’t goin’ nowhere. As long as that’s what you want,” Arthur said, his voice thick with emotion, no matter how much he tried to clear his throat of it. Today Isaac may need him just as much as Arthur needed the boy, but dark fears lurked beneath of the day that Isaac would grow up and hate Arthur for all he’d done and fail to do, for the day Arthur would lose him just as he’d lost Eliza.

Isaac looked over the paper, wrinkling his nose in irritation, before tossing it into the fire without hesitation. He leaned back against his Pa and the two of them watched the page curl and crumble within the flames, its embers climbing high into the sky like a beacon declaring Isaac’s wish. Higher and higher like they’d climb all the way to heaven and spread the news there.

“This is home, Daddy,” Isaac said quietly, looking over the ramshackle camp and the growing crowd of folks who’d come back to the good news. “You hear?”

Arthur chuckled and kissed Isaac’s hair, taking a moment to breathe the familiar scent of the boy in, so grateful it made his hands shake.

“I hear.”

* * *

My Once Dear Mary,

You are very kind to keep us in your thoughts. Please, don’t concern yourself more than idleness allows. My son and I are well and happy, and we are best when we are together. Your offer, though generous and well-meaning, I must firmly decline.

Think what you may of me, but my life has been nothing close to typical, and neither has my son’s, so I’m sure you will agree that a normal life attending school and living amongst society would fit neither of us.

Send your husband my best.

Arthur Morgan

Chapter Text

Daddy told me we’ll be leaving the Grizzlies soon. I don’t mind them so much, it’s quieter and there are fewer people around for us to get in trouble with, and Grandpa’s got lots of scary stories about the mountains that he likes to tell by the fireside, those are my favorite.

But folks are ready to leave and keep running from all the trouble we’d gotten into. All the fighting up north, bounty hunters, jobs gone bad, and even O’Driscolls, ‘cause they always have to be there to make things worse. Then there was the fire at our camp a few months back, not too many people were hurt but we lost a lot of supplies and tents and things.

We all thought it was going to get better ‘cause Uncle Dutch found some land, we were going to go be farmers! I was excited about the goats and pigs and things, but suddenly the deal was off and we were hightailing it away, just like we always do, heading deep into the mountains and away from everyone else.

I wasn’t too surprised, I can’t imagine Uncle Dutch milking a cow or mucking a pen.

* * *

Blackwater is real pretty, and it’s the biggest city we’ve been to in a long time. It's nice ‘cause we’re real close, we get to watch the ferries come in plus there’s lots of big houses and fancy shops, they even have a movie theater!

I wanted to use some of the money that Daddy had hidden away for me to take Jack to see a movie but he said I’m not allowed ‘cause it’s for emergencies only. It’s comforting to know the money is there but I hate it, ‘cause I don’t want to think about Daddy dying. I’d rather have my Pa than any amount of money, but there are folks in the world that feel differently.

Anyway, I’m gonna see if I can make a couple cents to take Jackie to the theater, then maybe we can go swimming in the lake. I've been missing swimming an awful lot.

* * *

Uncle’s been trying to get me to steal liquor again. Daddy just tells me to ignore him, and I can do that fine, but now other folks are doing it too. Karen and Jenny want to teach me how to pickpocket and Mac, Davey, and Sean keep joking about when I’m coming on a job with them, at least I think they’re joking.

Micah definitely isn’t joking, he likes to point out to me that lots of folks around camp started working when they were younger than me. That I’m getting too old to be doing nothing.

Daddy and Uncle John were stealing before Grandpa and Uncle Dutch found them. Not to mention Auntie Tilly, she was my age when she was in the Foreman brother’s gang, and when she killed one of them.

I still don’t like Micah, but I’m worried that he’s right. I help Uncle Dutch and Herr Strauss with the ledger so I know how much money it takes to run camp and keep folks happy and fed, I also know Daddy works harder than everyone to make that happen. Maybe if I work some then Daddy can relax.

I haven’t said nothing to him about all this yet ‘cause I’m worried he’ll agree, but it’s getting harder to ignore it.

* * *

We’ve been at Blackwater near 3 months now. Everyone seems to think we’re safe for a while ‘cause the way we traveled was so confusing but I wish we could stay forever. Daddy and I sometimes sleep at the hotel, then we go and get fresh-baked bread in the mornings and sit and eat on the docks. Four walls, baths, a bed, and warm food; it feels like the height of luxury, even if we have to wade through the noise and stink of the town to get it.

And even better is I get to tag along with Daddy and Grandpa ‘cause they ain’t doing anything dangerous. It’s always funny seeing Grandpa conning people, he’s the best out of everyone, no wonder he used to do shows with Aunt Annabelle.

I’ve been helping lots too, not just chores and the ledger, but Uncle Dutch has me helping him with the savings he hides away from camp. It means a lot that he trusts me so much. We’ve got lots of money stored away, but according to Uncle Dutch if we want to get all the way out to California and get some land we’ll need three times that much.

Few days back Javier and Uncle John went out to find somewhere safe in the next state over so I think these big jobs are gonna happen soon, then we’ll be gone to the West.

Micah found a lead for one of the ferries bringing in bank money, and we’re gonna rob it. Uncle Dutch thinks it’ll be easy pickings and he even figured out a way for me to help. Shouldn’t be too dangerous at all. But the real scary part is that Daddy isn’t gonna be involved at all, he and Grandpa are staying out of sight till they can pull off their scam. Daddy was mad at Dutch for suggesting it, but I think I can convince him to let me do it.

I wanna be like my Pa, even if it scares me. Here’s hoping he gives me a chance.

* * *

We escaped back into the Grizzlies. The job went wrong. We had no choice, we had to run, and we lost nearly everything we had in the scramble. Folks think it was a set-up and I heard Uncle Dutch shot a girl, I can only assume by accident. I ain’t seen many jobs but I think this is the worst it’s ever been.

Charles and Uncle John are hurt, we lost Sean and Mac in the chaos, and Jenny got shot and didn’t tell anyone until it was too late. We buried her a few days ago up in the mountains, I’m gonna miss her. We even lost Boadicea, shot right out from under Daddy, more the shame, she was a very good horse. Daddy nearly got captured after she went down and I will always be grateful to Charles who turned back to save him.

Davey got shot getting me out of Blackwater. I haven’t seen him much these past weeks, folks are keeping me and Jack away from the wagon he’s in, makes me think he’s not doing well. I have been praying for him as best I know how, as surly and wild as Davey is, he and Mac are my family, and I am tired of saying goodbye to the people I care for.

Though it may not matter, a storm blew over a few days back, and we’re all gonna freeze if we don’t hole up somewhere soon. Hopefully, Daddy will come back with news of shelter.

* * *

The relief Arthur had felt at seeing buildings looming out of the heavy snow had been intense. They’d been barely hanging on since the storm started, unable to stop for very long and forced to live out of the wagons, but now he could finally file everyone under a roof. They’d experienced hard winters before but not quite so unprepared as they were now, not with so many injured and sick, and not running with their tail between their legs from Pinkertons and disaster.

But none of that was important now, all that mattered was getting inside, despite how old and disused it was. He fell back down the trail and found their dimly glowing trail of wagons and horses and beleaguered folk and directed them to the abandoned mining village, eager to get them all out of the elements.

If they weren’t all so tired and hungry and weary from the last few weeks Arthur imagined there’d be more celebration at finally getting out of the elements, but they were so there wasn’t. As well as the fact that Arthur and Bill had to carry Davey’s half-dead body in and onto a table, no one was celebrating with things as they were.

Soon the broken-down building erupted into noise, the hustle and bustle of everyone filing in, Miss Grimshaw assigning jobs, Dutch going around to everyone and seeing if they were holding up, and through it all Arthur barely heard Abigail's dejected voice declaring Davey dead.

“There was…nothing more you could have done,” Reverend Swanson said with a comforting, shaking hand on her shoulder before coming around to place two coins on Davey’s unfocused eyes.

Dead, Davey Callander was dead, Arthur could scarcely believe it. Those two boys had always been larger than life, tempting fate with every punch they swung or stupid stunt they tried to pull, and yet they’d been as reliable as the sun in the morning. It was a devastating blow and Arthur could feel the hopelessness sinking into the group around them, yet another casualty of that mess in Blackwater, yet another grave they’d have to bury.

At the foot of the table, Davey lay on, Arthur caught sight of Isaac stumbling like he’d been shot, his eyes watering with surprised tears. Arthur watched his mouth twist into a miserable frown before ducking down to press his face into Jack’s coat where he was carrying the younger boy, who clung to him, exhausted and woozy from the sickness he’d caught. Tilly rubbed soothing circles into Isaac’s shoulder, hovering protectively around her honorary nephews, as if Death lingered in the room waiting for another victim.

Arthur wanted to cut through the crowd and get to his son, comfort him over yet another person in his life that he’d lost. since Blackwater any sniffle or sigh from Isaac had his hackles raised. He’d let the boy out of his sight for one day and he’d managed to get caught up in the biggest goddamn shitshow they’d ever had, it was a lesson that he continued to learn over and over again, Isaac was in danger every second he wasn’t with him, and yet he forgot it every time. But damn it all the boy wasn’t mad at him, it’d be too easy if he was mad, instead, he was terrified, yet another layer in the blanket of anxiety and trauma that weighed the boy down.

“What are we going to do?” Hosea said, ever the pragmatist, breaking Arthur out of his guilty revere, reminding him of the more tangible issues at hand. “We need supplies.”

“You are going to stay here and get yourself warm,” Dutch replied, leaving no room for argument. The cold had been murder on Hosea’s already frail lungs, a coughing attack two or three times a day, and his normal breaths slow and painful sounding. Arthur was worried for the old man but not nearly as much as Dutch, who seemed to have a heart attack with every strained breath or nasty cough. “We’ll find everything in due time, we-”

“Daddy,” Isaac said, suddenly right by Arthur’s elbow, startling him. Arthur immediately pulled Isaac to his side, brushing off snow from his coat and hair, checking to make sure there were no holes in his gloves. He looked up and saw Jack deposited with his mother once more, similarly fussing over her boy. “Uncle John and Charles still ain’t here, are they alright?”

“Ever the worrier, just like your father,” Dutch said amicably, squeezing Isaac’s shoulder. “Don't fret, you just focus on warming up. I’m sure Mr. Smith will be in soon, and I sent John and Micah scouting ahead. Arthur and I, we’re gonna ride out and see if we can find one of ‘em.”

“In this?” Arthur bit out skeptically, gesturing to the walls groaning under the weight of the storm and the windows rattling in their frames. Isaac halfheartedly grabbed his coat, as if he could stop his Pa from risking the furious storm again, but he knew as well as Arthur did that if Dutch decreed something all of them, and especially Arthur, were helpless to deny him.

“Just for a short bit, I don’t see what other choice we have.” There was stress in Dutch’s voice, hell everyone was stressed, but not everyone was having to bear the burden of fixing every problem that fell into their laps. Dutch was their leader for a reason, clear-headed and reasonable in the worst of times.

‘And yet he can be the biggest fool among us when he’s got all the time in the world to think,’ Arthur thought to himself bitterly, the stress and anger over Isaac’s involvement in the ferry job, as small and inconsequential as it’d been, was still there. He hadn’t had the time to do much more than stew on his lingering resentment since they’d escaped, the gang needed them united, Dutch needed them united, and starting fights would only cause them all a bigger headache than necessary, no matter how much he might resent the man for the foolhardy suggestion.

Dutch turned and addressed the huddled masses, his invigorating speech bringing wisps of hope back into the room despite their dire circumstances. He spoke of the people they’d lost and Isaac leaned further into his side, nervously scratching at the skin under his gloves. Even by the flickering lamplight, Arthur could see how red and raw Isaac’s wrists were from the repeated habit, silently he pulled the hand Isaac was scratching with away. Isaac ducked his head in embarrassment and shoved his hands in his pockets, channeling his nervous energy into rocking back and forth where he stood instead. Arthur suppressed a sigh, it hurt to see how much worry the boy carried, and how little Arthur could do to alleviate it.

“…Now all of you! Get yourselves warm. Stay strong! Stay with me, we ain’t done yet!” Dutch turned with his rallying cry still lingering in the air and grabbed a nearby lantern, striding towards the down. “Come on, Arthur, we’ve got some work to do.”

Arthur squeezed Isaac once more before gently pushing him towards Hosea who stood supervising the rapid dissemination of Miss Grimshaw’s orders, “We’ll be back soon, son, you do as told and keep an eye on Jack and Grandpa, alright?”

“I ain’t that old, you overbearing hen,” Hosea squawked at him, keeping Isaac close with a hand on his shoulder.

Arthur could hear Dutch at the door yelling for him but he waited until he got a nod and a wan smile from Isaac before turning and heading back into the cold.

“We ain’t run into either of them yet,” Dutch said as soon as Arthur closed the wooden door behind him, huddled against the wind. “So they must have gone down the hill.”

“Sure,” Arthur nodded absentmindedly, chewing the inside of his cheek to try and bite back the question that buzzed at the edge of his mind and failed. “I ain’t had a chance to ask yet, what really went down out there on that boat?”

”We missed you, that’s what happened,” Dutch said emphatically as he began to trudge through the thick snow, reminding him once again that success and people’s survival seemed to hinge entirely on his presence.

Even still Dutch’s evasive answer only dredged up more questions, about that girl, about trusting Micah, and most of all why on earth Dutch thought it was a good idea to suggest that Isaac come along. But he knew now wasn’t the time to argue about the past, they had to keep their minds focused on keeping what folks they still had alive.

And on top of all those worries he feared the answer, feared that including Isaac in the job was more similar to Isaac in the bible than anything to do with his son. A test of loyalty and a show of power from God to the father, with the son a mere sacrifice on the altar between them.

Such thoughts sent shivers down his spine.

“You need horses?” Charles called out to them, snapping Arthur out of his macabre revere. He looked up to see the stoic gunslinger leading Taima and The Count toward them, both with a healthy dusting of snow on their flanks.

“You need to get inside, Mr. Smith,” Dutch scolded as he took The Count’s reins, mounting up quickly and patting the old horse down. “You need to rest that hand.”

Arthur nodded to Charles as he passed him, squeezing the other man’s wrist, just above where he’d burned his hand saving Arthur’s life, in thanks before taking Taima’s reigns and saddling up. Though Arthur knew he could express gratitude in one thousand ways and still none of them would be enough to thank Charles for saving his miserable life, let alone for lending his horse in these times of need following Boadicea's untimely death. It still made his heart clench painfully knowing that his most loyal steed had been gunned down so unceremoniously, but it only meant he appreciated Taima being pressed into service for him all the more, the bond between a rider and his horse was not something to take lightly.

“I’ll live,” Charles said, shivering despite his confidence.

“Get indoors, son!” Dutch hollered over the growing winds, his stress breaking and cracking his voice even more than usual. “I- We need you strong.”

They rode against the harsh weather for a while, weaving their way down the hill farther northeast. The snow had wiped any trace of evidence from either John or Micah if they had come through here and Arthur was beginning to suspect the two of them just should have stayed back in town. Not that it was any cheerier there.

“Can’t believe we lost Davey too.”

“He’s the last one, Arthur, no more. We need to get those people warm and fed.”

“Least we don’t need to worry about Pinkertons tailing us in this.”

“A couple more days and we’ll be on the other side. You need to help me pick the other’s back up. You’re the only one I can rely on to stay strong right now.”

Arthur took a deep breath, feeling the cold smart in his lungs, the familiar weight of Dutch’s high expectations of him reasserting itself. “We got fire and shelter, that’s a start.”

They traveled in silence a while more, willing tracks to appear, and just like always Dutch’s luck held strong, soon enough another rider approached them, a lantern held out to reveal Micah, red-faced from the cold.

Micah led them back to a lively homestead he’d found and as they talked Arthur realized that he had vastly unappreciated this last week or so he’d had without having to hear Micah’s incessant chattering and double-talk. He got enough of it from Dutch and Hosea, he didn’t need it from the no-good slime Dutch had dragged into camp.

He had also unappreciated the last five months since they’d last run into the O’Driscolls, and finding them again at the homestead had only dredged up bad memories in him as well as Dutch. The man tried to hide it behind his commanding presence but Arthur could see the way a sneer curled his face, or how he moved furniture in the house a little too roughly, clattering and scraping following him as he looked around.

The warm house at least gave Arthur some hope, they’d found food, medicine, whiskey, blankets, and even a horse along with hints at ruining Colm O’Driscolls most recent schemes, all the essentials. Better yet the home was large and sturdy against the wicked winter storm. If the weather permitted the wagons up this way he’d have the women and children up here by tomorrow night, it was a far sight better than the ramshackle town they were in now.

But of course, Micah had to ruin everything.

“Micah! What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Dutch yelled inside and Arthur came sprinting, ready and willing to put an end to Micah’s cruel definition of fun as horrible screaming picked up from the once quiet home, sounding closer to a wounded hellcat than a woman.

Inside he found a half-dressed woman scurrying around the room, screaming anytime Micah got close to her, who of course took it as a great, big game and kept trying to grab her, a smile splitting his ugly mug. “Look what I found in the cellar! Wild thing ain’t you?”

“Leave her alone!” Dutch bellowed, ducking out of the way of the porcelain shrapnel flying around the house as the woman threw anything she could get her hands on, and Arthur was half-tempted to join.

“I wasn’t doing nothing!” Micah said with a laugh, darting around one side of the table to try and get her and failing. “She’s one of them O’Driscolls!”

“She’s terrified, lay off!” Arthur yelled out, trying to grab Micah and haul him back from her, though it hurt to look at the woman, he could see Eliza reflected in her furious, pained expression. Eliza dead in her home because some group of men decided it’d be great fun to attack and ruin her life, Eliza haunting him, driven mad with grief over losing herself and her son. She didn’t deserve any of that, and this poor soul certainly didn’t either.

Dutch tried to calm the frightened woman, ask after her, get her name or anything before all hell broke loose. She grabbed a long, wicked-looking carving knife, and Micah tipped over the table, sending the lantern crashing and starting a fire.

Arthur growled and grabbed Micah when Dutch pushed him back, shoving the degenerate out the doors as Dutch slowly approached her. His quick-thinking and magnetic charm drew her rage and terror down enough to grab the knife and guide her outside, out from the smoldering wreckage of her home, her whole life.

It broke Arthur’s heart hearing her voice crack talking about her husband, or seeing her shiver and shake in terror and cold alike. That wild, terrifying woman they’d found inside was just a cover for the frightened animal she’d become in the face of such powerful loss and abuse. He had never known any man Colm traveled with to be a kind host to women, and he was sure this poor widow had been no exception.

He knew they were a better alternative if her options were nothing but death and outlaws, but he still felt as if their hospitality was too little too late as he heard the roof of her home collapse under the weight of snow and the barrage of fire. He faced the same question he’d been asking himself for years on the nights when Isaac was too frightened and inconsolable to sleep: how could they possibly comfort such an awful, senseless tragedy?

The answer didn’t become any more readily apparent as they rode in, barely more rich in supplies than they’d left, and another mouth to feed to boot. But as he dragged his aching, exhausted, hunger-sore body to the house with Dutch and Hosea and found Isaac sound asleep in the room set aside for the two of them, he had to hope that time would at least heal all wounds.

* * *

Isaac sat rigid in front of the fire, his leg bouncing incessantly despite Jack heavy in his lap, where he’d been ordered to stay by his Pa and every adult who so much as looked at him, to keep warm, trying to focus on the book he was reading to his cousin. Jack was sweltering where he dozed, wrapped up in Isaac’s old quilt. His poor cousin was sick, hacking and snuffling miserably whenever he was awake. It’d started halfway up the mountain, he’d started coughing, growing weaker, talking less and less, Aunt Abigail had just about had a heart attack until Grandpa had swooped in and deemed it a harmless cold.

By Isaac’s best estimation, he’d turned 13 that same day. He hadn’t said anything to anyone knowing that they had bigger things to worry about than his birthday so he’d grown in silence. He could’ve told his Pa, Isaac was sure he’d be devastated when he realized he missed it, but in all honesty, Isaac was terrified of his birthday.

He knew he was approaching the other side of the line between boy and man and that once he crossed that line he’d have to contribute appropriately, but the idea of it chilled Isaac despite how warm he was. He’d tried to help in Blackwater, his role small and out of the way, and still, he’d nearly died, still Davey had got shot protecting him. It was his fault that Davey died, Aunt Abigail and Miss Grimshaw kept trying to say otherwise but he knew it was true.

He hated the way they lost people. He hated to keep having to say goodbye to folks, especially Uncle Mac and Uncle Davey. They’d always been there and it was hard knowing that wasn’t true anymore. But the lingering guilt and grief over Uncle Davey, newly buried outside as of last night, wasn’t what was filling him with such anticipatory dread.

This morning, as soon as he and Daddy had blown into the main house before Daddy could even sit down, Aunt Abigail had begged him to go find Uncle John. It hadn’t clicked with him just how long it’d been since they’d seen him, but having his absence pointed out, having the other grown-ups worrying themselves sick over him just made Isaac nauseous.

They’d lost so many people in such quick succession and it felt doubtful that Uncle John would survive in the awful storm outside, felt like they were just waiting to dig another grave. But they had to wait, Grandpa pacing by the windows, Isaac doing his best to distract himself and little Jack, and Aunt Abigail busy consoling the widow they’d rescued last night, with everyone else milling about in tense anticipation.

It took hours but finally, Daddy and Javier rode into town hollering for help. Isaac and Jack ran to the windows at the front of the building to peer through the boards and catch sight of Uncle John half-dead on the back of Javier’s horse. Aunt Abigail and a crowd soon met the men at the horses and John was dragged in, groaning and bleeding to the table that Davey died on. Isaac looked away, unwilling to further connect those dots.

The Reverend and Miss Grimshaw descended on Uncle John, working to keep him alive with their limited supplies, but Isaac was heartened to see him weakly reach out and grab Abigail’s hand even as she tearily scolded him. Jack teetered over to cling to his mother’s skirt, staring wide-eyed at the bloody mess that remained of his Pa’s face.

“I’ll be just fine, Jack, just fine,” John murmured faintly, his hand resting on Jack’s head.

Isaac turned back to stare out the window, watching as Daddy and Grandpa chatted outside, Daddy looking more and more irritated as Grandpa gestured and talked. When Grandpa and Herr Strauss came back inside, leaving Daddy stewing in the center of the road, Isaac darted away from the window and towards the door, wanting to greet him now that all the commotion had settled.

“Oya, niño,” Javier called out, stopping him with his hand on the door, the man gesturing with a freshly lit cigarette in his hand. “Stay inside, it’s too cold out there.”

“I wanted to talk to Pa,” Isaac said dejectedly, one of many reasons he wanted to get outside. The nervousness of the morning waiting for them to return had been broken, but it’d only transformed into a new anxiety with Uncle John’s bloody, half-broken body. He didn’t want to stay in the house with the grieving Mrs. Adler, near the spot where Davey died, where Uncle John could very well be next. The house was warm, barely, but it chilled him with the dread and sorrow that lurked in its dark corners. But ever obediently he moved away from the door, instead slumping onto the bench Javier sat on.

“Arthur’s had a rough morning, let him rest. He had to fight off half a dozen wolves for us to get John back.”

“Wolves?” Isaac asked in hushed awe.

“Sure enough, they got John pretty good.” Javier stuck the cigarettes between his teeth and pretended to claw across Isaac’s face. “But he’ll live. Fuckers wanted him dead, can’t imagine he’d make a good meal through, too skinny.”

Isaac laughed despite himself, if Javier could make jokes about it then surely John would be alright.

“How do you say wolf in Spanish?” Isaac said after a while of sitting quietly, listening to Abigail try to distract Jack even as she kept wandering over to check on John while Swanson and Miss Grimshaw worked, only to be guided back to the fire every time by Grandpa. Isaac still wanted to go out and find Daddy, get away from the lingering grief that clung to the corners, but if he was only going to further burden his Pa then he might as well stay put.

“Lobo,” Javier said with an exhale of smoke, the familiar scent of tobacco filling the air around them, and swiftly blown away by the exhale of wind from the broken windows dotted around the room.

“Tío John…me salvó…de Lobos,” Isaac pieced together, stuttering as he tried to sift through the vocabulary he’d picked up over the years.

“There you go!” Javier cheered with a laugh. “Getting better every day.”

Isaac whiled away the daylight hours practicing his poor Spanish with Javier before Jack drew him closer to the fire asking him for a story, and another one, and another one. By the time Jack was asleep and he could finally break away to the other house it was long dark, the impenetrable night only pierced by the lantern Grandpa held as he led them back.

As soon as they stepped inside Isaac hissed in unpleasant surprise as Grandpa started hacking and wheezing, the cold was bad for his lungs, but the change in temperature from outside to inside was always a shock to his system. Isaac quickly took the lantern and set it down before leading Grandpa to sit down in front of the fire, grabbing his arms and gently pulling them over his head like Daddy had taught him to do when Grandpa had a bad coughing fit.

By the time Grandpa was breathing easier Uncle Dutch was hovering at the edge of the room, woken up by the noise and visibly concerned.

“I’m f-fine, I’m alright,” Grandpa wheezed, pulling his arms back to wipe away the spittle flecking his chin. “Helping this old man out, good boy, just like your Pa. Now go on to bed, I can get to sleep without keeling over, promise.”

Isaac hesitated, still hearing strain in Grandpa’s voice, but Uncle Dutch stepped in, putting a big hand on his shoulder and gently steering him to his and Daddy’s room. “Don't worry, I’ll take care of him from here, you did a good job, son.”

The praise and pride in helping Grandpa warmed Isaac more than the fire in the room and it soothed the ache that bloomed in his chest when he found Pa fast asleep. He’d gone the whole day only saying a few words to him, he should have been used to it, especially with how often Daddy was away from camp doing jobs, but it still stung.

As he lay down to sleep, even warmer with Daddy hot like a furnace beside him, he heard Grandpa and Uncle Dutch’s voices, soft over the crackling of the fire.

“You are going to be the death of me, old girl.” Dutch’s voice weary and strained.

“I’ll be better once we get off this mountain.” Hosea coughed once, twice, before finally taking a deep breath.

“I’m gonna hold you to that. You know I ain’t a fan of them doctor types but I will drag you to one if this doesn't let up.”

“I’d like to see you try, darling,” Grandpa said with a chuckle, still mirthful and cunning no matter the circumstances.

The sound of the two of them amicably bickering and chatting made their dire circumstances seem so much more normal and comfortable that he had no trouble that night drifting off to sleep, half expecting to awake the next morning to the canvas cover of a tent in a warm forest clearing instead of the half-rotted wood barely shielding them from the cold. He dreamed of simpler times and wished he was there again.

* * *

When Isaac awoke the next morning he had to stifle a groan immediately, hunger wracked his body, insatiable from only having a box of crackers he’d split with Jack the night before as a measly supper. Their food supplies were low, and they all felt the lack of it stronger and stronger each day.

He willed the rumbling of his stomach to quiet down as he rolled over to see Daddy still asleep. The last time Daddy slept this much was probably back at the hotel in Blackwater when their days seemed easy and unbothered. It seemed the last few weeks had exhausted him more than Isaac thought if he could have slept this long with the wind needling through the whistling walls. Isaac carefully rolled off the bed, doing his very best not to wake him, picked up his boots, and quietly adjourned to the main room.

He’d expected it to be empty except for Grandpa sleeping in the corner and the fire to be nothing but smoldering embers, even reaching for a log on instinct as he passed the pile to kindle it again, but was surprised to find Dutch sat up in front of the roaring fireplace.

“Morning, son,” Dutch said, doing his best, against his very nature, to be quiet.

“G’morning,” Isaac mumbled, moving to sit on the floor between the two chairs, getting as close as he could to the fire to warm his red-tipped fingers. “Is Grandpa alright?”

“He’ll be just fine, you know how I worry over him,” Dutch rumbled, poking the stacked logs and causing an eruption of sparks. “Couldn’t sleep until he did, then I just couldn’t sleep at all.” Dutch pinched the bridge of his nose. “Been a rough night.”

“Been a rough month,” Isaac said with a sigh, parroting what he’d heard around the gang for so long.

Dutch gave a surprised laugh and dropped a hand down to ruffle Isaac’s hair, “When’d you get so damn smart?”

Isaac ducked bashfully and shrugged, leaning against Dutch’s leg where he sat. Dutch said nothing and kept scratching at his scalp, the two of them sitting in easy quiet for a long time. Isaac’s eyes trailed off from where he watched the fire dance and fell on the open door to Dutch and Molly’s bedroom realizing he hadn’t seen much of the woman in days.

“Will Miss O’Shea stay ‘round here again? I could walk her to the main house,” Isaac suggested, keeping his voice low in case the woman would wake at the sound of her name.

“I imagine she’ll stay here, son, she ain’t much for company,” Dutch sighed, and leaned back in the chair, before pausing and looking back down at Isaac. “How come you don’t call her Aunt? Never thought about it before.”

“I don’t call Karen or Mary-Beth Aunt,” Isaac pointed out.

“Sure, but you call Abigail Aunt, ain’t I just as much your family as John?” Dutch teased. “What’s the difference?”

“Well…” Isaac mumbled, embarrassed at the scrutiny. “‘Cause she’s like Enid, not like Aunt Annabelle.”

“How d’you mean? You think she’s gonna turn on us?” Dutch said with a cruel laugh, either at the very idea of Molly turning on him, or lingering bitterness over Enid.

“No, ‘course not.” Isaac hastily explained, before his voice dropped down low again. “I only mean that she’s a nice lady, but she ain’t a partner like Aunt Annabelle or Grandpa.”

When Dutch didn’t respond Isaac looked up, worried he’d offended the man, but instead found Dutch scrutinizing him, staring like it was the first time he’d seen him.

“Is that so?” Dutch asked, each word slow, giving him another chance to catch up and understand, yet still stunned by the end.

“Ain’t you two cozy?” Hosea spoke up, startling both of them.

Isaac turned to see Grandpa easing himself up off the cot, groaning as his knees cracked when he stood up. Dutch immediately moved to help, only freezing when Grandpa scoffed and waved him away. “I’m not an invalid, Dutch, leave me alone.”

“Stubborn old man,” Dutch said with a sigh, watching him move carefully, like every step hurt, with a deep, worried furrow in his brow.

Hosea finally sat down in the rickety chair beside Dutch, with many grumbling complaints, putting Isaac contentedly between the two of them.

“Have you eaten yet, Isaac?” Hosea said after catching his breath.

Isaac shook his head and grabbed one of the small bones that littered the floor, throwing them into the fire one by one to watch them snap and pop. “Ain’t much food to go around.”

“He’s right, you know,” Hosea sighed. “We ain’t gonna last up here much longer, what's the plan, Dutch?”

“We get strong, we get warm…and we wait,” Dutch replied slowly, thrusting his hands toward the fire, staring at the flames instead of looking at Hosea. “When the storm breaks, we move. But we’re safe here.”

“I guess.”

“You sound doubtful.” Dutch’s tone was suspicious, reproachful, Isaac suddenly felt like he shouldn’t be listening anymore, this was leader talk, talk literally over his head.

“Not…doubtful, just worried.”

“What do you think, Arthur?” Dutch said after a long silence, catching Daddy the moment he stepped out of the room.

Isaac wanted to get up and greet Daddy, but he’d seen enough of Grandpa and Uncle Dutch’s arguments to know that the best course of action was to stay out of the way. They liked to get anyone else to settle their argument, both of them hungry for the chance to be right, even if Grandpa hid it better, and Daddy always failed to not get drawn in.

“I wasn’t on that boat, so hard to say, but I trust your judgment Dutch. Always have.” Daddy said, leaning against the mantle as he spoke.

“Thank you, son.” Dutch sighed and cracked his neck before leaning forward, elbows on his knees, into Hosea’s space, his voice dropping low in his attempt to soothe. “We have been shot at before, Hosea. I don’t feel that this is honestly anything new.”

“I hope not.”

That was not a good enough answer based on how Uncle Dutch got closer and spoke with his hands more. “We had a bit of bad luck, but then the storm covered our tracks, so now we wait a bit and we go back to Blackwater and we get our money, or we get some more money and we keep heading west!”

“But we’re heading east.” Hosea hissed, buried frustrations dredged up by Dutch’s insistence. Isaac caught Daddy, steely-eyed, nodding in agreement with Grandpa as he watched the two argue intently, just out of sight of Uncle Dutch.

“For now…for now. We got this. We’re safe.” Dutch shook his head and stood up, massaging his temples. “Just… stay strong, Hosea, please.” Dutch’s hand lingered on Hosea’s shoulder as he passed him, staying until he could no longer reach. He got to the doorframe of his room, resting one fist against it before turning to look back at Arthur. “What about you, Arthur? You doubtin’ me, too?”

“Never,” Daddy replied immediately, moving to take Dutch’s chair and pulling Isaac against his side.

“Good, because you know me, son. I’m just getting started.”

Daddy and Grandpa let out twin sighs when the door shut behind Dutch, sharing a significant look that Isaac couldn’t understand, before Daddy turned to him, the mystery in his expression gone from one second to the next.

“How’re you holdin’ up, Doin’ alright? Stayin’ warm?”

“Ain’t too bad, better now that we’re here. I don’t even mind the snow that much, I wanna go out and play with Jackie but-” Isaac blushed as his stomach growled loud enough to interrupt him, twisting Daddy and Grandpa’s faces up in concern.

“See if Pearson’s got anything, though I doubt it,” Grandpa said with a sigh. “Say what you will about civilization, son, but at least they have general stores.”

“You might be right,” Daddy groaned and stood up, his back cracking loudly as he did. “Maybe I’ll go huntin’, catch us some dinner ‘stead of us all hoping food’ll just appear.”

Isaac tried to pull him back down, panicking that he was leaving again so soon. “Nevermind! Nevermind, I’m fine!”

Arthur huffed in amusement and patted Isaac’s hands, covering them easily with his massive paw of a hand. “We all need to eat, ain’t somethin’ I can just ignore. But how ‘bout this? I go huntin’ and you find your cribbage board and when I get back we’ll play a few games.”

“Even if I win all of them?” Isaac said, trying and failing to hide his bragging through innocent earnestness.

“You little shit,” Arthur chuckled, gently shoving at Isaac. “You’re worse than your mother sometimes, I swear. Yes, even if you win all of them.”

“Deal.” Isaac grinned, sticking his hand out to shake.

Daddy laughed and shook his hand, only pretending for a second like he’d squeeze as hard as he could, then just like that he was gone, back into the storm, another job, another problem for him to fix. Isaac’s shoulders and smile dropped as the door shut behind him, cursing his stupid stomach for speaking up. More and more it seemed like it took a miracle to have ten uninterrupted minutes with his Pa.

Grandpa left soon after, ruffling Isaac’s hair as he passed him, “Don’t stay out here too long, it’s warmer in the big house.”

Isaac had waved off the warning, sure that he knew exactly where his cribbage board was but no matter where he checked it wasn’t there. It’d just started with his and Daddy’s stuff and then he’d started looking everywhere in the rundown house, tearing through it like a madman.

He’d lost a lot of things over the years, toys and books from his mama’s house, clothes that he’d grown out of, knives that the Callander brothers and Javier gave him that he wasn't supposed to have, lost them throughout moves up and down the country and after hasty escapes once things broke bad, like they did in Blackwater. But this was different, this was special and he couldn’t find it.

“Lad, quiet down, Dutch is sleeping- Look at this mess!” Molly said, trying to pull him away from Hosea’s chest that he’d been digging through, clothes scattered on the ground behind him. “What on earth are you doing?”

He barely recognized that she was there, couldn’t focus on the mess he’d made of their already filthy lodgings, all he could see was the absence of his board.

“I can’t find it!” Isaac whined, gripping his hair tight enough for tears to spring to his eyes. “It’s gone!”

Everyone lost something after Blackwater, hell they’d lost people after that catastrophe. So Isaac losing his cribbage board seemed inconsequential, but it was Mama’s cribbage board. Sure, the wood was splintering and the paint was scratched and peeling on but it’d been special, it’d been his, and now it was gone.

“Calm down!” Molly said frantically, looking around as if someone else would appear to take care of the boy and alleviate her of the sudden, unwanted responsibility. “I’m sure you’ll find it, just keep quiet!”

Isaac ignored her and pushed past to the door and out into the bracing wind, not caring that he’d left his hat and scarf inside, just needing to get out and away, needing to keep looking. He felt his tears freezing at the edge of his eyes and where they streaked down his face, felt his wrists warm with the desire to scratch madly at them.

He thought it would have been obvious how wild and crazed he felt, thought anyone who looked at him could see it, but as he pushed into the main house no one paid him any mind. He wanted to scream, wanted to push everyone out of the way to keep searching for the precious board. Instead, he fumed silently, scratching viciously at his wrists and feeling invisible.

It wasn’t hiding in the corners, nor under tables. He had to guess it lay abandoned at their camp outside Blackwater or had fallen off and was hidden in a snowbank in the northern Grizzlies, discarded like trash. Hot tears and misery built up in the back of his throat, choking him with sickly emotions. He should have kept better track of it, he should have been more thoughtful of the memories tied to the board, of how much Mama had loved it. He should have been a better son.

He was going to blame what he did next on the roiling, uncontrollable wave of upset that flooded through him.

Just yesterday he’d been more than happy to share his things with his cousin but today the sight of Jack in the quilt his Mama had made with her mother, one of the last remnants he had of her beside the portrait and his scant memories, only got him boiling mad.

Against his better judgment, he marched over and ripped the blanket away from where Jack was wrapped up. Uncaring at that moment that Jack was little and sick and needed his protection, instead just overwhelmed with the selfish desire to take back his things, shouting at Jack to leave his stuff alone, who promptly burst into tears.

That got everyone’s attention. Herr Strauss and the Reverend gasped, Auntie Tilly and Grandpa stood up with a clatter of chairs, staring at Isaac in shock, and Aunt Abigail rushed to console her son, shooting him a look that said he was in trouble once she calmed down Jack.

“Don’t throw your weight around with him!” Karen said sharply. “You’re almost grown, act like it!”

“For heaven’s sake! You’re more mature than that,” Miss Grimshaw harped, coming up like she was going to grab his ear and give him a proper talking to. He knew she would too, he’d seen it before with Uncle John and Daddy.

Before she could reach him Isaac threw the quilt over his shoulder and stomped back into the blustery ghost town, hoping the cold would disguise his embarrassed, frustrated flush. He could hear Grandpa calling after him and was afraid he’d come after him in the icy condition, so he slammed the door behind him and trudged away, afraid if someone touched him right now he’d lash out and hurt someone.

As he stormed back into the other building, past Molly muttering angrily to herself as she cleaned up after him, and into the chilly room he shared with his Pa, Isaac seethed. He tried to fold the quilt as gently as he could before hiding it under the bed, but his hands trembled with how mad he was.

His stomach churned as he considered how he’d been mean to Jack and how much trouble he was going to be, but his anger overrode it all. How was it fair that he had to act better just ‘cause he was bigger than Jack? He had thought his anxiety over growing older had been overblown but the ladies had been quick to point out that they expected better of him because he was grown.

He dug his fingers into his hair, shivering when he felt the snow sitting on his curls and pulled harshly, he scratched his wrists until dots of blood welled from the rough treatment but none of it helped, cause it didn’t change anything. He could scream and thrash and cry and let it all out but in the end, he still needed to be better, he still needed to be helpful and responsible and respectful, and he’d been none of that just now.

But what made it worse was even if he amended his wrongs and apologized and went back to being a good kid, it wouldn’t bring the board back, or any of the many things he’d lost of his mama’s over the years. He was losing her bit by bit, and it scared him how little he could do to prevent it.

He didn’t know how long he sat there taking out his frustrations on himself before he heard the door in the front room open. His first instinct was to hide, he didn’t want Daddy or Grandpa seeing him like this, didn’t want them to have to deal with the soft, wounded parts of him when he was being so unreasonable, but he paused when he heard Molly speak.

“Oh, Miss Jackson, thank the Lord, the boys in there,” She sounded exasperated and strung out, and Isaac felt his guilt curdle just that much more.

A moment later Auntie took up the doorway, the familiar way her face pinched in worry, relief in her voice as she spoke. “There’s my Isaac.”

“Here I am,” Isaac said glumly, falling back onto the bed, ready for whatever scolding he was about to get.

Tilly came and sat on the bed beside him grabbing his hands to inspect them before he could pull them away. When she pushed his sleeves up to see the raw, red skin and flecks of dried blood she tsked and shot him a reproachful look.

“Bein’ too rough with yourself, thought you and your Daddy talked about the scratching.” She said, taking her gloves off to smooth over the heated skin.

“It helps.” Isaac shrugged and tugged his hands away, pulling his sleeves back down.

“What’s got you so worked up?”

Isaac tried to roll over to put his back to her, hoping if he ignored her she’d leave him alone. He didn’t want to cry in front of her and the more she looked at him, the more he talked, the more likely it was that he would. But she didn’t let him get far, grabbing his shoulder and pulling him back towards her. “Uh-uh, look at me when we talkin’.”

“Did I hurt Jack?” Isaac asked glumly, looking up at the ceiling instead of Auntie.

“Just scared him a little, “ Tilly sighed. “Scared some of us too, ain’t seen you all mad like that in a long time, baby. What’s the matter?”

“I-I lost-” Isaac sniffed and covered his face with his hands, giving himself a moment to take deep, shuddering breaths, before trying again, his voice muffled by his chilly hands.“I lost Mama’s cribbage board.” His voice broke on the last word and the tears followed as he spoke the terrible truth aloud.

“Oh, Isaac, honey,” Auntie said sadly, pulling him upright to hug him. “That’s awful, I know it’s hard losing the things that keep the people we love close.”

“It’s not fair, stupid Pinkertons,” Isaac gritted out, digging his nails into his palm, feeling the anger at their situation like a heartbeat in his hands.

“You got that right.” Tilly brushed through his hair, not saying anything as he cried harder. “It’s gonna sting for a long time, gonna feel like you lost your Mama all over again. I was a little older when I lost mine, 13 years old, and I felt like my whole life had ended. Then when I lost her comb a few years later it felt like it all over again.” Tilly said before pausing to take a bolstering breath. “I just had to remember that no matter where I went my mama would be there, ‘cause she lived on in me, and your mama lives on in you too. I mean, you lost the board but she taught you how to play right?”

Isaac nodded, hiccuped, and hugged her even tighter, wishing he could go back and comfort her when she was younger and terrified, that he could repay her. It was a few long minutes before Isaac was able to talk without crying or his lip wobbling after all that, but finally he managed a deep breath and pulled away to rub furiously at his eyes.

“I’m 13,” Isaac said, missing Tilly’s wide-eyed shock until he looked up.

“Say again?” Tilly said, voice high in disbelief.

“Yeah, my birthday passed while we were on the road.” Issac sniffed and bashfully scratched the back of his head. “I didn’t want to bother nobody with it.”

“Baby!” Tilly exclaimed, pulling him back into a hug. “No wonder you’re feeling so crazy all the time, growin’ when we ain’t lookin’. Oh, your daddy’s gonna be so mad.”

“I just hate how things keep changing,” Isaac said sadly, scrubbing his face roughly. “All this running, all these people we’ve lost, and now I’m gettin’ grown, it’s too much.”

“We’ve put a lot of responsibility and trust on you, honey. I’m sorry it’s hard, but it’s just part of growing up.” Tilly sighed and pulled him back in for a tight squeeze when his shoulders fell at the condemning words.

“What if I don’t want to?” Isaac said in a frantic wheeze, trying to get the words away from him as fast as he thought them.

“Change is always gonna happen, whether we like it or not,” Auntie said solemnly before kissing his forehead. “But we can still enjoy the journey…how ‘bout this, next town we in, you and I will go do somethin’ fun, just the two of us, no Jack or nothing.”

“Really?” Isaac looked up at her suspiciously, most days he was overjoyed to have his cousin with him, or at least was resigned to the responsibility he had to take care of him, but he seriously doubted Tilly would actively exclude the little boy.

“Don’t be callin’ me a liar, Isaac Morgan,” Tilly laughed and tweaked his nose, making him laugh as well. “Like I said, just the two of us.”

“If Jack gets better up here can we make snowmen?” Isaac asked hopefully. “I wanna go have fun just the two of us, but I owe him for scarin’ him.”

“‘Course we can, angel,” Tillie said with a fond smile and stood up, pulling Isaac along with her. “Now you’re gonna apologize to Miss O’Shea and Jack, understand? We ain’t raisin’ a rude little monster.”

“Yes, Auntie,” Jack said, taking a deep breath before following her. Leaving the quilt under the bed for now, he’d give it back tomorrow, but he wanted one more day where his mama’s things were his, that was the most he could ask for.

* * *

Isaac wondered sometimes if he’d ever get used to the anxiety and anticipation that built up in him like a sickness every time Daddy rode out for a job. No matter how often he did it Isaac was never any more settled or calm watching his back disappear over the horizon or through the trees or, in this morning’s case, into the snow-dusted winds.

It had all happened so fast, Daddy had gone over to the shack where all the other fellas were living then Dutch followed soon after, hollering for all the men to ride out. Isaac could not imagine what possible job they could be doing out in the middle of the Grizzlies, at least not until Uncle Dutch yelled about going to fight some O’Driscolls.

A hard cold stone fell in Isaac’s gut when he heard that. They hadn’t dealt with O’Driscolls since before they came to Blackwater, at least until they’d arrived in the old mining town and Daddy and Uncle Dutch had rescued Mrs. Adler, but he’d foolishly hoped that that would be the end of it.

He should have learned by now that if things looked too good or too bad or perfectly fine then there was always a chance the O’Driscolls would show up and make it worse. For the whole morning, he couldn’t stop his nervous habits as he stared out the window waiting for Pa to ride back, hopefully unscathed. He had scratched his wrists raw and would have kept going except every adult in the room kept telling him to stop once they caught him doing it, so he was stuck nervously pacing and rocking in place.

“You’re gonna wear a hole through the floor, Isaac,” Miss Grimshaw said sharply, once again trying to guide him over to a chair. “Just calm down, he’ll be fine.”

“You don’t know that!” Isaac bit back, shrugging off Miss Grimshaw’s hands on him and heading back to the alcove in front of the windows. “You know what them O’Driscolls do-”

Before he could keep talking Miss Grimshaw grabbed him again, clapping a hand over his mouth and pulling him closer. “You hush up. Mrs. Adler don’t need to hear any of that.”

Isaac looked and saw the widow watching him intently, something dark and tortured in her gaze, hardly paying attention to the other ladies trying to distract her.

“Sorry, Miss Grimshaw,” Isaac said softly after she took her hand away, his head hung low in shame. He knew what it was like hearing folks talk about the things that scared him the most like it was nothing more important than the weather, it’d been careless.

“It’s fine, sweetie, just-” Miss Grimshaw sighed and pinched her nose, Isaac could see the stress of keeping track of them all weighing heavy on her, and his little display certainly hadn’t been helping, careless again. “Just find something to do that ain’t driving us all batty, too many folks thrown together for that.”

Isaac looked around the dreary lodging, seeing people huddled together for warmth, the Reverend reading Bible passages aloud, Aunt Abigail ever vigilantly watching over Uncle John as he recovered, and Grandpa trying desperately to get Jack to focus on his reading lesson. That was about the extent of what they could do shut up in here, just waiting for the storm to break and free them from the mountain.

It wasn’t enough, Isaac felt like if he tried to be calm and sit down amongst everyone he’d explode with all the nervous energy begging to break out of him.

He caught movement outside the window and saw his reprieve in the shape of Charles heading out of town with an ax in his hand. Isaac hurried for the door, calling over his shoulder that he was going outside and shutting the door behind him before anyone could stop him.

“Morning, Mr. Smith!” Isaac called out to Charles, wincing when the man startled at the sudden question. “Can I help?”

“Excuse me?” Charles asked, his deep voice hoarse from not talking much.

“Can I come with you to get firewood? Isaac asked, gesturing at Charles’ bandaged hand as he stepped out from the scant cover of the house’s threshold. “I can help chop it.”

Charles frowned when he saw Isaac shiver as the wind kicked up, pointing with the ax back at the house. “You should be inside, you need to stay warm.”

“I can stay warm by chopping wood, and we have more than one fire to feed, we need all we can get.” Isaac insisted, stomping through the powdery snow drifts to reach Charles.

“And we can handle it, you don’t need to worry about it,” Charles dismissed, already trudging through the snow. “Just go back inside.”

“I don’t like sitting around doing nothing! I’m not little like Jack. I can help,” Isaac tried to keep the whine out of his voice as he came around in front of Charles, pushing through the thick layers of snow to keep up with him.

Now that he was outside he didn’t want to leave, the fresh air, the bracing winds, the satisfying crunch of snow beneath his boots, all of it settled him more than the half-mad pacing and fidgeting he had been doing.

“Alright, alright, just…grab an ax.” Charles acquiesced with a grumble.

Isaac whooped in excitement and ran back to Pearson’s shack where the wood was kept for chopping and grabbed the first ax he saw, waving goodbye to a startled Mr. Pearson as he ducked in and out of the warm shack.

Once they were finally out of Coulter, Isaac felt like he could breathe again, the cold air sharp and refreshing in his lungs, the weight of his anxiety less overbearing. Charles didn’t talk much as they went further into the surrounding woods to find dry wood to cut down, and Isaac realized that their little argument was probably the most he’d heard Charles say to someone who wasn’t Uncle Dutch or Daddy.

“How come you’re choppin’ wood when your hand is all bandaged up?” Isaac said, finally giving in to the temptation to break the quiet.

“‘Cause it needs to get done,” Charles said gruffly.

“You could’ve asked me to do it, I’m thirteen now, I need to be contributing more,” Isaac said, following in Charles’ wake where the snow was crushed down. He’d been thinking a lot about his responsibilities since talking to Auntie. He liked it when the adults trusted him with tasks, he’d been so proud in Blackwater when Uncle Dutch asked for his help, both with the money and the ferry job, so even though it made him anxious thinking about what might be asked of him he figured facing it head on was better than avoiding it.

Isaac bounced off of Charles as the man suddenly stopped to turn and look back at him, his brow furrowed in obvious confusion and irritation. “Who told you that?”

The full brunt of Charles’ scrutiny was a lot to bear and Isaac couldn’t help but look down at his feet, his face flushing in embarrassment at Charles’ strong tone, like someone was going to get in trouble.

“I-I mean Mac and Davey used to talk about when I got older I’d be a full-fledged member of the gang,” Isaac swallowed around the grief of mentioning the brother’s names, at knowing they weren’t back in the cabin waiting to tease him or try and play poker with him when Daddy wasn’t looking. “And Micah’s been saying that I need to pull my weight more now that I’m grown…”

Isaac trailed off as Charles sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, “You’re not grown yet, and Micah doesn’t pull his weight. Don’t listen to him.”

“S-sorry, sir,” Isaac said uncertaintly, he knew hardly anyone liked Micah, but very rarely in his life had he been told to disregard an adult’s word. He’d been raised to respect his elders, to do as told, but maybe Micah was just so vile that it threw those rules out the window.

Charles hesitated, looking like he was going to say something else, before he sighed and shook his head, trudging onwards into the denser part of the woods. The piercing, freezing winds died down as they got within the tree line, the only remnant of the storm that continued to plague them was the fast-falling flurries that dusted them.

Isaac could not appreciate the stark beauty of the snow-covered woods around them as his mind grew dense and cumbersome with worries. Talking about Micah, thinking about what it could mean to contribute only brought him inevitably back to today’s job, today’s encounter with the O’Driscolls, probably the first in what would be dozens over the next few months.

“Charles, do you-“ Isaac stopped, cursing himself for bothering the other man with his childish concerns, even when he knew whatever answer he got would only further wind him up when he’d finally calmed himself down before he gave in and asked anyway. Unable to resist poking the bruise. “Do you know what’s happening with the O’Driscolls right now?”

“They got a camp nearby, Arthur and them rode out to…take care of it,” Charles said, slowly picking his words as if Isaac had never heard of the killing the gang did, had never seen what came out of this tired feud.

“Why? Did they know we were here?” Isaac couldn’t help but ask.

“Dutch thought it was better to strike now before they could find out,” Charles answered. “We just have to trust in him.”

Isaac grunted noncommittally, his face burning in shame. He was just a scared kid; he had no right to doubt. He wasn’t the leader, he couldn’t think as far ahead as Uncle Dutch or Grandpa could, and he had no idea of all of the factors to consider or the risks to weigh. Sure Isaac had seen the havoc that could be incited by pissing off the O’Driscolls, but he’d also seen what happened when they were left, uninterrupted, to their own devices. He didn’t have a better idea, in the end, he was just scared the O’Driscolls were near enough to be of concern, and that Daddy was once more in the thick of it.

So lost in his thoughts Isaac didn’t realize they’d reached their destination until Charles stopped and threw down the leather roll for the logs in the center of the clearing he’d found, inspecting the trees around them as he hefted the ax, deciding where to strike first.

“You still with me?” Charles asked, waiting until Isaac finally responded with a wide-eyed nod, unaware that he’d noticed his distracted daze. “Good. Be careful now, they’ll string me up if you get hurt.”

“Yes sir,” Isaac said with a nod, nervously adjusting his grip over and over on the ax, second-guessing everything he knew about how to use it under Charles’ scrutiny.

The strange conversation petered out as both Isaac and Charles got to work, stripping trees of branches and boughs for kindling and chopping down shorter trees for logs. And as the wood fell beneath his ax Isaac felt his nervous, excess energy fly away from him, replaced by soreness in his arms and sweat on his brow. The world around him felt more tangible than his fears when he was changing it so drastically like he could think clearly for the first time all day. The relief of being able to affect change when so much of what worried him was out of his control was invigorating and he eagerly reached for the next log to split or the next bough to strip, losing himself in the hard work.

Soon, sooner than Isaac would have liked, the roll was full and the clearing was sparser than they’d found it. Each tree felled or branch gathered another minute of warmth for the folks back at camp.

“Good job,” Charles said, wiping the sweat off his brow before shouldering the heavy roll of logs. “This should last us a few days.”

“Can I come next time too?” Isaac asked, gathering the kindling and tucking his ax into his belt like Charles had, holding them all as carefully as he could.

“Sure, always nice to have good help,” Charles said with the faintest hint of a smile over his shoulder before heading out, leading Isaac back the way they’d come.

Behind Charles, Isaac could not stop the wide, proud grin that overtook his face, eager to please and more eager to be recognized. Isaac was over the moon from Charles’ short, simple words. He felt like he was walking on air back to camp, making it feel like a fraction of the time that it’d taken to get to the clearing.

Soon enough the looming silhouette of the mining town came into view, Pearson’s cookfire flickering invitingly in the dim haze of the winter storm and, to Isaac’s relief, illuminating the familiar sight of men dismounting from their horses. Isaac raced past Charles, barely avoiding taking a spill in the snow in his eagerness to reach the town and see Daddy, but when he finally made it to the circle of men Isaac’s stomach dropped down to his toes as he counted one less horse and rider. He hurried over to where Uncle Dutch was talking to Micah, who Isaac ignored in favor of tugging on Dutch’s sleeve to get his attention.

“Gran- Uncle Dutch?” Isaac stumbled, his hands shaking where they were still holding the loose bundle of kindling.

“Isaac, there you are!” Dutch said jovially, pulling him against his side with an arm around his shoulders. “I see you’ve been helping Mr. Smith! Good boy, I’m sure your father will be pleased to hear that.”

Isaac’s knees went weak with relief as his stomach curdled in confusing anger, “So he’s alright? Why ain’t he here?”

“Arthur’s taking care of some business,” Dutch soothed. “He’ll be back soon I’m sure, that O’Driscoll didn’t look half tough. Hell, I bet you could even deal with him, son.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that, Dutch,” Micah drawled. “I bet the boy would sooner wet his pants at the sight of an O’Driscoll than do anything of the sort.”

“Mr. Bell,” Dutch said with a steely glare, reproachful and stern with just two words. Micah ducked his head, gave a half-assed apology, and left quickly, tail between his legs. “You just finish up, Isaac, I’m sure Arthur will be back by the time you’re done.”

Isaac nodded shakily and slipped out of Dutch’s hold, returning to Charles’ side who he was surprised to find waiting for him. Together they adjourned to Pearson’s shack, eager to dump their loads before dividing the piles and running them around camp to all the different fires.

For once Mr. Pearson wasn’t in his usual spot beside the cookfire, and though Charles’ shoulders slumped in relief at avoiding the chatty man, Isaac mourned the loss of the easy distraction of Mr. Pearson’s half-true stories. He wanted to think of anything except for Pa’s absence and the unfounded anger and upset, building up behind his eyes, at the back of his throat, and thrumming uncomfortably through his veins.

Isaac was fumbling with the twine around the bundles of kindling he was making, his hands shaking terribly from the cold and the confusing swirl of feelings battling in his gut, when Micah’s irritating voice spoke up behind them.

“Good to see the littlest Morgan finally doing some men’s work around here. You really had me going, could’ve told me you was an ugly girl and I would've believed ya.”

“Can I help you, Mr. Bell?” Isaac asked stiffly, his hackles raised as the man came further into the shack.

“Oh, Mr. Bell! Looks like I made the pup mad,” Micah said with a laugh.

“I’m sure there are better things you could be doing instead of harassing a child,” Charles growled, hefting the half-full roll of logs over his shoulder in a loud show of easy strength.

“Oh, I’ve got plenty to do,” Micah sneered. “Like prep for the train, we’re gonna rob using the information that I found. A helluva lot more useful than playing nursemaid.”

“Well then get to it,” Charles said, bumping into Micah’s shoulder hard as he left the shack, nearly knocking the man over.

Micah hissed in pain, glaring at the back of Charles’ head before turning his sly gaze back to Isaac. “Y’know, it’s no wonder Arthur volunteered to round up the O’Driscoll, probably wanted to wait before coming back to his own personal leech.”

Isaac tried his best to ignore Micah, to take Charles’ advice to heart but when Micah idly kicked at the bundle he’d been trying to tie, sending the sticks sprawling along the cold-hardened ground, his vision went red and he flew to a stand, getting in Micah’s face before he could think better of it.

“It surprises me, Mr. Bell, how you walk around begging for respect from everyone when all you are is mean.” Distantly Isaac was horrified. He’d never been so rude in his life, and yet he couldn’t stop talking. “Is it a wonder why no one likes you? When you go around speakin’ to your superiors like that?”

“My superior?” Micah said, disbelief tinting his words, the tendons in his jaw standing at attention as he gritted his teeth, revealing how mad he was getting. “Is that what you are?”

“Last I checked, I’d been here near eight years longer than you Mr. Bell, so I think I’m the one deservin’ more respect.” Isaac’s bold words rang loud in the quiet night, leaving both of them speechless, Isaac in shock that he’d said any of that at all, and Micah surely deciding just how to punish him for his disrespect.

Luckily, Isaac never saw his final decision as Charles came back, returning to grab another armful of logs, and, upon seeing the tense staredown, immediately interceded, pushing Isaac behind him and glaring down at Micah.

“Is there a problem here?”

“‘Course not, just learnin’ that little Isaac Morgan has a spine after all,” Micah said, feigning amusement with a chuckle to hide his gritted teeth as he walked away and back into the snow. “Could’ve fooled me.”

Isaac stood frozen, waiting until long after Micah had disappeared from sight, wondering what in the world was wrong with him. He noticed Charles saying something to him only after the man gently shook his shoulder to grab his attention, startling Isaac badly for no reason but to embarrass himself.

“Go, Arthur rode back in a few minutes ago, I can handle this,” Charles said firmly, not allowing Isaac to refute at all, instead pushing him past the edge of the firelight, and towards the noise that he only now noticed.

Near the stables Bill and Uncle restrained a trembling, nervous man for Dutch to speak to, his cadence confident and threatening as it reached Isaac through the wind. A sight unseen for many years, an O’Driscoll in their camp. But Isaac couldn’t care less about their apparent prisoner, all he cared about was seeing Daddy watching the proceedings with a close eye as he idly smoked, as alive and well as Uncle Dutch had advertised.

But even though Isaac could see Daddy safe and unscathed before him it didn’t make him feel any better. He’d spent most of the day worried sick, wondering if this would be the day the O’Driscolls would finally get him and if this job was only going to bring more senseless violence down on their heads, but the fact that he came back unharmed only made Isaac feel incredibly stupid for worrying in the first place.

Isaac inhaled sharply at the feeling of guilt weighing on him, so heavy it made his bones hurt, because how could he be mad that Daddy was fine? He didn’t want him to get hurt, he didn’t want his fears to come true, but he wanted to stop being given reasons to stress. Coupled with his nerve-wracking argument with Micah Isaac felt ready to shake apart at the seams.

Soon enough Bill and Uncle dragged the man off to the stables as he yelled and hollered about Colm O’Driscoll, only raising Isaac’s hackles further, starting up that incessant urge to scratch at his wrists and alleviate the tension brewing in his head, which he gave into easily, drawing stark, red lines on his wrists.

He waited for Uncle Dutch and Daddy to finish talking, the plans for the train clenched tightly in Dutch’s hand, before finally approaching, pulling his gloves up and his sleeves down to hide the evidence of the embarrassing habit.

“Daddy?” Isaac called out, his voice trembling and uneven.

“Darlin’,” Arthur sighed, cigarette smoke and fog pouring out of his mouth. “You will not believe the day I’ve had.” He turned with a tired smile, “But I hear you’ve been mighty helpful-”

“Did you really take an O’Driscoll prisoner?” Isaac asked, not knowing that that was going to be the question that came out first.

Arthur’s face furrowed in irritation, highlighted by the bright ember of his cigarette, “They told you ‘bout that, huh?”

“Were you not going to?” Isaac’s voice went high in disbelief, the sound of it bouncing back strangely from the snow.

“Not right away,” Arthur grumbled, stubbing out the ashen cigarette in the snow. “You’ve got enough to worry about at night without knowing there’s some weasel in the stables, but I would have told you.”

“Me bein’ scared at night ain’t nothin’ compared to waitin’ up for y’all!” Isaac hissed. Immediately he wanted to back away, go back in time, and stop himself from saying anything.

“You still worrying ‘bout me?” Arthur said with an almost affectionate laugh as if it was cute that Isaac should be concerned over his own father’s wellbeing. “Ain’t nothin’ Colm’s men can do to me, they couldn’t hit the flat side of a barn sober, if they ever were. And besides-'' Arthur's voice dropped down low as he continued speaking, “You have your money, you got nothin’ to worry about.”

Isaac thought of his journal, with its unusual heft and bulge of the cover from where Daddy had cut a seam between leather and binding to slip secret bundles of money away for Isaac to have just in case, and thought of what a poor replacement for his father it was.

“Daddy, the money ain’t important! I care about you!” Isaac gritted his teeth and swallowed down his panic over the fight he was starting, looking over Daddy’s shoulder so he couldn’t see his expression. “I mean is any of this necessary? What are y’all doin’ fightin’ O’Driscolls and draggin’ them back to camp when we’re barely hanging on as is? I mean robbing a train?! Ain’t that dangerous? Ain’t it all just plain stupid?”

“Isaac!” Arthur reprimanded, his voice steeped in surprise at having to at all. “What has gotten into you?”

“I don’t know!” Isaac finally broke and yelled, the nauseating swirl of emotions too much. “I-I’m just scared, Daddy, ain’t you?”

Arthur sighed and pulled Isaac into a tight embrace, engulfing him in his bulk, completely obliterating any cold he might have felt, and giving Isaac the much-needed space to hide his face in. Isaac’s breathing became uneven and reedy between the constricting hug, perfectly tight like iron bands, and the tears that built up but refused to fall, leaving him suspended between anger and grief.

“Darlin’, I’m sorry but you know we live dangerous lives, and have to do risky things to make our living, there ain’t no avoiding that,” Daddy said solemnly, rocking Isaac side-to-side. “But it ain’t gonna be like this forever, Dutch has got a plan and soon enough we’ll be out of here, with enough money in our pockets to live easy. You just gotta hold on a little while longer.”

He’d heard this all before, Uncle Dutch always cashing in trust and hopes for a dream. The gang only survived because folks believed in it, believed in Dutch, they’d all lived in that promised future longer than any camp they’d ever had. So Isaac had no choice but to hold on to Dutch’s pretty words that Daddy now parroted, because that slim glimmer of hope of a life easy and safe with all his family with him was better than nothing.

“How come it’s always gotta be about money?” Isaac asked bitterly, his voice muffled by Arthur’s coat.

“That’s just the way the world works, darlin’, ain’t no way around it.”Arthur sighed.

“Well…the world’s stupid.”

Arthur laughed and kissed Isaac’s forehead before pulling the boy’s hat down tighter, holding his face in his hands to look at him fondly, “Ain’t nothin’ truer, son.”

The rotten feeling in Isaac did not abate for the rest of the night, he wasn’t quite so angry, didn’t snap again, content as he was with Daddy back, but he was not settled. Knowing that their lives depended on each risky, stupid job to have a better payout than the last was a truth that Isaac had been well aware of for years, but confronting it time and time again, knowing that it was yet another thing that lived firmly outside his control, only fueled his anxious thoughts and left him with raw, red wrists.

* * *

It has been a few years since we have robbed a train, and though it is lucrative it is stressful as all hell. I can only hope that the other fellas don’t open their big mouths, because Isaac would be displeased to hear about the foolishness we put ourselves through only to get a bunch of damn bonds. Potential money is never as good as cash, though I trust Hosea to make it worth our time.

I would not have expected these desolate mountains to have much action in store for us but I of course would not have guessed the O'Driscolls would have turned up. I know Dutch will be eager to find Colm and cut any retribution off at the pass but I will be happy if we can get through another season without them on our tails.

The storm has finally died down, awful and biblical as it was, and we will be leaving in the morning. The mood around camp has not been this high since before the ferry job disaster, we are all sick and tired of the cold.

Except for the boys, now that Jack is feeling better the two of them will go and play in the snow any chance they get, no matter how often they get scolded for coming in dripping and covered in snow. They have snowmen in all corners and folks keep getting scared by them, makes me laugh every time.

It is good to see Isaac in higher spirits, I only wish I could see it more.

Arthur sighed and looked over at Isaac sleeping, stroking the boy’s curls, as greasy and tacky as they all were with nothing better than a bucket of snowmelt to wash with, watching fondly as the kid mumbled and sprawled out in his sleep. To Arthur’s amusement, he had noticed that once Isaac hit 12 and started getting bone aches and growth spurts he’d slept deeper than ever before. He’d been much the same when he was younger, dead to the world as soon as he shut his eyes, but nowadays Arthur slept lightly and restlessly, always at the ready should something happen.

He hadn’t even bothered to try to sleep tonight, too anxious for their imminent departure. With the caliber of luck they seemed to have lately Arthur was just dreading something happening while he slept and being unable to do anything about it. So he sat up, journaling and drawing by the dim lantern light, and watching Isaac who seemed to be growing leaps and bounds every moment Arthur wasn’t looking at him.

Memories throughout the years drifted in of a much younger Isaac, flitting about camp like a happy little bird, Copper, sadly departed, always nipping at his heels. He missed those days, fewer troubles, less death, and Isaac still small enough to carry and protect, small enough to shield from the rest of the world.

Arthur was mortified that the thought of how much Isaac had grown and just how quickly Isaac was leaving childhood had him fighting back tears. Fatherhood had done a lot of things to Arthur, more gray hairs, more worry lines, and above all made him more emotional when it came to his son. He sniffed hard and carefully moved off the bed, grabbing his boots and hat to head outside, surely there was something that needed to be taken care of that could distract him from the soft, trembling feelings he was left with.

The chilled swirl of wind and snow that had been plaguing them the last few weeks was gone, and the moon and stars were bright in the sky, only thin wispy trails of clouds remaining to obscure them. It was a relief seeing the storm well and gone, as well as the snaking line of their wagons through Coulter ready to leave at first light. Arthur went between all the wagons, making sure what was on them was tied down well enough, but found that there was little for him to fix considering how practiced at this the gang was.

Between the canvas covers Arthur could see the faint flickering light coming from the windows of the main house and he followed it easily. Inside the large building, all the ladies slept soundly, the poor widow curled between Mary-Beth and Abigail who held Jack tightly in her sleep, along with the older men snoring and kicking like they wanted to bring the building down. Arthur walked silently through the sleeping masses, moving to check on John in the back, and was surprised to find Charles sat up in watch over the recovering man, steadfastly carving arrowheads by the light of the waning fire.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” Arthur said quietly as he pulled up another chair next to Charles beside John’s cot.

Charles raised a brow at him, looking out the window at the round moon before looking back at him in amusement, “I could say the same to you.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” Arthur said, tapping out the last few cigarettes he had left in the crumpled box he dredged from his coat pocket, silently handing one over to Charles and lighting them both with a match he struck off the bottom of his boot. “Wanted to check on the bastard.”

“Good to see you too brother,” John’s hoarse, broken voice spoke up, surprising Arthur. John was still lying with his eyes closed like it was too much energy to keep them open, but he managed to slap Arthur weakly on the knee, his hand dangling awkwardly off the bed. “You seen me now, just as ugly as before.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” Arthur chuckled, leaning back in his chair until he heard the wood creak beneath his back. John’s face was tough to look at, the claw marks in his barely closed over with twisted black twine against his pale skin and the irritated red of the wounds. “But at least you’re alive, and you’ve roped Charles into watching your sorry ass I see.”

“The Reverend was having withdrawals, I took his shift,” Charles said, taking a long drag of the cigarette. “Let Abigail get some rest too, it was supposed to be a quiet night, though.” Charles glared at the two of them halfheartedly to which Arthur shrugged and grinned.

“You try sleepin’ all day long and not wake up at night,” John grumbled, trying in vain to get more comfortable before giving up, breathing hard as the minuscule movement wore him out. “How’s Jack been? Boy always seems to be in when I ain’t awake.”

“He and Isaac have been havin’ a grand old time in the snow,” Arthur said fondly. “He got over his cold too, and not too soon either, they tell you we’re leaving tomorrow?”

“‘Bout time,” John mumbled. “I hear the wolves howlin’ at night, feels like they’re comin’ to get me.”

Arthur laughed at that, trying his best to stay quiet and not wake the dozen or so people sleeping around them and he could even see an amused smile break across Charles’ face. As they kept talking John was able to rally a bit more and open his eyes, even trying to sit up before both Arthur and Charles rushed to push him back down, he asked about their prospects, about their plan once they got out of the Grizzlies, and lots of questions about the train robbery which only kindled an irritated mood in Arthur as he recounted working alongside Micah.

“Still don’t understand what Dutch sees in him,” Arthur said as he ground out the butt of his cigarette beneath his boot. “I ain’t never met a man more troublesome, not since Mac and Davey but at least I could tolerate them.”

John hummed in agreement, the mood of their easy conversation darkening at the mention of the lost brothers, until Charles spoke up, and darkened it further, “I meant to tell you, something happened with Micah.”

“Lord, what now?” Arthur sighed, he couldn’t imagine what type of trouble that man could bring down on them in the middle of nowhere as they were.

“He and Isaac were arguing,” Charles said slowly, staring at a finished arrowhead instead of John and Arthur’s matching, shocked expressions. “I don’t know what Micah said to him but Isaac looked ready to fight, I stepped in but I thought you should know.”

Arthur groaned and buried his face in his hands, trying to calm the hot flash of anger he felt and resist the urge to pull Micah out into the snow and kill him where he stood. None of that would help anyone, so he just had to control himself.

“Can’t say I’m surprised,” John said hoarsely, amusement tinting his voice. Only because it wasn’t his kid or his problem, Arthur thought bitterly to himself. “He’s at that age. When I was 13 I would’ve gotten myself killed trying to shut a man like Micah up.”

“You were trying to start fights the second we got you. A year didn’t make much of a difference,” Arthur argued, feeling overwhelmed at yet another thing with Isaac he needed to be concerned about. “But he-” Arthur slowly counted out how long they’d been up in Coulter and when they’d left Blackwater and was devastated to reach his conclusion. “Lord, he is ain’t he? I missed it completely. Oh, he must hate me.”

“I’m sure he forgot too,” John replied. “It’s been a crazy couple of weeks.”

“He knows,” Charles said succinctly, shattering what little hope Arthur had mustered and sending his face back into his hands. He was surprised when he felt Charles’ hand on his shoulder and looked up to see the man watching him sympathetically. “But he’s got too much on his mind to spend time worrying about a reasonable mistake.”

“He does, does he?” Arthur said with a sigh. “He tore into me about them O’Driscolls and I felt like I was bein’ scolded by Hosea, should’ve seen it then. He’s acting grown.”

“Do you think that’s why Dutch gave him that job?” John asked, his words growing slower as the night wore on and sleep tugged at him. “Thought he was old enough?”

“I don’t know, but that might’ve been why Isaac argued for it,” Arthur scrubbed a hand over his face. “I ain’t never seen that from him before, and after how big of a disaster that all was I doubt I’ll see it again.”

“Do you want to?” Charles asked his voice even, revealing no feelings beyond curiosity.

“Lord no,” Arthur whispered. “Scared the shit outta me having him out there, I shouldn’t’ve given in, he had no idea what he was asking for.”

“You don’t want him out there now or ever?” There was a right answer to this question, Arthur could see it in Charles’ stoic gaze, could feel it in his gut, could hear it in Eliza’s wishes ringing in his ear.

“Never, never again,” Arthur stood up, his back cracking loudly as he did, which if John was still awake he surely would have laughed at him about. “I ain’t never giving him the chance to do something that stupid again, not while I'm still kicking.”

“Let’s hope he doesn't take after you, or there may be no stopping him,” Charles said with a sly grin, still fiddling with the arrowhead.

Arthur barked out a laugh, wincing when people around the room shifted at the noise, “You are a cruel man, Mr. Smith.”

* * *

As soon as light spread in the sky the next morning the camp was boiling with activity and in the center of it all was Miss Grimshaw snapping at anyone who lagged for a second, making sure every bit of their few remaining supplies and belongings made it onto the wagons. They were hitching the horses, checking the wagons, getting John laid in the back as gently as possible, throwing the O’Driscoll in the back of another, and Jack and Isaac were intently trying to make the biggest snowman that they could before they all left Coulter

Arthur was approaching them as Isaac tried to pick up the massive boulder of snow they’d made to put on top and toppled over from the weight of it, the boulder smashing apart on him and covering him in snow. Jack exploded into high-pitched giggling and Arthur couldn’t help but follow him, his loud belly laughter unrestrained as he watched Isaac try to dredge himself out of the snow drift.

“I think you’re taking playing in the snow a little too literally, son,” Arthur said, still laughing as he pulled Isaac up to standing, helping him swat off the snow that clung to him.

“Why’d you have to come by now?” Isaac whined, his face bright red after fumbling and being caught in the act.

“Oh, you’re fine,” Arthur waved off, helping Isaac out of the taller snow and back to the well-trodden path they’d made through the derelict mining town, before stepping back and picking up Jack. “Now come on, we’re goin’ scouting.”

Arthur found Abigail, frazzled and high-strung as she was trying to watch John and look around for Jack, and handed the boy over to be gently scolded for running around out of sight. Then, with a hand on Isaac’s shoulder to steer him out of the line of wagons, Arthur found the horse he’d gotten at the Adler ranch and rooted around in the saddlebags for his other coat to hand off to Isaac.

“It ain’t that cold,” The boy grumbled, slipping on the too-big jacket as ordered, his hands barely coming out the sleeves.

“You tell me that in twenty minutes and you can take it off,” Arthur easily replied as he mounted up, giving Isaac a hand up to sit behind him.

It wasn’t until they were about ten minutes out from Coulter that the wind picked up to nip at their exposed faces and worm under their clothes causing Isaac to lean further into him to stay warm against the bracing cold. An unspoken defeat in his war against extra layers and Arthur’s nagging.

Arthur meanwhile kept his eye out for trouble, looking for lingering O’Driscolls and hungry wolves, and behind him, Isaac entertained himself by pointing out the wildlife around them. Rabbits peeking out from the underbrush, skittish rams bounding up and down the cliffside, moose looming large across the frozen lake, all of it making the desolate landscape they’d been trapped in seem a lot livelier.

“There’s a hawk followin’ us, Daddy,” Isaac said, amused as he traced the flight of the brown-winged bird above them with his gloved finger.

“He’s probably heading south, or looking for dinner,” Arthur said, carefully maneuvering the horse over the little river that had surprised him in the snow.

“What if it’s a spy?” Isaac asked with a laugh, the story infecting his words as he kept talking, just like Hosea did when he was spinning a yarn. “It’s gonna find out where we’re goin’ then report back.”

“Well you know it ain’t the Pinkertons,” Arthur said. “Great Americans that they are they’d use eagles instead, and the O’Driscoll’s are dumber than rocks, the bird would sooner eat them. So maybe the bird’s just curious, I’m sure we look like a pair of fools traipsing around.”

Isaac hummed in agreement and kept leaning back to watch the hawk wheel above them, “Is this why you brought me along? To talk about birds? I’m sure someone else would’ve been a better scout.”

“Is it a crime for me to want to spend time with my son?” Arthur asked, pretending to be offended. “I’d’ve thought you would’ve been excited to come along.”

“I am, I am!” Isaac amended frantically. “I’m just curious, you don’t usually bring me!”

“Alright, truth is-” Arthur said, slowly pulling the horse to a stop near a wide canopy of pine leaves, the neighboring trees grasping for one another. “I wanted to talk to you.”

“‘Bout what?” Isaac asked nervously.

Arthur dismounted and stood in front of Isaac, idly adjusting his jacket on the boy as he geared up to talk. “I heard about your fight with Micah.”

“I’m sorry,” Isaac said, his face going pale despite the wind-chapped flush on his cheeks. “I didn’t mean to cause any trouble I just-”

“I ain’t mad,” Arthur gentled, holding up a hand before Isaac got too far along in his panicked rambling. “Hell, I’d take a swing at Micah if I didn’t think Dutch would tan my hide for it, I just want to know why. This ain’t like you.”

“He was being rude,” Isaac mumbled, his hands rubbing anxiously up and down his legs. “I’m sorry.”

“Just stay away from Micah,” Arthur said, rubbing his jaw. “He ain’t worth nobody’s time, especially yours, and I don’t want you talking to him either if you can help it. Man ain’t nothin’ but a poison.”

“But Uncle Dutch likes him,” Isaac countered, his brow furrowed in confusion.

“Yeah well, Uncle Dutch likes Evelyn Miller and you told me that crap didn’t make a lick of sense so maybe Dutch doesn’t always either,” Arthur said, venom rising as he kept talking. Frustrated that he even had to have this conversation, that Dutch would put them all in the position to have to deal with the rat he’d loosed in their camp.

“I don’t like Micah very much, he’s mean to folk who don’t deserve it,” Isaac said slowly, looking nervously over Arthur’s shoulder like he was still expecting to be punished for talking bad about anyone in camp.

“That he is,” Arthur rumbled, gently clasping Isaac’s hands in his own. “Like I said you don’t listen to a word he says and you’ll be just fine.”

“But what if he says something awful!” Isaac suddenly piped up, his hands flying from Arthur’s grasp to gesture in agitation, getting more incensed as he thought back to what Micah had said. “He thinks he can do whatever he wants ‘cause no one does anything about it!”

“Listen,” Arthur sighed. “You’re getting older, it’s gonna be harder for you to keep a handle on yourself, you’re gonna have to learn when to walk away if you’re getting too heated, ‘specially if you can’t win the fight.”

“But that ain’t fair!”

“Sure it is,” Arthur said with a wry laugh. “That’s what becoming a man is all about.”

“But- Oh,” Isaac winced, his face turning red in embarrassment. “You found out about my birthday, huh?”

“Yes, and I am sorry, Isaac, I should’ve kept better track, shouldn’t’ve let it slip by, but don’t think I’m happy with you hidin’ it either.” Arthur said, doing a poor job of covering his tenderness with scolding. “My son is the most important thing in the world and I’d like to celebrate that, don’t you take that from me.”

“Sorry, Daddy,” Isaac said, still looking away, and tugging on the fraying ends of his scarf. “It was when we were comin’ down south, everyone was scared, and cold, and hungry. Jack was sick, people were missing, Jenny was dying, it wasn’t a good time.”

Arthur sighed and not for the first time wished things were different.

“That was very considerate of you, but that ain’t your job, alright?” Arthur pulled Isaac into a hug, almost tugging the boy off the horse with the force of it. “I’m your father, I should be the one worrying, so don’t think so hard, you’ll burn yourself out.”

“I hear you,” Isaac said with a wet laugh, clutching tight to Arthur.

“We’re gettin’ outta here today and things are gonna be a lot better,” Arthur promised as best he could, relying on Dutch’s word more than he ever had before. “We’ll celebrate your birthday, we’ll find Mac and Sean, and who knows, maybe that hawk’ll come get Micah for us and we won’t have to worry about him no more.”

Isaac’s laugh was loud and surprised and never ending, lighter as if Arthur had done something right to alleviate the constant burden that seemed to lay on the boy.

He could see the ease in him as they rode back to Coulter, as they caravaned down the mountain, happily squeezed onto the drivers bench with him and Hosea, marveling at the countryside they found themselves in, and he wasn’t the only one enchanted and relieved.

As they left the chill everyone breathed a little easier at the sight of snow giving away to thick fog condensed in the spry trees of West Elizabeth, dreary whites and grays replaced with bright greens interrupted by the red of a fox or the blue of a bird, the crisp waters and cloud-streaked skies opening wide to greet them; it all felt like a rebirth. Like their bad luck had died up on that mountain and they were finally walking into something good.

Arthur wanted to believe that things would be better for them at Horseshoe Overlook, wanted to take the promise the landscape was making and run with it. But he knew nothing came easy; if he wanted this new setting to erase some of the bad they’d face then he’d have to put in a whole hell of a lot of effort, but it was worth it, he woke up everyday knowing it was all worth it if he could reach his goal of that better life, both promised to him from Dutch and Hosea and what he promised Isaac, and he was not one to break his promises.

Chapter Text

Isaac could not decide if it was better to be struggling in a cold, hard, lonely place or somewhere warm and beautiful. They were out of Coulter and far from the snow and now camped out in Horseshoe Overlook, giving them a view of the entire valley. The river snaking down from the Grizzlies, the red rock mountains in the distance, the glittering medallion of the lake, it was breathtaking if they could find a brief respite to appreciate it; but the bounty of loveliness that surrounded them was the extent of their wealth.

When they had first arrived in Horseshoe Overlook Dutch had dropped down the donation box and declared everyone needed to get to work, that they all needed to bring in food, money, jobs, anything if they wanted to survive.

He had said that everyone needed to earn their keep.

Isaac knew there wasn’t much he could do, as young as he was, and he doubted that his inability to bring in money would put his place in camp alongside Daddy at risk, but he had made a lot of guesses and assumptions over the years and came up lacking. He knew that with their lives as they were nothing was certain.

So, he went to work as best he could, doing chores around the camp, and helping everyone with anything they needed. Sometimes that looked like running down the hill to find medicinal herbs for Grandpa, sometimes it was taking inventory of the guns and ammo so Uncle John could lie down or playing with Jack so Aunt Abigail could go into town; keeping him from the far side of camp where the O’Driscoll was still tied up. Though his moans of pain and pleading could be heard from just about every corner.

Today he was helping Uncle Dutch and Herr Strauss, writing down numbers and estimations as the two of them talked, keeping track of the plans Dutch was making and the projections Strauss had of just how many days they could survive on as little money as they had.

“I have lent some funds to some locals, we should see a return on our investment within a week, with some persuasion that is,” Strauss said with a smirk, drumming his fingers on his ledger where three unfortunate debtors were written out in dark ink.

“I’ll send Arthur your way when it’s time, Herr Strauss,” Dutch said, absentmindedly waving his cigar around as he looked over the sums Isaac had written down. “In the meantime, we need to focus on the necessities, cause we’re circling the drain.”

Isaac stared at the numbers he’d come up with, 5 more days of food, 7 guns worth of ammo for the camp, nothing stored away. If they were attacked, they were dead, if they couldn’t find more food, they were dead, and even if they managed to scrape by that’s all they’d be doing, scraping by, the future of land and prosperity and freedom that had felt so close in Blackwater was miles away now.

He wanted to reveal the folds of money he had hidden away, split open his journal, and spill it on the table. It probably wouldn’t be enough to get them some land, but it’d at least give them some stability until they could make more. Guilt burned hot in his gut every moment that he didn’t, but Daddy’s voice in his head kept him frozen. Reminding him that this wasn’t his money to use, it was his money to save, and Daddy had gone through a lot of trouble to keep it secret. So, he sat, hardly listening to Herr Strauss and Uncle Dutch, and tried to ignore the sickness building up in him from his inaction.

“Isaac!” Auntie Tilly’s voice broke him out of his gloomy reverie and by the time he realized she was behind him she was pulling him off his chair. “Come on, your Daddy’s taking us to town. I’m sure we’ll be more fun than old men counting coins.”

“I resent that, Miss Jackson,” Dutch said with a twinkle in his eye. “But sure, go on, take the boy. We could use a break anyhow.”

Tilly guided him over to the wagon which Isaac now saw, hidden from view by Dutch’s tent from where he’d been sitting, Daddy, Uncle, Karen, and Mary-Beth all piled up in a wagon waiting for them. Isaac was soon pulled up onto the back of the wagon to sit among the ladies as they rode to Valentine, and the company made his dark thoughts and sickening guilt flee a little quicker, the fun of singing loud and laughing louder when Karen messed up helped even more, the sun seemed brighter, grass greener, and their prospects not so dire if they could have moments like these.

He was lost in his thoughts, trying to quell his anxieties, when Daddy pulled their wagon to a sharp stop to avoid crashing into the coach ahead of them as its horses broke away from the tongue.

“Is one of you gonna get that feller’s horse?” Auntie asked, standing a little to catch a glimpse of the white shire grazing across the way.

“Oh, I got lumbago, it’s very serious!” Uncle whined from the driver’s seat, prompting Isaac and Daddy to roll their eyes. Arthur hopped down, calling for Isaac to follow him so the two of them could see what was going on. Isaac eagerly jumped over the lip of the wagon, frightening Mary-Beth and making Tilly and Karen laugh at her little shriek of surprise.

“Lumbago. Really…” Daddy muttered once Isaac joined him, shaking his head in annoyance over the old man.

“I think he just don’t wanna do it,” Isaac snorted, there were a lot of stories that he believed but he’d learned early on that Uncle’s shouldn’t be one of them.

Daddy barked out a laugh as they approached the coach driver, immediately having to school his expression into something sympathetic when the man whipped around to glare at him. “You alright there, friend?”

“Damn nags, damn coach,” The man grumbled as he climbed down from the driver's seat. “You couldn’t get my other horse from over there, could you? It’s the white one.”

“Sure, no problem,” Daddy acquiesced, nudging Isaac forward. “The boy can help hitch ‘em up for you, ain’t a worry at all.”

Isaac went to the front of the wagon without further prompting, holding up the tongue and waiting for the man to lead the more docile brown shire over, it didn’t take long to hitch her up and Isaac, using the knots Mr. Pearson had shown him from his navy days, hopefully ensuring the man could get to town without further incident.

From the corner of his eye, Isaac could see the man moving to affectionately pat his shoulder or ruffle his hair to thank him for his help, but just in time, Isaac darted away, pretending to check on the straps on the horse to make sure they were tight enough.

Isaac didn’t often talk to folk outside the gang, at least not alone, but he did notice that people were real friendly with him because he was a kid. Patting him, shaking his hand, ladies adjusting his clothes or hair if it was out of place, casual intimacy as if he were their own son, and he’d learned early on that folks didn’t like that he didn’t like them touching him, so he’d gotten very good at avoiding the interaction entirely without them ever suspecting.

Luckily Isaac didn’t need to continue the charade for much longer as Daddy approached with the big white shire, heralded by the ladies clapping and praising him for the job well done, and Isaac could instead focus on hitching her up, double and triple checking the knots so the wilder horse wouldn’t get another chance to break free.

“You’re a gentleman, sir! And a fine boy to boot, thank you!” The man said, his grumpy face from earlier breaking into pure relief.

“Just trying to impress the women, ain’t that right, son?” Arthur asked with a grin, pulling Isaac in close with an arm around his shoulders.

Isaac rolled his eyes up at Daddy and waved at the coach driver as the two of them walked away, returning to loads of teasing for Daddy from Uncle and high praise for Isaac from the ladies for being a little gentleman in his own right. Aunt Tilly pulled him into a hug and he sat with his head resting on her shoulder until they arrived in town, only faintly wondering why most folks at camp didn’t make him as itchy and uncomfortable as when strangers tried it.

Around him, the ladies talked about how exciting it was to see people again and even Isaac could see the appeal of being in civilization. If Valentine could be considered such a thing. It was just like any other town they’d been to, perfectly average and dirt covered, if more entrenched in sheep and their shit, nothing was particularly impressive, but after so long stuck in the snow with all the misery it was like seeing New York City.

They came to a stop finally in front of the stables and the ladies just about flew off the wagon in their eagerness to be amongst people and things and the best facsimile of society they could find out here. Isaac instead crouched on the edge of the wagon and waited for Daddy to come around as he talked to Uncle about putting the ladies to work bandying about town and finding information.

Daddy barely reacted as Isaac jumped onto his back, grabbing him and getting a good hold like he knew Isaac was going to do it, unsurprising considering how often Isaac did do it. Back at their Blackwater camp, there was a tree where he could step up onto the lowest branch and he used to sit there, obscured by foliage, and leap onto some of the fellas when they got close enough to scare them.

He’d learned early on that if they didn’t see him coming, he could almost always knock Uncle John, Javier, Sean, and Lenny to the ground cause they were so wiry compared to everyone else. Especially Sean who was barely wider in the shoulders than Isaac was. But he’d never been able to knock Daddy, Bill, Mac, and Davey down. Instead, he’d just cling on to them and hitch a ride somewhere in camp, or deal with the punitive wrestling match till he was red in the face with laughter.

Towards the end of their time at the camp Mac had gotten so suspicious of Isaac doing it that he wouldn’t even go near the tree, even if Isaac wasn’t at camp, according to Karen. Then there was Davey who would purposely come closer to bait out Isaac’s attack only to step out of the way at the last second and make him fall in the dirt, which just ended up in them chasing each other around camp anyway and getting in trouble with Miss Grimshaw.

Isaac felt his breath catch in his throat as the bittersweet memory of the Callander brothers overwhelmed him for a second. It was the inconsequential moments he’d had with them that seemed to come back to him most often, that seemed to hurt to remember as much as they were hard to forget. He clung tight to Daddy for as long as he’d let Isaac stay to try and steady himself, not willing to share his random flash of emotions with everyone gathered.

When Daddy and them finally finished talking, none of them saying a thing about Isaac being foolish, he took one last deep breath and hopped down, his emotions wrangled as best as he could, before Auntie Tilly startled him for the second time today.

“Well, would you look at that!” She said, pointing at the big red tent behind Isaac. “Guess Valentine really is a proper town; they even got a movie!”

Isaac lit up at the sight and grabbed Auntie Tilly’s hand, grateful for the distraction and eager to watch in equal measure, “Can we go?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” Tilly said with a grin, looping her arm through Isaac’s like they were a fine lady and gentleman going on a stroll.

“I thought you’d come here to work, what kinda work is there in a movie tent?” Uncle asked, teasing lilting his tone, and making Isaac wilt beside Tilly.

“We could go later…” Isaac mumbled, pulling his arm away from Tilly. Uncle was right, all the ladies had been brought to town to scrounge up some jobs and give them a headstart in the area, let them make some money, and get out of the pit they were half-buried in. And Valentine was so close by they could probably come back another day. Running around and watching movies wasn’t as important as earning money, earning their keep.

Before Isaac could fully break away Daddy was right there, handing over a few bills to Tilly without hesitation and shooing the two of them away, “Not like we can’t spare you, go on have a good time.”

“Yes, sir,” Tilly said eagerly, snatching up the bills and tugging Isaac towards the tent before he could run away. “You ain’t stupid, Isaac, so don’t listen to stupid people like Uncle. Listen to smart folk like me and you’ll be a lot happier.”

“Uncle Dutch is smart,” Isaac mumbled.

“He say you can’t watch a movie?” Tilly said sharply, gesturing with the bills clenched in her other hand. “Two dollars ain’t gonna be the difference between life and death, honey, and I said we’d go so we’re going.”

“But-” Isaac shifted uncomfortably where they now stood in line, knowing exactly how much food two dollars could buy he was inclined to disagree with Tilly.

“Baby, I promise we’ll make more money,” Tilly soothed, tugging his chin up where Isaac was staring at the tracks in the mud. “Dutch has got a plan, your Daddy’s got a plan, and Karen and Mary-Beth are searching for opportunities right now. We’ve got it handled, so please, just calm down, for me.”

Isaac took a shaky breath, his nerves still thrumming like writhing snakes beneath his skin, but the shutter of the film reel was audible even outside, and they were just a few steps from going in and seeing what new marvel they had to display, and really what other chance would the two of them have to come to town and see a movie together? So, he smiled and nodded, and said nothing as Tilly bought the tickets, intent on enjoying himself.

And in the end, he did, the quaint story of the bear hibernating made everyone laugh and Isaac was so enraptured with the pictures on display telling the story that Tilly bought them another pair of tickets to watch it again, this time getting front row seats so Isaac could take in the paintings moving and talking at them.

Tilly was all smiles by the time they left the tent, and started walking back to the others, pleased with herself for pulling Isaac up out of his gloom and worries, “Happy birthday, honey!”

Isaac was so overwhelmed with how exciting the movie had been and how grateful he was she’d convinced him in the end that he could barely speak, instead pulling her into a big hug, almost lifting her off the ground in his excitement.

She laughed and hugged him back twice as hard, only jumping apart when a wagon tried to turn down the lane and the driver yelled at them for standing in the middle of the road. Giggly and embarrassed, the two ran back to where Daddy and the rest of them were standing together, sobering up when they saw the blood on Karen’s mouth, a bruise blooming on her jaw.

“What happened?” Tilly asked, rushing up to Karen to fuss over her, despite Karen’s obvious shame as she tried to fend off the other woman.

“Fella just punched me, Arthur punched him a lot harder,” Karen said sullenly, gesturing to Daddy behind her.

Tilly kept fussing and Isaac wanted to intervene and ask why someone would hit Miss Karen for no reason when Mary-Beth interrupted them both, pointing across the way with a confused tilt of her head. “Who’s that guy over there staring at us?”

Everyone turned to see a squirrely-looking man in a suit leaning over the horn of his saddle to get a better look at them, his face pinching in surprise as he caught sight of Arthur.

“Weren’t you in Blackwater a few weeks back?”

“Me? No, sir. Ain’t from there.”

“Oh, you were. Well, I definitely saw you. With a bunch of fellers, a-and that kid!” The man pointed an accusatory finger at Isaac and Arthur immediately pushed forward, shoving Isaac behind him and out of sight.

“Listen, buddy. Come here for a minute.” Daddy said, approaching the man, one hand outreached, the other casually resting over his coat where his gun was hidden.

“I saw you…”

“Come here,” Daddy said, casually gesturing for him to dismount as if they were old friends and Daddy wasn’t a very dangerous, very defensive man.

“Come on, get!” The man cried, kicking his horse into a gallop and running away.

“I don’t like this,” Uncle said, grumbly and serious.

“Me neither.” Daddy turned back to all of them clumped together, his face darkened with a glower, swaying in place as he thought before suddenly moving towards a horse tied nearby. “Go get the girls home, Isaac, you too, I’m gonna go have a word with our friend.”

“Be careful, Daddy,” Isaac warned softly, unable to follow as Mary-Beth and Auntie Tilly had hands on his shoulders keeping him close.

“It’s just a word, ain’t nothin’ more,” Daddy said, his placations overridden by his gruff worry, then just as quick as the other man had ridden in and disrupted their day Daddy was flicking the reins and riding after him.

“Is it alright to leave him alone?” Isaac pleaded, hoping the answer would be no so they could stay and wait for him, but Uncle just scoffed and pulled him along to the wagon.

“Ain’t nothin’ safer, Arthur may be a sad, mean man, but he’s a highly capable one. Don’t worry a lick about him.”

Isaac found he wasn’t as worried as he’d be if Daddy went chasing after bounties or O’Driscolls, the man didn’t look dangerous despite his big mouth, but hearing Blackwater evoked in this new setting was upsetting. They’d gone through so much, traveled so far, and lost so many people because of Blackwater, and yet they still could not shake it. The memory of the blood-soaked day hung over them all like a ghost.

The ride back was quiet and sullen, folks were worried, and Karen was quiet and snappy, licking her wounds but not able to get away from all of them, so her defenses were even higher than usual. Karen’s wound and sour attitude kept the other ladies so occupied that they didn’t see what Isaac saw that shook him to his core, didn’t see who he saw.

Mrs. Linton, Miss Mary, the lady from Daddy’s portrait, stepped out of the church. She was a pretty lady, and very proper-looking, she looked like how the ladies in books were described. Isaac was so shocked at the sight of her, the portrait lady, real flesh and bone, the woman who’d tried to have him sent away standing before him, that he didn’t even think of trying to hide.

So, when she looked down the hill of the church, she saw a wagon full of sharp women driven by a tired-looking old man and a young boy staring straight at her, his mouth open in shock. But to Isaac’s great chagrin, their wagon passed the big tree in the graveyard and kept going down the lane, until he left her, and her reaction, behind in the churchyard.

Isaac stood up in the wagon, craning his neck to try and see her around the tree and building, trying to get any piece of the puzzle as to why she was here but was swiftly pulled back down by Mary-Beth, scolding him for being reckless. Leaving Isaac to do nothing on the ride back home but question whether he really had seen Miss Mary, and whether or not she’d seen him.

* * *

Life in Horseshoe Overlook was this. Running and getting buckets of water from the river first thing in the morning to fill up the water barrels and troughs. Bringing a cup of water to Mrs. Adler where she sat looking over the valley, being quiet and slow so as not to startle her.

Then once he was sopping wet from water splashing over the sides of the heavy buckets and his arms were as limp as a wet blanket, he would help Mr. Pearson get a good start on the day. Replacing the labor that Miss Jenny had been providing before her untimely demise, because as sad as it was, the rhythms of their lives had to continue regardless.

Washing dishes, cutting vegetables, even breaking down animals if someone went hunting. That was his favorite part, though it was nauseating when he’d first seen the fur peeled back from an animal, it was fascinating seeing all the pieces that made the animal function. He wanted to learn about treating and tanning the fur afterward, but he often didn’t have the time what with his other duties.

After helping Mr. Pearson, if Uncle Dutch and Strauss didn’t request his presence, he’d tend to the horses, brushing them down, scaring away snakes that lay in the grass, and feeding them, though it took him twice as long as the men in camp to get a bale of hay from one side of camp to the other; leaving him exhausted every time.

Though there was much more of late that left him tired than just tending to the chores. He slept deeply still, but that was only if he could get to sleep. Daddy was often away, and the camp got dark at night, and to top it off Grandpa had lost his tent when they escaped from Blackwater, so he was slumming it with some of the other gunslingers, so Isaac couldn’t retreat to his tent for a much-needed reprieve.

His troublesome dreams were still the same old stories, Daddy dying, the cellar, the sound of guns, Aunt Annabelle’s scream, wolves howling, Colm O’Driscoll’s victorious smirk, Isaac alone, alone, alone. But lately, there was a new fear, as much as it was familiar, a pamphlet for a school, Isaac packed on a train and sent away, never to see his family again, Miss Mary’s money paying for his swift ejection.

Isaac was nervous even days after returning from Valentine. He’d never had to keep a secret from Daddy before, never had a reason, but now he did, and he had no idea how to manage it. He didn't know why Miss Mary was nearby, wasn’t even completely sure it was her, except for the fact that she looked identical to her portrait even so many years later.

Regardless, whatever she was here for, he wanted to keep Daddy away as long as he could. She’d almost had him convinced about the school just in a letter, he couldn’t imagine how persuasive she’d be in person.

So, all he had to do was keep quiet. Which was easy in some ways because Daddy was away from camp so often trying to get the lay of the land and make money, but when Daddy was at camp it was excruciating. So wracked with nerves over the incident he tried his best to wake up before Daddy and keep busy all day long, anything he could do to stay occupied and not risk divulging anything.

It wasn’t a perfect system, by any means, and he could feel Daddy’s suspicious gaze on him as he moved through camp some days. Isaac just wished he could lie at all, would’ve thought after years of watching Uncle Dutch and Grandpa do it for a living, he would’ve been better; but he wasn’t. So, he kept quiet, kept busy, and, sadly, kept away from Daddy.

Today he’d found that he’d so thoroughly taken care of his chores that there was little left for him to keep busy with, so instead of facing Daddy and his ever-increasing scrutiny Isaac had taken it upon himself to give Aunt Abigail a break and play with Jack all day. Not a sacrifice by any means as Isaac always enjoyed spending time with his cousin.

As the two of them darted around camp catching bugs or chasing one another Isaac would catch glimpses of Abigail taking a nap or darning clothes or even fussing over Uncle John who’d just barely started walking around camp again. When he saw the two of them standing beneath the shady tree near the cliff's edge, Uncle John holding Abigail close around her waist resting his chin on her shoulder and Aunt Abigail leaning into the embrace with a beatific smile, he decided to veer Jack in the opposite direction to give them some privacy.

“Ok, whose is this?” Isaac asked, adjusting his grip on Jack’s legs as he gave him a piggyback ride through the herd of horses. The little boy bounced and kicked in excitement when he was brought close enough to gently pet down the big snout of the Ardennes, who gently huffed and leaned into the attention.

“Uncle Bill’s,” Jack answered after a moment, thoroughly distracted. “It’s Brown Jack!”

“And that one?” Isaac pointed at the Arabian at the edge of the herd, making sure to keep his distance from the ornery thing, keen on keeping his toes intact and unstomped.

“That's The Count, he’s Uncle Dutch’s!” Jack pointed eagerly.

“Good job, Jackie!” Isaac laughed, keeping a tight grip as the boy tried to climb further up his back to see better. “They ain’t goin’ anywhere, calm down!”

“Where’s Whiskey?” Jack asked innocently, looking around for his Pa’s Thoroughbred.

Isaac winced and walked slowly among the horses, straying close enough to let Jack run his fingers through the manes as they passed them. “Whiskey ain’t here no more, he died up in the mountains.”

“Like Boadicea?”

“Yeah,” Isaac sighed, finally coming over to the hitching post and dropping Jack down to stand precariously on the beam, the little boy holding onto Isaac’s shoulders as he balanced. “Just like Boadicea.”

“Oh,” Jack pouted. “That’s sad…but they got new ones right?”

“Mm-hmm,” Isaac hummed, pointing out Old Boy and the Tennessee Walker that Daddy had ridden down from Coulter, yet unnamed. “Can’t do nothing without a horse.”

“Couldn’t’ve said it better myself,” Grandpa called out, coming up from behind them with Daddy beside him. “Eh, Arthur?”

Jack quickly jumped down to greet Grandpa, excitedly telling him about how he knew all the horses in camp, while Isaac did his very best to appear normal and secretive, highly focusing on petting the Walker.

“Sure, but it's hard to replace Boadicea. She was quite a horse,” Daddy said with a melancholic sigh as he offloaded a pair of saddlebags onto Silver Dollar who grazed on a rapidly balding path of grass. Isaac nodded sadly in agreement when Daddy looked over at him and the Walker. “She’s okay but…ain’t no Boadicea.”

“Y’know Arthur,” Grandpa said, ruffling Jack’s hair with one hand as he adjusted his grip on the rifle he was holding, which Isaac was shocked he hadn’t seen sooner considering it was about as tall as Jack. “I’ve been meaning to offload this shire for a while now- Unruly bastard!”

Grandpa pointed accusatorially at the horse who Isaac had found to be nothing but docile and gentle since they’d arrived and continued to be so as Daddy patted down its flank, his fingers twitching as he took in the large horse and Isaac could just see the drawing Daddy was envisioning in his eyes.

“Where’d you get this one anyhow?” Daddy asked.

“Some big, loud-mouthed bastard tried to rob me when I was out riding so I…” Grandpa trailed off, looking down at little Jack listening in. “Well, you know how it is.”

“Ah’course,” Daddy said with a laugh.

“How ‘bout this? Let’s take ‘em to Valentine. It’s on the way, sort of.” Grandpa hedged, coming closer to meet Arthur at the Shire, looking at him over its broad back. “There’s a decent dealer there. We’ll unload him and you can buy yourself a new horse.”

“I ain’t said I’m comin’ just yet,” Daddy groused, snatching Jack up moments before the little boy reached out to tug on the horse's tail, just asking to get kicked.

“You’re leaving?” Isaac whined. “Why?”

He knew it would be better to keep up his secret if Daddy was out of camp, but he would take Daddy’s continued presence here, where Isaac could see him, over anything else in the world if he was truly honest.

“Well, you see,” Grandpa cut in, his eyes alight in storytelling, gesturing as he spoke, barely avoiding hitting the horse with the rifle as he did. “When I was getting the lay of the land I saw a bear, a real monster, three times the size of a normal bear, and I figured your Pa and I could be the ones to take it down.”

“A bear?” Jack asked in awe as he was handed over to Isaac, eagerly tugging on his cousin’s collar in excitement. “The biggest bear!”

“Yes, Jack, I heard-” Isaac said, disgruntled as he tried to extricate his shirt from the boy’s grip, before finally letting him down to run back into camp. “Do y’all have to go?”

“Bear’s good eating, dear boy,” Grandpa replied. “And I’m sure we’ll get a good payout on the pelt. Besides, we’ll only be gone a day or two.”

“So, I’m goin’ then?” Daddy grumbled, still brushing down the Shire.

“Unless you want me gettin’ eaten by that thing then yes.”

“But-” Daddy started, and Isaac looked up to see him and Grandpa having a silent conversation, pointing and gesturing over to him as if Isaac couldn’t see them.

“He’ll be fine, Arthur!” Grandpa finally broke out, irritated at Arthur’s hesitation. “Not like he’s not more sensible than half the folks here! He can ride with us to Valentine if you’re so damn worried.”

Isaac stiffened, the last thing he wanted to do right now was go to Valentine, especially with Daddy, when Miss Mary could be there, waiting to unleash a whole mess of trouble on them no doubt. He mourned the fact considering he missed the Blackwater days when he could spend all his time with Daddy and Grandpa, and it had been a long time since he’d gone riding. But the anxious churning in his gut spoke louder than his desires.

“I-I’m fine, Grandpa, I’ll just stay back, keep playing with Jackie,” Isaac dashed over to Daddy’s side and gave him a quick hug, trying not to linger long so neither of them could get a good look at his face. “I’ll see you when you get back, Daddy!”

With forced enthusiasm Isaac waved them off before disappearing into camp, not looking back for fear they’d stop and chase him down for answers. When it was clear that they didn’t Isaac tried to fight down the stupid tears that wanted to build up.

So, he’d been flippant and carefree right before Daddy was about to chase down some demon bear all over a stupid secret, so what? So long as they both came back unharmed then it’d be fine. And if he spent the next few days in turmoil over the quick goodbye and his frustration over Miss Mary’s appearance, well, only his journal could tell.

* * *

“Hosea, am I doin’ somethin’ wrong?” Arthur asked as they rode away from Valentine, accidentally interrupting the other man, though he’d hardly recognized him talking as the rush of his anxieties had deafened him to anything else.

“The horse seems to be listenin’ fine, what’s the problem?” Hosea replied, pulling back on Silver Dollar to ride side-by-side with Arthur, taking in his new massive mount with fond exasperation. “Just like when you got Boadicea, got the biggest damn one they had, huh?”

“Oh, Llamrei here couldn’t be any trouble at all,” Arthur cooed at the over-large Ardennes. It’d been love at first sight, seeing the handsome blue-gray coat with his little streak of white down his face amongst the average browns amidst the rest of the herd in the stables. Arthur had felt such a kinship with the beast, close to his first sighting of Boadicea, that the only name that had felt fitting came from the same stories his name did, those dented, creased Arthurian legends that Trelawny had slipped him years ago, long gone. But no, it’d be all too easy if he was having a problem with his horse. “Isaac’s been avoidin’ me lately, been all quiet, he’s hidin’ something from me, but I couldn’t tell you what.”

Hosea barked out a laugh, drawing a baleful glare from Arthur at his dismissal. “Oh, Lord, I remember when you were all secretive and quiet, better than when you were slipping worms in my bedroll.”

“It ain’t like that,” Arthur argued, flushing in shame. He knew why he’d pulled nonsensical childish pranks when he’d first joined up, they’d made perfect sense at the time. Push these strange men that’d taken him in to the breaking point, find out what made them tick, discover when they’d start lashing out. Try and find out if his place by their side was conditional after all.

“No, it ain’t like that,” Hosea replied, keenly bounding over the uncomfortable silence they’d drifted into as Arthur remembered darker, less certain days, when the threat of violence wasn’t just a consequence of his job, but a side effect of being alive at all. Dragging Arthur back to the present with a firm squeeze of his wrist. “But it is like when you first started seein’ young Miss Gillis and you was hiding it from us-”

“He doesn’t have a girl!” Arthur interrupted, yelling in disbelief.

“That’s not what I’m saying!” Hosea snapped. “Let me talk goddammit,” Hosea sighed when Arthur finally waved him on, grimacing but silent. “It doesn’t have to be a girl, but he’s just got something he ain’t ready to tell you yet. Give him time.”

“He ain’t done this before, what’s changed?” Arthur worried, sure he’d inadvertently done something to push Isaac away.

“Isaac’s just getting older,” Hosea shrugged, casual as much as his face pinched in melancholy, sad to admit such an unavoidable truth. “Things seem a lot more important when you got more than half a brain to consider ‘em with. And Isaac’s always had a bit too much brain to worry with for his own good. You give him some space and he’ll come to you.”

“He and Micah got into a fight or somethin’ back up in Coulter, just yellin’ way Charles tells it, but what if it was worse and Isaac’s hidin’ it?”

“That man, don’t know why Dutch is so taken with him.” Hosea blew a heavy breath out of his nose, looking up at the sky the way Arthur saw him do sometimes like he was beseeching Bessie for wisdom and strength the same way Arthur did of Eliza. “Anyways, it don’t matter, best way to get Isaac to never tell you is to poke and prod him about it.”

Arthur grumbled, irritated at yet another necessary moment of patience cropping up. It was a lot easier to take care of Isaac when he actually knew what the boy needed taken care of. But like Hosea said the boy was too mindful for his own good, he tried not to think about where he might have picked that up.

“I can’t imagine John’ll handle this well when Jack gets to that age.”

“No, I don’t think that’ll go well at all,” Hosea laughed a mean laugh, shaking his head as he rode ahead to keep guiding them. “But let’s see how you deal with it first, huh, son?”

If Arthur could’ve snapped his fingers and gone back to simpler days he would’ve in an instant, but deep down he knew there was no such thing as simple for their lives, only the past was made so by the veil of experience. So he rode on behind his old man, playing his part in the practiced conversations and stories, and wondered when these days would seem simple and ideal.

* * *

Though they had lost folks it seemed like the size of their herd had only doubled since they’d come down from Coulter. Every man’s horse, the big shires for pulling the wagons, the smaller spare Morgans, even Mac and Davey’s horses remained, outlasting their owners and only growing more temperamental day by day, sensing the loss they’d suffered.

Isaac never begrudged his tasks amongst the horses, always eager and willing to spoil each one as much as he was able and enjoyed knowing each horse's little traits and personalities. But as much as he enjoyed it, tending to the horses was still an exhausting, intensive task. And at Horseshoe, he had the additional challenge of trying to ignore the O’Driscoll.

The man was scrawny and pathetic and reminded Isaac of a shivering dog where he stood lashed to a tree, but he was still an O’Driscoll. So even if it made him sick with unease and guilt to ignore the suffering man Isaac always heeded Daddy’s warning to stay away from him as best he could, hardly needing one in the first place with how wary Isaac was of him, waiting for the day when he’d somehow free himself and call Colm and hellfire down on them.

Often Isaac didn’t have to do much to ignore the man, as he rarely spoke, but today Isaac had veered a little close while trudging by with the sloshing buckets to refill the barrel.

“H-hey kid,” He croaked, his voice as rusty as an old door “How ‘bout some water? Please? I’m dyin’.”

Isaac looked around, still avoiding the man, trying to see if anyone was close enough to intervene, but besides Reverend Swanson sleeping like the dead behind the wagon, Mr. Pearson, the nearest person he could see, was elbow-deep in blood and guts breaking down a deer and wouldn’t be aware of anything but the task at hand.

He continued over to the half-full barrel, carefully dumping them to avoid splashing the unconscious man and waking him, and flinched when he heard the O’Driscoll groan like he’d been stabbed at the sight of the cascading water.

“Please, please- just a sip.”

“I ain’t supposed to talk to you,” Isaac reluctantly replied, setting the buckets down with a heavy thump.

“C’mon, I won’t tell,” The man pleaded, his head dropping in exhaustion from talking. “Just a little.”

Isaac’s hand rested on the lip of the barrel, clenching the wood hard as he tried to steel himself to walk away.

It didn’t feel right what Uncle Dutch was doing to him but if he said they needed to then Isaac trusted him. The man may not have looked like he had the capacity for the type of cruelty the O’Driscolls were known for, but any man willing to throw his lot in with Colm O’Driscoll was untrustworthy in Isaac’s book. And yet it would be so easy to dip one of the tin cups into the cool water and dredge up a mouthful. Too easy to grant him some reprieve from what had been inflicted on him.

With a twitching hesitation, Isaac reached for one of the dull tin cups where he’d stacked them just last night. It wouldn’t take a minute to fill it up and hand it over, but it only took ten seconds from when he’d had the thought for Daddy to appear.

“Don’t you talk to him,” Daddy growled at the man as he stalked over, quickly grabbing Isaac to steer him away. “Not unless you’re ready to talk about that gang of yours, O’Driscoll!”

Isaac took the hint and hurried away, shame flushing his cheeks at how close he’d come to breaking one of Daddy and Uncle Dutch’s rules, a simple one at that, but the voice-cracking pleading the man was doing, begging to be freed, begging to be believed, was hard to ignore.

As Isaac was trying to shake the thoughts off him, trying to block out the plaintive whining, he saw Uncle Dutch and Uncle Bill coming over to meet Arthur at the lone tree, the three of them surrounding the tied-up man like hungry wolves. He knew he wasn’t supposed to listen, knew none of this was for him to know, but the darker side of their lives was a poorly kept secret to him, and no matter how far he walked away he could still hear Uncle Dutch, as loud as he was.

“Hurt him!” Dutch yelled, in response to Bill's indistinct grumbling, exasperated like the course of action should have been obvious to anyone watching. “So, the next time he opens his mouth it is to tell us what is going on!”

Isaac gulped and circled back, the allure of knowing why the O’Driscolls were nearby too tempting to pass up, and knowing his Pa he would be one of the last to hear the answer if they got it; so, he had to take advantage of the moment if he wanted to know.

He crept behind the far wagon crouched in the tall grass to avoid people seeing him, came just close enough that he could see past the chuckwagon, and watched as Uncle Dutch got real close to the O’Driscoll, his voice dropping low and threatening. The only thing Isaac could make out was the mention of Colm and the sheer terror on the prisoner's face, until Dutch turned to Bill with a wild grin, making a clipping motion with his fingers. “Geld him.”

Uncle Bill eagerly ran for where they kept the gelding tools and Isaac finally found the sense to run away from the scene, his gut churning in disgust, deciding if that was what it took to find some answers then maybe he was better off in the dark. As he tried to outrun the sound of the prisoners' terrified screeching, he lamented how even the easy parts of dealing with the O’Driscolls were blood-soaked and stomach-turning, even the whimpering cast-offs caused them no end of trouble.

Finally, Isaac ducked behind a rock at the edge of camp and crouched down, made himself as little as he could, and covered his ears tight enough to hurt. He didn’t want to hear the peaked screams of pain when Uncle Bill finally did it, didn’t want to hear Uncle Dutch’s eager taunting or even Daddy’s stoic silence, he just wanted to hear nothing.

He sat in a tense little ball for what felt like ages, his hands and forearms starting to hurt as much as his ears were for as much pressure he was putting on them, but he was so scared of taking them off at just the wrong moment that he planned to never do it at all.

His plan was interrupted by a strong hand on his shoulder, jolting him out of his panicked revere, and bringing him face-to-face with Charles.

The man said something to him but with his hands over his ears and his blood rushing in his head Isaac couldn’t hear him, tentatively Isaac loosened his grip to hear the blessed normality of camp behind him, no anguished screaming to be found.

“Say again?” Isaac asked after taking a shaky, relieved breath, so grateful not to have overheard such a thing that he couldn’t muster the shame for his childish behavior.

“Would you like to come hunting with me?” Charles repeated, his bow slung over his shoulder already.

“Why?” Isaac asked cautiously, as he stood, the offer was tempting, he liked spending time with Charles, especially as the two of them often found themselves working together to keep the camp in order, but hunting was definitely not something Isaac was brought along for.

Charles sighed, hesitating to speak for a while before finally responding, “Your father and some of them went out with the prisoner to go find Colm O’Driscoll, Hosea suggested I take you out of camp too.”

Isaac felt his breath coming in short, insufficient puffs as he looked around the camp and saw that Daddy, Uncle John, Bill, and the O’Driscoll were indeed missing, having disappeared since Isaac ran from terrifying threats.

“R-really?” Isaac stuttered, trying to keep the fuzzy fear growing in his body from overtaking his mind, trying to stay focused, present, trying to stop being so damn scared. Daddy and them could take care of themselves, it didn’t matter that Uncle John was barely out of bed rest, or that they were trying to head off this feud with no more planning than a frightened man's word. It didn't matter that Colm always had more men and more guns, Isaac should just stop being a baby about it, cause all it was doing was worrying everyone else. “I’m fine, promise, you don’t g-gotta fuss over me.”

Charles leveled him with a doubtful look as his teeth chattered with how much he was shaking, suddenly overcome with the many, many things that could happen. The same collection of fears that nagged at Isaac every time Daddy went out to fight O’Driscolls.

“Don’t lie.”

“J-just go, it’s nothin’,” Isaac gritted his teeth to stymy his shaking and looked away from Charles, resisting the incredible urge to scratch until his wrists were raw and worn away by the anxieties running circles in his head, he just needed to convince the man to leave, just needed to hide away from everyone, then he could get all this ugliness out of him and go on as normal.

“You’re thinking too much,” Charles said. “Come on.”

Charles walked away, leaving the underbrush Isaac was crouched in to cross over to his horse. Isaac considered letting him walk away, considered staying hidden at the edge of camp and scratching at his skin till it was as worry-worn as his brain was, but Daddy and Auntie and Grandpa got real concerned when they saw him scratching when they saw blood drying under his fingernails, they’d know he’d been doing nothing but sitting and stressing till he made himself sick. So, for no better reason than to save them the trouble of worrying over him, he woodenly got up and followed Charles.

He had expected the man to mount up and bring Isaac with him, not to pull out a second bow from his saddle and slip it over Isaac’s head, who stared at him, utterly bewildered.

“An old one of mine, I made a bigger one for myself but that one works just fine.” Charles pushed a half-empty quiver of arrows into his hands before walking out of camp, gesturing for Isaac to follow.

As they walked silently down the hill Isaac had the time to consider the impromptu outing, forcing himself to consider really as he sought anything that wasn’t worrying about the roughshod party going out to find Colm. He had to assume Charles was remembering their chore together up on Coulter when Isaac was losing his mind over Daddy and them going to fight O’Driscolls. Distantly Isaac appreciated the gesture, but at the same time he hated how easily he could be read, how often Isaac had to face this same horrible scenario again and again, how often he had to confront the fact that Daddy might not-

“Can you see the ducks down there? That’s what we’re hunting today, not going too far.” Charles interrupted Isaac’s increasing panic, pointing down at the cool, blue river, distant green and brown shapes floating around that could be ducks.

“Y-yeah,” Isaac stuttered as he realized he’d been trailing behind, slowing down, trudging through the underbrush in the same way he forged through his familiar anxieties. He shook his head clear as best he could and hurried to walk alongside Charles trying to pretend like everything was fine.

“They know what they’re doing,” Charles said quietly when Isaac had met his stride, still looking out over the river.

“But why didn’t they bring anyone else?” Isaac gritted out, frustrated as he often found himself with Uncle Dutch. Especially when it seemed like he was choosing danger over anything else. “Colm always has dozens of men!”

“Just because there’s more of them, doesn’t mean they’re better,” Charles replied easily, steering them towards a copse of trees a few yards from the riverbank. “Now come on, we’re not here to talk.”

“But-” Isaac interrupted, wanting to yell and rant, wanting to get some of the ugliness out of him and in the open, wanting to find a way to logic the whole situation so it was better. He didn’t know how it could be better; all he knew was he hated what he was left with.

“Have you ever used a bow?” Charles interrupted, easily throwing Isaac off the fumbling, confused mental warpath he’d been on.

“N-no.”

When Charles had invited him out to hunt and handed him a bow Isaac hadn’t made the last connection to realize that he would be hunting, and he would be using the bow as well as Charles. He’d never been brought hunting by any of the other fellers, never done anything more strenuous than chores and learning how to fight from Daddy, so his internal monologue of fears and rambling anxieties was knocked clean out of his head as Charles showed him how to properly hold the bow.

“Need to keep your shoulders straight, can you pull back on that or is it too heavy?”

“No, it’s fine,” Isaac murmured, still surprised, but steadily growing more excited. He’d never had any interest in the guns lying around camp no matter how much he saw folks using them, especially because of how he saw them used, or how often he was tasked with cleaning and managing their inventory. But Charles’ bow, and Daddy’s later on, had always captured his attention. How something so simple could be used so effectively, could provide, protect. And he was getting to learn today!

“Aim at that tree over that, across the way,” Charles directed him, his instructions clear and concise, his guiding hands quick and efficient. “Spread your feet to match your shoulders, then when you’re ready, fire.”

Isaac found a knot, halfway up, on the lone tree, a perfect target. He took a deep breath, finally nocked the arrow Charles handed over after a few poor attempts, then pulled back until he could feel the strain in his shoulder and loosed the arrow.

It was unsurprising when the arrow buried itself into the dirt, yards away from the intended tree, but Isaac was surprised that he wasn’t overcome with frustration like usual when he wasn’t good at something. He could see what he could do better, could imagine an improved arc of the arrow to land squarely in the trunk, he wanted to try again until he got it just right.

“Go get it, don’t want to be losing arrows, now do we,” Charles nudged him forward with a rare, warm smile, a smile that filled Isaac with pride because he’d done that, he’d done well, and he’d do even better.

He lost count of how many times he nocked, loosed, and retrieved the same arrow, of how many little adjustments and tips Charles offered him, of how many times he stared down the shaft of the arrow and locked eyes with the unscathed knot. When he finally did shoot his target, and the arrow buried itself a few inches as opposed to his other attempts that bounced right off, he had to resist the urge to jump in holler in joy, instead bouncing in place and furiously flapping his hands in excitement.

“Good job,” Charles said with a chuckle, yanking the arrow out of the tree easily. “You’re a lot more patient than your father is. It took me almost two months to teach him and get it to stick.”

“Daddy likes the easy way,” Isaac teased. “You should ask Uncle Dutch about when Daddy brought back some bass, he loves to tell that story.”

Charles huffed in amusement and handed the arrow back to Isaac, being careful with the sharp arrowhead, “How’re you feeling?”

“Fine, I guess,” Isaac shrugged, not willing to analyze it anymore. Knowing if he let himself think too hard, he’d be overwhelmed with good old panic and anxiety, and debilitating guilt on top of it all for having such a good time when Daddy could very well be in danger. “Are we hunting or what?” Isaac blurted out, feeling that cold wave of panic threatening him like a storm on his horizon.

Charles watched him with careful scrutiny before nodding and bringing them closer to the riverbank where they wouldn’t startle the fowl.

Talking to Charles was…strange, Isaac decided, but strange in a good way. He didn’t coddle him like some of the folks in camp or shy away from Isaac when he got emotional like some others did, he just treated him like normal. Better than normal even, treated him with respect, though it took him a while to understand that. He took whatever Isaac was willing to give and made do, didn’t push or prod unless Isaac was being foolish. It was comforting, safe, and Isaac was glad he could do something to lift the heavy seriousness that seemed to weigh down Charles’ brow all the time.

“Now, listen,” Charles said, clapping him on the shoulder and meting out his careful words. “I didn’t teach you how to shoot a bow to abuse it, or the animals around us. This isn’t a toy, and neither are their lives. Understand?”

“Yes sir,” Isaac answered, suddenly feeling nervous that he might slip and destroy the whole riverbank if he wasn’t careful. He clutched his bow and arrow tightly, as if they might try to run away and wreak havoc then blame it on him if he didn’t keep a tight enough grip.

Charles nodded and took his bow in hand, checking the wind before rising and motioning for Isaac to follow, the two of them stood side by side, ready to draw.

“They’re small, but aim for their heads, preserves the most meat,” Charles said quietly, tracking the movement of the ducks and geese that had congregated in a loud, smelly chorus.

“What if I miss?” Isaac asked nervously, fiddling with the peeling leather at the grip.

“Then we go downstream and try again,” Charles replied simply, the easy answer taking all the wind out of Isaac’s mounting sails of imminent disappointment and failure. It would be fine; everything would be fine.

Isaac nodded resolutely and nocked his arrow before drawing it, the familiar tickling sensation of the fletching against his cheek, the taut bowstring clutched between his fingers, the tension held tightly between his shoulder blades, it all grounded him, focused him down to the moment just before he let go.

One swiftly after the other Isaac and Charles released their arrows and watched the twin arrow heads and shafts bear down on the unsuspecting fowl. Isaac winced at the wet thunks that followed, and the panicked quaking and honking of the collected congregation as two of their own were slain, but when the flock finally dispersed and the fluttering feathers settled, Isaac was pleasantly surprised to find two dead ducks.

Charles’ arrow had flown straight and true through his duck’s head, coming out bloody and red on the other side and burying itself in the reeds, while Isaac’s had fallen a bit short and pierced the bird's neck, pinning it to the ground.

Isaac winced, hoping it had died swiftly despite his inexperience, but was distracted by Charles warmly patting his shoulder, smiling widely at him, with teeth exposed and all.

“Pretty good for your first time, all it takes is practice.”

The level-headed praise made Isaac’s head swell up like a balloon and he could not keep the cheek-hurting grin off his face. He wanted to go again, try to bag a goose or a deer even to earn more. But Charles' warning was too fresh in his brain to give in to the hyperactive desire.

So instead, he listened intently as Charles taught him how to pluck all the feathers out of the birds, what the uses for those shiny, green feathers could be, and when Charles stood and declared they were going back he didn’t complain once.

“Thank you, Mr. Smith,” Isaac said softly, doing his best to keep pace with the bigger man. “I-I know I was ungrateful at first, but this was nice, helped distract me.”

“We can’t control the things that scare us, but we can control how we respond to it.” Charles reached over to pluck at the bowstring slung across Isaac’s chest, making it thrum for a moment. “Hard work helps, something tangible. Just stick to what you can control, that will help with the things you can’t.”

“Is that what you do?” Isaac asked, awed. It was hard to believe someone like Mr. Charles Smith would have to grapple with such mundane, ugly things as fears lashing away at his brain, never silencing for a moment.

“Sometimes,” Charles said with a half-smile. “Sometimes we just need firewood.”

Isaac trudged back to camp with a smile of his own, feeling more settled than he could have ever thought possible while knowing Daddy was away fighting O’Driscolls. The strain in his fingers and the sore in his back were pleasant reminders of the handful of hours he’d spent thinking of nothing more than pulling back on the bowstring and watching the arrow fly.

It was a feeling Isaac took time to memorize, tucked away in his brain for the next time he needed it, as such unburdened calmness was increasingly rare for him. He eagerly marched up the hill with Charles, nearly darting ahead a few times in his excitement to return, to hand over the duck to Pearson and contribute materially for the first time, to show off to Grandpa and Auntie, to brag to Jackie about how he learned to shoot a bow and arrow, to serve the bowl of duck stew to Daddy later knowing he’d gotten the duck, and he’d help cook it, and that he could help unburden Daddy in some small way, with something as tender as a warm meal.

* * *

Simple, unpracticed drawings dot the pages of horses, hawks, bugs, frogs, and one of Isaac himself standing in a heroic pose with a bow and arrow pulled taut.

I am very grateful for Charles teaching me how to use the bow and arrow, now when I get overwhelmed or stressed, I’ll go off to the edge of camp and practice. He made sure to tell me I ain’t allowed to teach Jackie ‘cause I’m too green and he’s too little but sometimes Jack will come and watch anyways.

It’s funny that I’ve discovered this method of calming now when it's been a week or two since I saw Miss Mary. It would have been a lot more helpful in the days after, but things obviously didn’t shake out like that.

Luckily, I ain’t heard or seen anything to do with Miss Mary since then. Daddy hasn’t mentioned her, none of the other folks in camp have said they’d seen her. I am hoping she did not recognize me and was only passing through Valentine on her way somewhere far away.

I am glad to forget this for now as there is always something else to worry about. Daddy and all them returned fine enough from the O’Driscolls. Though I haven’t heard much about what happened besides that Colm wasn’t there and that now the prisoner, Kieran, is more or less a part of the gang.

He’s still nervous and stuttering and sometimes he’ll flinch if you look at him too fast. Jackie likes to throw rocks at him, call him an O’Driscoll like everyone else in camp. I’ll pull Jack away ‘fore long ‘cause I don’t see the point in being mean for fun.

I don’t like to hang around him if I can help it. He was an O’Driscoll, as much as he likes to preach he’s one of us now, but he saw the kinds of terrible things Colm can do, don’t know why he’s so surprised we don’t trust him half as much as he wants us to.

He’s at least good with the horses, which he has been assigned. I would have put up a great fuss if he wasn’t, but it seems like he was the better man than me for the job. And he is quiet and polite, which is more than I can say for fellas like Micah, and God Bless that he hasn’t been around camp the last few weeks.

For the most part, I am neutral about his presence here, which sometimes fills me with an awful guilt. Mrs. Adler hisses and seethes at Kieran, her rage over her husband and what became of her that she’d sooner rip his head off for once running with the O’Driscolls.

I have faced great loss at Colm’s hands too, but I can’t muster the same violent rage that she has. It’s a shame that Aunt Annabelle ain’t around no more, I think she and Mrs. Adler would get along like a house on fire.

* * *

Arthur was a lot of things, but a pleasant person to be around in the morning with a raging hangover was not one of them. He’d taken Lenny out for a drink last night after the poor kid had nearly gotten lynched, with the unfortunate side effect that Micah hadn’t, and the two of them had gotten drunk. It was only due to Arthur’s last vestige of restraint that they had managed to drag themselves back to camp.

He didn’t remember much after making it past the scout fire, but he must have been quite foolish judging by the relentless teasing that the ladies had given him when he’d woken up.

Arthur was camped out now at one of the tables, glaring at anyone who came close beside Isaac bringing him coffee and bread rolls, the kid looked exasperated with him but kept bringing him more coffee every time he finished his cup regardless.

He watched as Isaac similarly brought a cup and plate to Lenny, the poor kid slumped over by the fire looking close to dead from his own devastating hangover, rousing enough to take the offered gifts and gratefully clap Isaac on the back. He was a good boy, surprising to everyone every day that Arthur had contributed to that in any way.

He watched his son and nervously turned the letter Miss Grimshaw had given him, along with a cool cup of water, this morning round and round in his hands. Mary Linton, after 4 long years, Mary had written him once more. He read the letter and recalled one hazy conversation with Lenny from last night, its relevance not escaping Arthur.

“Why ain’t you never married?”

“No one would have me…”

“Not even Isaac’s mama?”

“Course not, look at me, big ugly bastard.”

He had lost her previous letters in the fire that had hit them about 6 months back, but at this point, he didn’t need them. Her severing words from the first letter would still beat through his head on days when he felt particularly low, and just looking at Isaac, feeling grateful he was here, would remind him of how close he’d come to losing him, unintentionally by Mary’s hand. This new letter lit in him a dangerous hope, that he wanted nothing more than to stifle for fear of being made a fool

Dear Arthur,

I've written this letter a hundred times or more and I cannot get it right. It's me. You know it's me from the bad handwriting. I know we left on some uncertain terms and that I offended you with my intrusion, though I never intended to do so. Last we spoke you bid me farewell, and I know just before I had done the same to you, but I am not so proud as to not speak to people who care for me, or cared for me; and I would hope the same of you.

I've been in Valentine for a couple of months. I had some bad luck and, well, it's a long story and not an interesting one, but I am here for now. I heard tell of a man who sounded like you soon after I saw a couple of the girls, or whatever the polite term for them is, that ran with you and your associates in town and with them, a young boy. Isaac, your Isaac, I could scarcely believe my eyes. He’s beautiful, Arthur, I could tell who he was right away. He looks so much like you when you were younger, though I can only hope he is less foolish than you were.

I would love to see you again and to meet Isaac should you bring him along. However, I would not be surprised if I have lost that chance. Please spare me a little of your time. I’m renting a room at Chadwick Farm, just north of Valentine.

Yours as always,

Mary Linton

He read her letter slowly, each word barely making it through the stuffed cotton of his head, the hangover only making the white of the page painful to look at from the sun bouncing off it. He could hardly believe what he was reading. When could she have seen Isaac? What misfortune led her to Valentine of all places? And more importantly what misfortune brought her to wanting to see him?

It’d be the first time seeing her since before Eliza’s death, and it was strange to consider; Mary long having been relegated to her painful letters and the time before his life became solely revolved around Isaac.

He wasn’t that same fool boy that had proposed, who toiled away to afford a ring and a suit to even pretend to be good enough; but some lingering feelings for her still plagued him. Whether it was rage, love or both he could not tell. His turmoil plain by the fact that anytime anyone came close he’d hastily cover her letter with his journal. Pretending like he’d been drawing the whole time, that he wasn’t keeping her tender words all to himself. Especially when Isaac came to check on him or try to pester him into playing a game, the boy was anxious already, but he could just imagine what hearing about the letter would do to him, the kind of paranoia he would give into.

All Arthur knew was that he could not handle a repeat of those stress-filled hours when the boy had run and they couldn’t find him.

It had approached a sensible hour of the morning when he finally put the letter away, having decided he needed to be significantly more sober to deal with it than he was now. And of course, that was when Dutch decided to stride over, pulling up a chair to sit across from Arthur.

“Looks like you had fun last night, eh, son?”

“I ain’t ever drinkin’ again,” Arthur said with a dramatic groan.

“Ah, yes, the time-old hangover promise,” Dutch snickered. “And is this like when you swore off booze when you were 16? Or when you were 23? Y’know I’ve heard it so much it all runs together.”

“Shut up,” Arthur grumbled, rubbing his face roughly and wondering if he had enough time to stop into Valentine and take a bath before meeting up with Hosea at Emerald Ranch in an hour, and mourning when he figured he did not. “Was your idea anyhow.”

“I said a few drinks, Arthur, not the whole damn bar!” Dutch said, chuckling in disbelief. “I’d’ve thought with that boy of yours you would’ve been a bit more responsible, perish the thought I suppose.”

“We got back, didn't we?”

Before Dutch could harp on him any further Isaac returned to refill his cup, setting another mug down for Dutch as well.

“G’morning Uncle Dutch,” Isaac mumbled blearily, not quite awake despite how busy he’d been, his eyes half-open even as he carried in water buckets or fed the chickens between ferrying coffee around.

“Fine morning it is, my boy.” Dutch cheerily raised his mug to Isaac before drinking the dark, bitter brew. “Now, Arthur, I hope you remember what I’d asked of you ‘fore you went and made a fool of yourself.”

“Micah?” Arthur grumbled, the man’s name poison in his mouth, especially with how Isaac stiffened and excused himself.

“He needs our help, son, and unfortunately I cannot be the one to do it,” Dutch pleaded. “Now, can we expect Mr. Bell back tonight?”

“I have a meetin’ with Hosea ‘bout a job, Dutch,” Arthur said, groaning as he stood up and stretched. “And besides, I really don’t think I’m who you want goin’ and gettin’ him.”

“And why is that?” Dutch demanded, steel in his voice, a reprimand easily within reach.

“‘Cause I can’t promise he’d survive the trip back I- Dutch-” Arthur shook his head and found Isaac across the way, setting the coffee pot down at the fire to scratch nervously at his wrists. “He said somethin’ to Isaac, got the boy actin’ all scared, and if I ever find out what he said I’m gonna make him pay, I promise you.”

“So, you ain’t going ‘cause of Isaac?” Dutch asked, his tone and expression carefully neutral.

“For lots of reasons, Dutch, I just hate-”

“He saved my life, Arthur, show a little gratitude.” Dutch seethed. “And more than that, he is one of us, a part of this family whether you like it or not!”

“Well, I don’t!” Arthur said, barely suppressing the urge to growl and grab Dutch, try and shake some sense into his thick head. “Just ‘cause he saved you don’t mean the rest of us have to suffer for knowin’ him! Just send Mac and-”

Arthur clamped down around his words with a harsh click of his teeth, shock silencing him and Dutch alike. They still forgot some days, that the Callander boys weren’t here anymore, that they were that much weaker and vulnerable. That their old reliable friends, brothers in arms, and irritants, were gone. Snuffed out and stolen away by the Pinkertons.

Dutch sighed and Arthur followed, grabbing his hat from the table and putting it low on his head, taking shelter in the refuge of the brim.

“I’m just askin’ that it ain’t me,” Arthur said quietly “I’m sure Bill would do it, Dutch, he can actually stand the bastard.”

“Fine, go,” Dutch gritted out, tossing out the rest of the coffee into the grass just shy of Arthur’s boots before retreating to his tent.

Molly’s gentle placating soon filtered out and Arthur could practically feel the tense coil of irritation at Dutch’s core as the man remained silent, but he was always good at following directions, so he bolstered himself to face the day and continued over to Llamrei, standing head and shoulders above most of the other horses.

He wasn’t surprised when he found Isaac already there, feeding the big lug a carrot and softly talking to him as he brushed through his mane.

“How’s he been? You like him?” Arthur asked as he checked the straps of his saddle.

“He’s a good boy, he’s real nice,” Isaac mumbled, laying his palm flat so Llamrei could lick up the last remnants of the treat. “Are you really gonna go rescue Micah?”

“I’m ridin’ out to meet your grandpa, got some job brewing at Emerald Ranch.”

“Another bear?” Isaac teased, having heard Hosea’s retelling of the fateful camping trip every night since he’d returned.

“Could be for all he’s told me,” Arthur groused, taking the brush from Isaac to get the top parts of the mane where he couldn’t reach. “But Bill might be gettin’ Micah, depends how long Dutch is gonna sulk.”

Isaac couldn’t suppress an anxious sigh, and all it did was put Arthur further off the idea of saving Micah at all.

“What’d he say to you?” Arthur asked sternly, he’d been trying to be patient and wait for Isaac to talk to him, like Hosea advised, but the longer he didn’t know then the longer the boy was carrying this around on his own, the longer Micah was given to hang around unpunished.

“Nothing!” Isaac hurried to answer, stepping back from the horse with a smile, trying and failing to put Arthur at ease. “It ain’t anything worth talkin’ ‘bout, I just overreacted. It’s like you said, I need to learn when to walk away.”

“If he hurts you, I’m gonna kill him.”

“Daddy! You’ll get in trouble!” Isaac whispered harshly, looking behind him like Dutch would suddenly be there to admonish them both.

“Ain’t nothin’ for you to be concerned about, you just tell me when there’s an issue and I’ll handle it. Understand?”

“But-”

“Understand?”

“Fine!” Isaac groaned in frustration and stalked away, leaving the tense conversation behind and disappearing behind tents and other folks before Arthur could find the words to stop him, as slow and hungover as he was. Arthur growled and contemplated finding Isaac, not a fan of leaving with the matter unresolved like that, and the boy upset, but he was going to be late if he waited any longer, and the sooner he left the sooner both of them could cool off and resolve it better when he got back. At least that was his hope as he rode away.

* * *

I didn’t think much of it when Daddy refused to go save Mr. Bell for Uncle Dutch, besides that I was grateful he wasn’t putting himself at risk for that man, but apparently it royally pissed Dutch off.

Bill finally returned with Micah a few days ago, hat in hand and a couple hundred dollars richer from knocking over a bank coach the way Micah tells it. He wanted to prove himself to Uncle Dutch and apologize for getting captured, so as a reward maybe, or a show of faith, or better yet a show of distrust in Daddy, Uncle Dutch assigned Micah to go out and collect from Herr Strauss’ debtors.

Folks whisper and gossip all day long and lots of them are surprised that Uncle Dutch could trust Micah with that money, considering how unsavory and unlikable he is, but what most of them didn’t hear was Daddy and Uncle Dutch arguing.

It wasn’t even that Daddy wanted to go loan sharking, he hates it, I know he does, but he more than anything doesn't trust Mr. Bell. But Dutch was very adamant that he wasn’t sure Arthur was so trustworthy either nowadays if he could leave him high and dry if he was willing to let Micah swing.

They didn’t know I was listening in, and I probably shouldn’t have, but even though they didn’t mention me once, I still feel like Daddy is in trouble because of me, because I fought with Mr. Bell back at Coulter. If I could have just held my tongue then none of this would have happened, then maybe Daddy wouldn’t be pushing himself to his limits, staying out for days, risking himself to bring back enough money to keep himself in Uncle Dutch’s good graces.

* * *

“Uncle Dutch?” Isaac asked tentatively, catching Miss Molly’s attention where she was embroidering, Uncle Dutch was smoking, staring across camp to where Grandpa was reading.

“Was that your father I saw riding in, son?” Uncle Dutch asked, not getting up from his chair to look back at the hitching post, keeping his gaze fixed firmly forward. “Was gettin’ worried about him, he’s been gone an awful long time, huh?”

Isaac resisted the urge to sigh, his mouth pursing in irritation as he fished out the bundle Daddy had handed him, as if it wasn’t Uncle Dutch’s fault in the first place that Daddy had to spend every possible moment he had out of camp.

“Daddy got this for the camp.” Isaac placed the thick stack of folded bills in Uncle Dutch’s hand, the surprise on his face not enough of a balm to soothe Isaac’s frustration with him.

“Well, I’ll be.”

“He said it should be enough for those last couple of things around camp,” Isaac said, doing the math in his head as Dutch counted the bills. The chicken coop, more ammo, a new tent for Grandpa who’d lost his back at Blackwater, and making Uncle Dutch’s tent nicer. All equally important, the way Dutch told it. “Daddy just came by to drop off the money, he’s wanting us to go into town.”

“Well, I’d say he’s earned it!” Molly said, delighted as she came around to look at the stack of money herself. “Can’t begrudge him that after such a good day's work,”

“I suppose you’re right, my dear,” Dutch said gently to Molly, patting Isaac on the shoulder. “You let him know I’m real appreciative of him.”

“Does…” Isaac trailed off, looking away from Dutch’s and Molly’s curious gazes. “Does that mean that Daddy’s not in trouble anymore?”

“Oh, lad,” Molly laughed, before turning back to her embroidery. “It’s just work.”

Isaac ignored her, keeping his gaze firmly on Dutch, who watched him in turn, amused. “What could I possibly be mad about, son? Your father’s done a fine job today. Now go on.”

Dutch gently pushed him towards the horses, holding the bundle of bills tightly in his ringed fist as he went around to the donation box, an undeniably excited skip in his step. Isaac sighed and continued, finding Daddy still brushing Llamrei down where he’d left him.

Daddy looked tired and worn out, dark circles under his eyes, a little leaner than he’d been a few weeks ago from hard riding and poor meals. But the relief in his eyes when he’d handed over the thick pile of money, intent on buying Dutch’s favor back was intense, pressure lifted off him with the money.

It hurt the most knowing that though it was a hefty sum it wouldn’t go that far, not after they got all the upgrades they needed, not after just a week of living, but it was something.

“Ready to go?” Daddy called out when he got close enough.

“Where’re we goin’? Isaac asked, watching as Daddy mounted up, taking his hand to get pulled up until the tall, broad back of Llamrei. “I’m sure other folks can do a supply run, you should rest, Daddy.”

“I’ll be fine, ain’t a run anyways,” Daddy chuckled, turning back down the path he’d ridden up only ten minutes ago. “Was Dutch pleased?”

“‘Course he was,” Isaac answered enthusiastically, working as hard as he could to push the doubts out of his voice. “Said he appreciates it.”

“Good, good, maybe that’ll get ‘em off my back,” Daddy said with a tired sigh. “Ain’t hardly been able to sit down lately.”

“Is that what we’re doing? Goin’ to sit?” Isaac asked, waving goodbye to Charles on guard duty as they passed him. “I’m sure we could’ve done that at camp.”

“We’re just stoppin’ in town, you’ll see,” Daddy said, a hint of tease coming back to his voice through the exhaustion.

Soon enough they were in Valentine, a meal at the saloon, a room for the night, and hot baths, long overdue. It reminded Isaac all too much of their privileged days in Blackwater, after their tumultuous past month or two it felt decadent, it felt above their means.

“What’s goin’ on?” Isaac asked, after his bath, sitting in front of the fire in their room vigorously scrubbing his hair with a towel, futilely willing it to dry faster. “Can we afford this?”

“I wish Dutch didn’t let you help with the ledgers,” Arthur sighed where he was sitting on the windowsill drawing Isaac. “Ain’t no need for you to be worryin’ ‘bout money, that’s my job, and it’s all under control. You saw what I turned in today, this is nothin’.”

Isaac shrugged and laid the towel to rest limply over the trunk at the base of the bed as he climbed on top of the thin mattress, “I was just askin’.”

“I know, I know, listen-” Daddy snapped his journal closed and leaned towards Isaac with his elbows resting on his knees. “You remember when Hosea and I went on the hunting trip?

“When Grandpa nearly got killed by that bear?” Isaac asked skeptically. The story had been strongly embellished by this point as Grandpa continued to tell it but from the way Daddy told it it had been real, and terrifying.

“Well, we won’t have to worry about the bear this time,” Daddy said, gesturing to the fine coat he’d come back with soon after the hunt, its twin left back in their chest at the camp. The bear had been so big that there’d been enough pelt to make one for each of them with enough left over to sell for a tidy profit. Though Daddy had had it tailored for when Isaac grew some more so if he wore it now, he looked like Jack running around in Uncle John’s coat. “No, instead, tomorrow we’re gonna go riding in that area, real pretty. Do some camping of our own, maybe some swimming, if I could ever convince you-” Daddy said sarcastically, winking at Isaac who would spend his whole day in the water if allowed. “Then I got something special planned, so you just focus on that and leave the money to me, alright?”

“Really?” Isaac asked excitedly, bouncing on the squeaky springs in his excitement, his hands flapping at his side. “For my birthday?”

“Ah’course, you didn’t think I forgot again, did you?” Arthur said with a chuckle, snatching Isaac up in a flash as he stood. “That’s mighty disrespectful, son!”

The two fought and wrestled for a hectic few minutes, both of them breathless with laughter as they ran and scrambled around the room, only stopping when the proprietor came up and pounded on the door yelling at them to stop.

“Not like there’s anyone else here!” Arthur called after the retreating footsteps stomping down the rickety stairs.

“Are we in trouble?” Isaac whispered, still giggling from the game, halfway under the bed where he’d been trying to escape.

“Nah, idiot just don’t like me,” Daddy replied, sitting hard on the bed as he tried to catch his breath. “I was a bit…forceful when I was getting Karen.” Daddy took another deep breath, wheezing a bit as he laid back. “You are getting big, son, gonna give me a run for my money.”

“Uncle John’s mad ‘cause I’m almost as tall as him,” Isaac snickered as he lay beside Daddy. “And Miss Grimshaw nearly cried the other day when she had to hem my pants again.”

“Oh, I wish I’d seen that,” Daddy said, pulling Isaac close to him and kissing the crown of his head. “We all just can’t believe you’ve grown so fast.”

“‘T’s too fast,” Isaac mumbled into Daddy’s shirt, holding him tighter and wishing he was small again.

“You’re tellin’ me,” Daddy said with a wistful sigh, pushing Isaac’s hair back to look at him unobscured. “But it’s a good journey, every day’s a better day when I get to see you growing, learning, gettin’ smarter than all of us. Just wish I could stop your worryin’.”

“Stop leaving then,” Isaac replied quietly, more honest than he’d expected, the soft moment, cocooned in the private room, both of them warm from the bath and running around drawing out the harsh truth like a fish on a hook.

Daddy sighed but didn’t say anything else, had no better answer than their reality could provide. So long as they lived how they did, so long as they needed money and food, Arthur would be on the road, and Isaac would be waiting for him to return. Both of them knew it, so Isaac didn’t push any harder, just let the words fall away into the night, mourning one of many things he’d wished for that he could not have.

Though the sting of the wish unanswered was lessened by the ease with which Isaac slept that night, under the covers with the fire crackling, his Pa beside him, the room glowing with warmth and comfort, no dark memories or anxieties pestered him. He fell asleep knowing they were both safe and sound, feeling at ease that nothing could hurt them in this room, in this quiet moment, where they were together.

* * *

Early in the morning, Isaac awoke with a jolt at the sound of spurs jangling on the wooden floor. He was confused for so many reasons, as sleep-addled and bleary as he was. Where he was that had a bed and wooden floors, who was moving about in the room, and why on Earth was he awake so early?

He rolled over, blinking against the harsh shafts of sunlight hitting the wall, and was surprised to see Daddy ready to leave, even more surprised to see him anxiously brushing his hair down in the mirror, freshly shaved and all.

Daddy caught him staring in the reflection of the mirror and turned back with a wince, “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Where’re you goin’?” Isaac mumbled, pulling himself out of the warm nest of blankets, trying to vie for wakefulness to piece together what he was seeing.

“I’m just gettin’ supplies for the trip, ain’t nothin’ to worry about, you go back to sleep.” Daddy pushed him back to sit on the bed. “I promise, I’ll be back when you wake up.”

Isaac acquiesced easily, tucking himself back in with a jaw-popping yawn, more likely to take his Pa’s word when sleep was on the line. He watched Daddy shuffle around the room a few minutes longer before he took a deep, bolstering breath and opened the door, turning back with a sharp finger pointed at Isaac.

“Don’t talk to no one, don’t leave the room, I’ll be back soon,” He said, visibly anxious at leaving Isaac behind in the strange place, but Isaac just nodded and lazily waved goodbye until the door was shut firmly behind Daddy.

Any other day and Isaac would have closed his eyes and fallen right back asleep blissfully dreamless with the sun shining in the sky, but as his eyes fluttered shut he noticed a folded white letter lying on the ground by the mirror, clearly having fallen from Daddy’s bag in his rush to get ready this morning.

Isaac reluctantly pulled himself from the bed to investigate, hoping it wasn’t something important that Daddy needed, but looking over it his sleep-heavy eyes sprung open in surprise. The letter was actually addressed to Daddy and not an alias, and after quickly skimming its contents, he felt his stomach drop down to his toes, his name glaring out from the center, and signed with: Mrs. Mary Linton

Isaac rushed to throw on his boots and jacket, cursing himself. He’d been so eager to believe that what he’d seen hadn’t mattered, so grateful for the reprieve from camp, for alone time with Daddy, that he’d up and forgotten about Miss Mary.

It was stupid of him to have hoped that the impossible look he’d gotten just a few weeks ago would not come back to haunt him. That her curious presence in town wouldn’t somehow intersect with their own. But he remembered all too well how her last correspondence impacted him, and he would go to great lengths to avoid that happening again.

He stampeded down the stairs, throwing an apology over his shoulder to the proprietor as he darted out onto the street, hoping both to catch sight of his Pa and not to be seen. With no luck at seeing him Isaac trekked through the mud-spattered street to duck into alleyways and head north of the little town, the streets still quiet at this early, wretched hour of the morning, though the outskirts were alive as farmers and ranchers, long awake, got started on their days.

Finally, after skirting pigpens and curious glances of local men, Isaac saw Llamrei’s familiar flank down the road and ran up as quickly and quietly as he could, pressing himself against the side of the house to peek over, and standing there, on the porch of the little farmhouse, was Daddy and Miss Mary, almost 18 years older than the picture Daddy had of the two of them.

It settled something in Isaac to see that the conversation was not easy and amicable, it didn’t seem likely that Daddy was going to be heeding Miss Mary’s word if she advised on sending him away again, but it was tense and difficult to watch; nearly two decades of troublesome history bubbling below the surface.

“So…” Daddy said, fiddling with his hat that he held in his hands, leaning casually back against the porch railing. “You’ve been made a widow and you come here looking for me, looking to meet my son, is that it?”

“Ain’t like that, Arthur.” Mary pressed her slim fingers against her temple. “I wanted to see you, see Isaac, yes, but I-I need your help. My family-”

“You mean the family that always looked down on me?” Daddy sneered. “You want me to help them?”

“It’s my little brother, Jaime.”

“I always liked Jaime, at least compared to the rest of them.” Daddy sighed, and turned away, gripping the railing and looking out over the modest landscape of Valentine to avoid Miss Mary’s imploring expression. “Mary, I ain’t gonna lie, this ain’t a great time. I have my own family that needs help.”

Miss Mary quietly sidled alongside Daddy, setting her soft, small hands down beside Daddy’s big, gloved, work-worn hands, the two of them miles apart just in their palms and fingers. “What’s he like?”

“Oh, he’s everything, Mary.” Arthur grinned to himself. “I ain’t never been prouder of anything in my life, and we both know I ain’t much good for anything but stealin’ and shootin’ but I’ll say it every day, I did something right in raising that boy.”

Isaac inhaled shakily, trying to blink away the heat growing behind his eyes. He knew all these things, could say proudly his Pa loved him, but he hadn’t ever heard it spoken so plainly, hadn’t known just how much his Pa loved him. He felt guilty now, disobeying, sneaking around, eavesdropping, but the temptation to linger was too strong to ignore.

“I’ve never seen you like this,” Mary said with a smile, tender and small. “Being a father suits you, Arthur.”

“I like to think so.”

“You always were good with Jaime.” Miss Mary sighed, her hands twisted and twined around one another in anxious worry. Daddy sighed and side-eyed her, holding himself tense as he waited for her to keep talking, waiting for the other shoe to drop. “Oh, Arthur. He’s broken daddy’s heart.”

“Daddy has a heart?”

“Don’t make me beg you, Arthur.”

“My money, my life, me…I wasn’t good enough.” Daddy growled, turning on her in his frustration, that deep chasm of hurt and history revealing itself in their gazes.

Miss Mary, impressively, didn’t let Daddy’s mean glare scare her. Instead, she pushed, explaining her brother's situation all tied up with some strange religion, and Isaac knew before she even finished talking that Daddy would do it.

“They’ll kill him! You’re the only person he’d listen to. I’m sorry, but please, Arthur, think of Jaime. He’s so innocent,” Mary’s voice cracked, the weight bearing down on her from her dire circumstances. “I understand if you don’t wanna help me, b-but I think of you often.”

“So, I’m too rough to marry into your family but it’s okay to ask me to help in saving your family?” Daddy gritted out, gripping the railing hard to try and tame his temper. “Mary, I have my own son to take care of without having to do the work for Daddy.”

“If there was anything I could do for you and Isaac you know I would,” Mary said, emphatically, putting Isaac’s teeth on edge as he remembered the pamphlet he’d thrown into the fire all those years ago. “Please, Arthur, don’t you care about me?”

“Where is he?” Daddy said after a long moment of silence with the kind of weary acceptance Isaac was used to seeing from him whenever Uncle Dutch or Grandpa came by with a job for him. A tired understanding that if there was a job to do then he had no option but to do it.

Mary rattled off directions and watched Daddy ride away with her hands clasped tight, her eyes shining with the thin lifeline of hope he’d offered her by accepting. Isaac sighed and pressed his back against the wall, tired just having watched that confrontation, and in the end not quite sure how he felt about Miss Mary.

He was pushing himself to a stand to return to the hotel room, still lost in his thoughts when the loud barking of a dog scared him to alertness. Coming from the back end of the house was a big sheepdog, followed closely by an older woman with a gun at the ready, “You get outta here you little thief!”

Isaac let out a strangled screech and scrambled over the stairs and barrels that had hidden him from the porch, not thinking for a moment of maintaining his secrecy, instead only focused on not getting shot or in trouble when he called out, “Miss Mary!”

Mary froze with her hand on the door handle, her eyes blown wide in shock as he came running towards her and he was weak-kneed with relief when her face lit up at the sight of him, “Isaac? Is that you?”

Isaac didn’t bother answering her, instead darting to hide behind her as the older woman and the dog followed him up onto the porch, still waving the gun around and barking at him.

“Mrs. Linton, I caught that boy sneaking around, do you know him?” The woman sneered over Miss Mary’s shoulder at Isaac who was frantically trying to keep the dog away from him, patting around his pockets with one hand and just hoping he had jerky hidden away somewhere.

“Yes, Mrs. Chadwick,” Mary said politely, admirably keeping her cool despite the chaotic scene. “My nephew, Isaac, was waiting for my caller to leave, sorry if he scared you.”

Finally, Isaac scrounged a half-eaten piece of venison jerky he’d tucked away and threw it off the porch as far as he could, crouching down to catch his breath when the dog finally left him alone, blissfully unscathed.

“I don’t want no trouble ‘round here, Mrs. Linton,” The woman said, her face pinched and pursed in irritation as she watched the dog bound away. “I think it’d be best if you escort your nephew home for now.”

“Yes, ma’am, of course,” Mary said graciously, pulling Isaac up to stand and tugging him off the property once he got his feet under him.

They stayed silent until the woman went back inside, slamming the door roughly behind her, and the dog came back to the porch, happily gnawing on the food Isaac had forfeited to him And it wasn’t until they were a fair bit away that Isaac’s face flushed in violent embarrassment. He hadn’t ever intended to speak with Miss Mary, hadn’t planned on being seen at all on his little secret excursion, but here he was walking side by side on a halfway pleasant morning stroll.

“Let me take a look at you,” Miss Mary said suddenly, stopping Isaac with a hand on his shoulder and taking him in with a misty-eyed expression. Isaac only blushed harder, surreptitiously trying to shake her hands off him, the familiar contact from the practical stranger making him itchy in the already uncomfortable situation. “Oh, look at what a fine young man you are! You look so much like your father I can’t believe it.”

“Daddy always says I look like Mama,” Isaac shrugged, scratching at the back of his neck as he avoided eye contact.

“It’s your eyes, sweetheart, they’re just like Arthur’s,” She tried to reach out and brush his hair from his face and he finally just took a step back, getting overwhelmed by her proximity. Immediately he felt terrible when her face fell, but she buttoned up her crestfallen expression with a wistful smile. “It’s a pleasure to meet you finally, Isaac, but what are you doing here? Arthur made it clear I wasn’t going to be seeing you.”

“I was listening, ma’am, I’m sorry,” Isaac mumbled. “I was afraid you were gonna try to send me to school again.”

Miss Mary’s mouth fell into a perfect O of surprise, “Arthur told you about that? Stubborn as he is, I figured he just got my letter and sent his refusal back right away, Mr. Van Der Linde was never a fan of institutions like that.”

“I didn’t want to leave home,” Isaac said, kicking at the rocks along the path. “I don’t like being alone.”

“Even if that home is on the road?” Miss Mary asked tentatively. “And there’s all sorts of trouble and danger? Wouldn’t a school be safer for you sweetheart?”

“I never said it was a perfect home, but it’s mine, ma’am,” Isaac said firmly. Sure, he had those sorts of worries and doubts, sure he’d rather live in a house unbothered by the chaos that followed them, but he didn’t want an outsider like Miss Mary knowing that, didn’t want his idle daydreams getting in the way of his tumultuous reality.

“I see,” Mary sighed, smoothing her skirt down as they continued walking, Isaac following just a step behind. “You sound like your father, very proud.”

“Did you only call for Daddy to ask him to find your brother?” Isaac asked, feeling more foolish by the second. None of this had had anything to do with him; he'd just overreacted.

“No, no,” Miss Mary hastily replied. “I came looking for Jaime then when I heard of someone like your father around these parts I just sent for him on a wish and a prayer hoping he could help me.” She sighed wistfully and looked over at him, still steadfastly not meeting her gaze. “And, well, I saw you in town, I wanted to meet you too.”

“Why?”

“Oh, well, I care for your father quite a lot, sweetheart. We almost married, of course, I’d care for his child too.” Mary’s hands twitched at her side where she wanted to reach out and grasp Isaac’s, he was relieved when she stifled the urge. “I just want to make sure you’re safe, you and your father.”

“How come I was born if you two were gonna get married?”

“We weren’t ever gonna get married, it was impossible,” Mary sighed wistfully. “We couldn’t be together, darling, we’re too different.”

“I think you two are a lot alike actually.”

“Pardon?”

“You came a really long way on your own, right?” Isaac contemplated, trying to remember how far Kansas was from them now. “That must have been scary.”

“Of course. I’d do anything for my brother, sweetheart, your father could tell you that.” Her brow still furrowed in confusion at his curious observations.

“Daddy would do anything for us too,” Isaac said, leaning over the pasture railing to pluck a black-eyed Susan he could see standing tall above the grass.

Miss Mary laughed a little to herself, whether at Isaac’s far reach or his comment, he couldn't tell. “I appreciate it, Isaac, but I think it’s a little more complicated than that. I’m doing this for my family, not for a group of outlaws-”

“We are family,” Isaac stated firmly as he stood back up.

“Well, of course, you and Arthur are, I ain’t denying that,” Mary tried to placate him.

“No, Grandpa and my cousin and all my aunts and uncles, we’re all family, everything Daddy does he does for us.”

“Grandpa…are you talking about Mr. Matthews?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Well, I’ll be,” Mary replied, stunned and quiet. They continued their wandering walk alongside the paddocks, Isaac idly plucking petals off the flower he’d picked as he waited for Miss Mary to collect herself. “So, he’s doing well? He and Mrs. Matthews?”

“Grandma died ‘fore I met her,” Isaac replied. “Grandpa’s fine though, Daddy says I helped him get better.”

“Oh, Mrs. Matthews was very kind, I’m so sorry to hear that…and Miss Annabelle? How is she?” Mary said haltingly, a bit of fear in her eyes as she remembered Aunt Annabelle. Isaac wasn’t surprised, Mary hadn’t been a very frequent topic of discussion back when she was alive, but whenever it was broached Aunt Annabelle was vocal and mean about Miss Mary.

“Aunt Annabelle died too,” Isaac whispered sadly, rubbing at his chest where the pain of grief lived, right where Colm O’Driscoll had kicked him all those years ago.

“Hard to believe,” Miss Mary said, sorrow tinting her voice more than the relief Isaac had expected. She stared out over the horizon with a long, tired stare, like she was reliving those terrible deaths in Isaac's family like she was experiencing them herself. “It’s a hard life you live, isn’t it?”

“Sometimes…” He tried to rally, tuck away his grief-stricken expression, and think of good things. “But Uncle Dutch and Miss Grimshaw are fine, and Uncle John too! He has a wife and a kid now, that’s my cousin Jack.”

“Little John Marston?” Mary blinked in surprise, an amused smile spreading across her face. She had such a nice smile, it was sad how rare it was, how much more often grief and worry fit itself onto her features. “Last time I saw him he was about your age…guess it has been a long time, a lot of things can change.”

It was strange, looking at Miss Mary and knowing there was a world in which she cast aside her life in Kansas away and came to join Daddy on the road. That she would have traveled with them and been there for all the good and bad they’d faced. That she might have cared for him, that she could have been so much more in his life than troubling words on paper or an awkward conversation. But in the end, from what little he knew about her, he could easily say that that world never truly existed, that things turned out how they did because they never could have been any different, not Miss Mary and not Daddy.

“Y’know, back then, Daddy didn’t deny you right away. I don’t know how long it was, but he was considerin’ your offer and the school for a while.”

“Really?”

“I overheard him and Grandpa talking, Daddy was worried about my safety, worried about what might happen to me if I stayed, so he was thinkin’ of sending me to that school.” Isaac took a steadying breath, remembering the feeling of mind-numbing panic that had overtaken him. “I ran away and nearly got killed ‘cause I was so afraid I’d never see any of them again. Don’t make much sense, but I was terrified.”

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” Mary said softly. “I didn’t mean- I’m sorry.”

Isaac shrugged and kicked at the dirt, “It weren’t your fault, Miss Mary, and I wasn’t tryin’ to blame you just- My life's been hard like you said, but I wouldn’t trade it for anything, I’m sure it’s the same for you, ‘specially when Daddy brings your brother back.”

“How’d you get so wise?” Mary asked with a lighthearted chuckle, dabbing at her eyes where they were misty. “‘Course you’re right, of course.”

“Can I walk you to the train station, Miss Mary?” Isaac asked softly. “I’m sure Daddy will be back with Jaime soon.”

“Let me go get my bags,” Miss Mary replied with a tender smile, her hands still twitching where they were clasped as she resisted the urge to embrace him.

Isaac met her gaze, as he’d been avoiding doing for their conversation, and smiled, she was trying for him so he could try for her.

It did not take long for Mary to gather her things from her rented room, nor for the two of them to walk the short half-mile to the train station. The humid, dim building was a welcome reprieve from the steadily mounting sun outside. Isaac wanted to dunk his head in the water trough outside for how warm his hair was, every strand holding on to each minute of sunlight he’d been standing in.

Isaac considered leaving her there, going back to the hotel and pretending like he’d never left, slipping back into falsehoods and acting like nothing was the matter. But all he had to do was remember how stressful it’d been keeping Miss Mary from Daddy over the last week and the answer was clear, he did not want to do that again.

So, the two of them sat in awkward silence, so little left to say to one another, their familiarity only extending to their proximity to Arthur. It wasn’t until half an hour later that Miss Mary finally broke the silence, an intense look on her face as she spoke.

“You know, Isaac, I’ve been thinking about what you said, and I want to give you some wisdom too,” Miss Mary said carefully, fishing each word out from a deep pool of possibilities. “It ain’t wrong to love your life when it’s hard, it was stressful and difficult when your father and I were together, but those are years I cherish. I couldn’t handle it in the end, but I enjoyed it while it lasted.”

“Ok…” Isaac replied, unsure where Miss Mary was going.

“But what I want to say is-” Miss Mary turned to face him, her hands clasped together on the table where she was refraining from grabbing his. “It also ain’t wrong to want things to be better, to want to make things better. And now I ain’t talkin’ about a school or nothing, well, not exactly, I just-” Mary paused, throwing a word back into the water, searching for a better one, the right one, to wipe off the incredulous look on Isaac’s face. “You’re young but you’re growing, and soon your life is going to be your own. Don’t just think everything has to stay as is. There’s always room for what you want if you try hard enough.”

Isaac blinked at Miss Mary, stunned to silence at her words. For as much as they frightened him, with her ideas of change, there was power in her statement. The idea that he could do something to protect his family, to make things better, even if the how wasn’t apparent at the moment, was still a power that he suddenly wanted fiercely.

Before he could gather his thoughts enough to say anything in response the doors to the train station opened and Daddy came in, a young man in strange clothes trailing behind. Daddy spotted him almost immediately and froze in place, looking between Isaac and Miss Mary with increasing incredulity, and all Isaac could do was sink in his chair and flush in embarrassment.

“Jaime! Jaime!” Mary, ignorant of Arthur and Isaac’s unspoken communication, rose to a stand as soon as she saw her brother who ran into her arms. “Come home, please, you’ve- Father’s been very sad.”

Jaime pushed out of her grip, the relief at seeing his sister curdling into disgust, “Father wouldn’t know sadness if it died in his bed…but I’ll come home for you.”

“My boy, my sweet boy,” Mary said tenderly, the wide age gap between them clear in her motherly tone. The train whistled outside, and the conductor called for all aboard, stirring Mary into action. “Come on.” As she grabbed her bag, she looked over to see Daddy watching them, so focused on Jaime she’d missed him. “Oh, Arthur…thank you. A-and Isaac, it was a pleasure, it truly was.”

Isaac stood and nodded to her, and to Jaime who was watching him curiously, unable to find the words to thank Mary or to properly send her off. He was glad to see her go, eager to have the strange feelings and conversations that came with her on a train and far away, but despite himself, he had enjoyed their conversation, in part. So, he reached out and grabbed her hand, squeezing it once before stepping back, ducking from the sight of her happy, misty-eyed expression.

Daddy, pinning him in place with a glare that said they’d talk later, took Miss Mary’s bags easily, guiding her out to the platform. They moved strangely around each other, arms overextending, walking at odd paces, unthinkingly keeping in step. Like they were so used to walking arm in arm, tied close together in a stroll, that they had to strive to forget those habits.

“It’s good to see you, Mary.”

“And you, Arthur, and you,” Mary said emphatically, her voice still thick with the many tumultuous emotions and highs and lows she’d faced today.

Isaac ran over to the doorway to watch as Daddy guided the two siblings out to the train and tenderly helped Mary up the step, handing over the suitcase reluctantly like it was the last thing that could keep her near.

Mary hesitated at the door, turning back to Daddy, a relieved, joyful mood still plain on her face, her brother returned to her, her moment with Isaac, her long overdue conversation with Arthur, she was a far sight from that mournful, distressed woman from this morning.

“You’ve done a good job, Arthur, a wonderful job,” She said emphatically, catching Isaac watching them with a smile. “I think everything happened like it had to, terrible and awful as that may be.”

Daddy hummed in agreement and tipped his hat to her as he stepped back, the train hissing and vibrating in anticipation of taking off down the tracks. “You take good care of yourself, Mary, Jaime too.”

Mary waved to him as the whistle blew, no more words fit to say, yet too much left unsaid, her and Daddy wearing matching expressions of longing and contentment. Nothing to be done for a chapter long closed. Then her heels were clicking off into the train car and the whole thing was gone down the tracks, wheels gliding down the railway, plumes of smoke billowing behind like a storm cloud, and Daddy and Isaac left behind on the platform.

Isaac tentatively left the shelter of the station, approaching Daddy where he was standing pinching the bridge of his nose, taking steading breaths, the whole morning bearing down on him at once. Isaac looped an arm through Daddy’s leaning against him as he watched the train disappear behind trees and landscape and waited.

When the train was long gone and it felt like the rest of the world was finally moving around them again Daddy sighed and held Isaac at arm’s length to check him over, amused as much as he was exasperated. “What part of stay put and don’t talk to anyone was hard to understand? If you hadn’t found Mary, who knows what would’ve happened? Folks in this town ain’t better than the mud on my boot and you-”

“Found this this morning, you dropped it.” Isaac interrupted, pulling out the folded letter that had started all of this and handing it over, “I saw her when we last came to Valentine, I’d been hidin’ it from you. Was worried ‘bout what she wanted.”

“That’s why you’ve been so strange lately,” Daddy pieced together quickly, slipping the letter back into his satchel, cursing himself. “Are you still worried?”

“Nah,” Isaac shook his head, letting Daddy steer him back into the station and out to the hotel. “She’s got more to worry about than sending me to school, but we had a nice talk.”

“Well, that's…” Daddy exhaled sharply, maybe a laugh, maybe overwhelmed by everything Isaac was saying. “Unexpected.”

“Am I in trouble? Are we not goin’ campin’ no more?” Isaac asked, half-serious, Daddy didn’t seem angry, but Isaac would be mad at himself if he’d jeopardized the special trip just cause he worried about every little thing.

“Like hell, might be for you but Lord knows I need a break,” Daddy huffed, as they approached the hotel, Llamrei in sight. It took only a minute for Daddy to run upstairs and grab what Isaac had left behind in a hurry this morning, then just like that they were on the road a can of peaches shared between them for breakfast.

“Maybe I’ll just feed you to the bears out there, serves you right.” Daddy teased once they’d left Valentine, picking up their earlier conversation like it’d never stopped.

“I think all the bears will be too afraid to eat me,” Isaac answered, eager to play in the silly conversation. “I’ll bet they’ve all heard about how you took down the monster bear and they’ll run away!”

Daddy laughed loudly, reaching back to playfully smack at Isaac’s knee, “You’ve been hanging around your Grandpa too much, you’re gonna be running cons soon.”

“Nuh-uh, I ain’t as good as Grandpa,” Isaac said with a heavy tone of exasperation, there was nothing clearer to him in the world the Grandpa’s skill at talking, and Daddy was just being foolish thinking he was even comparable.

“I go through all this trouble of a nice trip for the two of us and you’re gonna tell me I’m wrong?” Daddy replied in mock offense.

“Are you gonna tell me what the surprise is?” Isaac asked playfully, not even caring if he did find out ahead of time, but never one to miss out on a chance to pester Daddy.

“Certainly not anymore!”

“Please? Pleeeaaaaase?”

As the two of them rode up to O’Creighs Run passersby would hear the giggly needling of a son pestering his father, and the father, fondly exasperated, scolding him for being impatient. They could see the son pointing out animals and asking what they were, moving and bouncing along on the back of the horse with natural ease like he’d been raised on horseback. They might watch the father pretend to scoop the son off the side, or dismount and walk alongside to give the boy a chance at steering the massive horse under them both. But mostly they would see two giddy fools, decadent in their happiness and ease, pleased at last to be out in nature, just the two of them.

Chapter Text

Isaac awoke to the dim light of dawn, the ceiling of stars giving way to the peeking sunlight. Pink clouds streaked across a gray sky steadily turning blue, and birds slowly roused themselves, greeting the encroaching morning with song.

He lay there for a few moments longer, feeling the numb sleep leave his limbs, watching idly as a golden hawk circled above them, looking for some sleep-addled prey, its wings cutting through air currents and shafts of sunlight like a knife through softened butter.

The smell of dark coffee and roasting logs pushed Isaac over to see Daddy tending their campfire, the percolator steaming like a train at his feet as the coffee brewed.

“Mornin’, son,” Daddy grumbled, glaring at the percolator as if that could make the coffee ready sooner. “Was just about to head out to rustle us up some breakfast.”

“Can I come? Isaac asked as he rolled over and ran over to Llamrei, digging through the assortment of weapons strapped on his flank.

“Sure, sure-” Daddy replied absentmindedly before pausing and squinting over at Isaac. “You want to come hunting?”

“Charles taught me how to shoot, I told you,” Isaac finally found Daddy’s bow and victoriously loosed it from the saddle, digging around further to find the accompanying quiver.

“I got the varmint rifle right here,” Daddy said, patting the skinny rifle lying beside him. “Ain’t no need to mess with all that.”

Isaac tutted in disappointment like he’d heard Miss Grimshaw doing at Daddy and Uncle John before as he flopped down to sit beside him, “I told Charles you liked the easy way.”

Daddy sputtered in disbelief, shoving Isaac where he sat, laughter bubbling up out of them both. “Charles teachin’ you to be rude too?”

“Y’know I bet I could get a rabbit before you could,” Isaac replied confidently, giddy with the early morning teasing, with the joy of being out in nature and away from camp, and the precious rarity of having Daddy’s full attention. “Wouldn’t even be hard.”

“Look at him, he gets one archery lesson and suddenly he’s the Master Hunter himself,” Daddy laughed, his head tilted back to address the sky, his eyes crinkling in delight like he was sharing a secret joy with someone over Isaac’s head. “I’ll take you on, son, s’long as we get somethin’ to eat I’m happy.”

“Alright then,” Isaac said, subtly gathering up the bow and quiver beside him, before exploding to his feet and bounding into the forest. “Go!”

Behind him he could hear Daddy cursing at him, yelling how the coffee wasn’t even ready yet, and all he could do was just laugh madly as he ran deeper into the underbrush.

As one might have predicted, their loud, chaotic morning had easily frightened off any easy prey in the surrounding woods, leaving them empty and silent of everything but the wind and the most distant bird call. Isaac managed to stymie his giggling and fall into a silent creep through the underbrush.

He hadn’t gone hunting since Charles took him out, instead practicing just outside camp, and he was finding that the patience needed to track the animals was something he was sorely missing, much like how he could hardly stand fishing. After just twenty minutes of searching through the nearby woods and finding nothing Isaac was ready to pack it in and call it a defeat, interested in the competition as long as he was teasing Daddy or doing well. He stopped before heading back to camp at the call of a hawk, looking up he found the golden-winged bird circling above the treetops, focusing on its next meal.

Isaac took out the bow and readied an arrow as he pushed forward, tracing the gaze of the hawk to a nearby clearing. Down amidst the tall flowers and herbs he saw a few rabbits darting around, as if they could sense they were watched and hunted from all angles. Isaac only barely resisted the urge to cheer and celebrate, happy he wouldn’t be returning empty-handed after all. That was if he could make the shot.

He raised the bow, leveling the arrowhead with the head of one of the rabbits, he took one deep breath in, pulled the drawstring back, breathed out, and loosed the arrow.

It should not have surprised him to look up and see the rabbit dead, his arrow bloodied and buried in the grass, but it did every time he hit whatever target he’d selected, in constant disbelief at his newfound ability.

With a glance up at the hawk to see if it was ready to attack him for stealing one meal and scaring off the others, Isaac ran across the clearing and plucked his arrow out of the ground, quickly wiping the blood off on his pants and slinging the rapidly cooling body over his shoulder, before darting back to the safe cover of the trees.

Once he was in the clear Isaac didn’t resist the urge to celebrate, eagerly running over to camp, ready to show off his catch and hoping he’d be the first one there.

Just as he bursted out from the woods, rabbit in tow, he saw Daddy climbing up the ridge from the lake with his own rabbit, the two of them making it to the circle around the campfire nearly at the same time.

“Looks like we have ourselves a tie!” Daddy snickered, ruffling Isaac’s hair once he got close enough. “Good work.”

Isaac grinned despite himself, pleased with the praise and no longer as interested in the little competition as he was in eating the fruits of their labor, though he couldn’t resist teasing Daddy one last time, “I bet I got a cleaner kill than you did.”

“I swear,” Daddy said, pushing him forward. “You get any bigger of an ego and we won’t be able to fit a hat on your head.”

Together, side by side, they skinned the rabbits, laying the pelts out on a nearby rock to dry, Isaac dutifully gutted the two creatures, setting the offal to the side without explanation even when Daddy asked. Daddy skewered the two rabbits, sprinkled them with oregano and thyme, and laid them out across the fire to cook, keeping them steady despite the crackling flame licking at his gloved hands.

While Daddy focused on the cooking Isaac took the guts he’d removed in the blood-soaked cloth he left them in over to a rock across the trail, hoping the hawk from earlier would take the offering as an apology for the rabbit he stole.

Daddy snickered to himself as Isaac sat back down but didn’t push the issue, focusing on not burning their meal instead, and once the flesh was properly brown and sizzling with bubbling fat Daddy handed one to Isaac and they dug in together.

It was a perfect morning, the well-cooked rabbit meat, the fresh-brewed coffee, the crisp mountain air, and the singing of birds, everything felt clean and real in a way that things down the mountain didn’t often feel, it felt untouched by the darkness of their lives, felt as close to a reprieve as they could get. Isaac relished in the moment, in the taste of breakfast bursting in his mouth, in the ridiculous stories Daddy told him of what mischief he and Uncle John got up to.

The perfection persisted as, after the wild rush of breakfast, Isaac convinced Daddy to go swimming with him, the sparkling, crystalline waters of the lake too tempting to pass up. That first dive into the deep recesses sent all of Isaac’s thoughts rushing away, same as his breath, stolen away by the mountain-chilled waters until there was nothing but him and the dark depths of the lake, deeper than one might guess. Silver bluegills and blue perch flitted around him as he dove and kicked off the rocky walls of the lake bed, darting around like a fish himself.

With each dive down he stayed until his lungs strained, until he felt close to bursting with the desire to breathe, and only then would he kick his way up to the water’s edge, gasping as the sunlight blinded him. He made sure each time he broke to the surface to try and splash Daddy, who had given up on swimming after stepping in once and declaring it far too cold. After the second or third time he’d gotten him Daddy finally fished him out of the lake and threw him as far as he could with a mighty splash. It was a fun day.

Finally, after losing hours to the chilly depths and the sparkling flash of fish Isaac dragged himself up onto the rock Daddy sat on, spreading out to try and soak up every bit of the bright sunlight; basking like the lizards in New Austin.

“You just about done?” Daddy asked, grinning around the cigarette he’d managed to save from Isaac’s onslaught.

Isaac panted and nodded, grinning madly as he stretched out on the sun-warmed rock.

“Seem awfully content.”

“I love swimming,” Isaac mumbled unnecessarily, the exertion and warmth making his eyes heavier and heavier with the temptation to sleep.

“Seem so happy down there, making me think I don’t even need to give you your surprise.” Daddy snickered, taking the last draw on the cigarette before stubbing it out.

Isaac roused himself enough to slap Daddy’s knee, “Don’t lie. You wanna tell me just as bad as I wanna know.”

“Maybe you’re right,” Daddy said with a groan as he stood, cracking his back like peanut shells hitting the floor. “Well, c’mon then, ain’t too far from here.”

Isaac grumbled, eager to see what Daddy had planned but reluctant to leave the warm rock. It wasn’t until Daddy threatened to throw him back into the lake that Isaac got his legs under him and followed him back to the campsite, shivering as his hair dripped freezing water down his back.

“When’d you even have time to find this?” Isaac asked as he changed back into dry clothes, watching Daddy pack up the camp onto Llamrei’s back.

“Wasn’t hard, it’s somethin’ I used to do when I was younger, till Dutch and Hosea made me stop,” Daddy chuckled to himself, long-ago memories rising in him from when he was young and foolish. “Been making a good chunk of cash off it lately.”

Isaac tilted his head to the side as he considered it, trying to guess what Daddy could possibly be giving him that would both be a job and something he’d feel comfortable enough giving to Isaac. A small voice reminded him of the varmint rifle, of smaller guns, how his recent interest in hunting might have convinced Daddy that he would’ve wanted to wield something with more firepower. Maybe Daddy agreed with everyone that Isaac was ready for an increase in responsibility. The tips of his fingers went cold at the idea, but the last thing he wanted to do was reveal he was afraid.

So with all the courage he could muster, he put on a brave face and hopped on the horse, holding onto his composure as best he could, hoping he was wrong.

It didn’t take them long to pack up and leave the lush green alcove of O’Creighs run, coming down from the mountain into the grass-green sprawl surrounding Emerald Ranch trailing off into the golden Heartlands’ cresting hills. Daddy was talking about the last job he and Grandpa had done for some fella at Emerald Ranch, talking about foolish family squabbles over a wagon and despite his latent anxiety he still made Isaac laugh.

They were taking the road just north of the Ranch, heading out to the Heartland plains it seemed, but as they passed the marshes, clear water submerging the bright, grass making it sway and ripple in the breeze, Daddy pulled to a stop drawing Isaac’s attention to a prim looking man darting around in the marshland, practically dancing around a strange device he had stood up, futilely trying to get a nearby herd of horses to come towards him at the same time.

“What’s he doin’?” Isaac asked, his anxiety over the surprise abating for a moment in his curiosity over the strange man.

Daddy surprised Isaac with a delighted chuckle, guiding Llamrei off the path and over to the man, “Probably something stupid. That there’s Albert Mason, out takin’ his pictures again.”

“Really?” Isaac asked in childish awe, pictures were for movie tents and portrait studios, he’d never imagined they could be taken out in the wild. He eagerly followed Daddy as he dismounted to approach Mr. Mason, who somehow remained unaware of their presence despite their talking and splashing over.

“So, you’re still alive,” Daddy drawled, finally drawing Mr. Mason’s attention.

“Mr. Morgan!” He said with a relieved chuckle, he moved to shake hands with Daddy but paused, blinking in surprise as he caught sight of Isaac. “And young Mr. Morgan?”

“My son Isaac,” Daddy grinned, pulling Isaac in front of him despite his shyness. “Thought I’d bring him ‘round to meet you before you became something’s lunch.”

“Nothing has been so lucky today, Mr. Morgan.”

The two of them laughed easily, their conversation and teasing comfortable. Isaac watched them in fascination, it was rare for Daddy to be this at ease with anyone, even rarer for it to be someone outside the gang.

“How’s the project going?”

“Well, this is God’s country, and I am his faithful servant.” Mr. Mason spread his arms wide to showcase the breadth of land that was God’s, the massive ceiling of the sky stretching impossibly wide over the plains, the vibrant green of the grass, and the mirror-smooth surface of the clear water. “Although perhaps not his most talented one.”

“I’d say you have a talent for getting into trouble,” Daddy snickered.

“Indeed,” Mr. Mason rolled his eyes as he took out a pair of binoculars. “Nature does not seem to like me quite as much as I like her. I have been trying to capture the grace of the wild horses here for weeks. Only the buggers can’t stand me…”

Daddy took the binoculars and followed them to where Mr. Mason had been pointing, speaking in hushed, reverent tones as if the horses would hear him half a mile away and flee, “That is a silver dapple pinto.”

Isaac was handed the binoculars and saw the herd just the same as Daddy did, watching the rare horse trot away with its plainer friends.

“I know, beautiful,” Mr. Mason shielded his eyes from the sun and watched the specks of the herd disappear down a ridge. “Won’t come anywhere near me of course…he can smell my stupidity.”

Isaac snorted, Mr. Mason was funny as much as he was mean to himself, he could see why Daddy sought out his company despite his reclusive nature.

“Well,” Daddy halfheartedly glared at Isaac for being rude and returned the binoculars to Mr. Mason. “How about I drive ‘em over?”

“Oh, that might help!” Mr. Mason replied, pleasantly surprised. “Can you be bothered? I’d hate to intrude on your time with your son.”

“You mind if I help Mr. Mason here, Isaac?” Daddy asked, pulling Isaac back before he could touch the strange camera.

“Can I watch you take the pictures?” Isaac asked Mr. Mason eagerly, the wondrous novelty of the proposition overriding any potential ill will for the interruption of their trip.

“Of course, dear boy!” Mr. Mason looked overjoyed at the prospect. “It is a pleasure to teach as it is a pleasure to do.”

“Alright then, wait here,” Daddy said with a smile, before pointing firmly at Isaac. “You behave now.”

“I always behave!” Isaac called out as Daddy approached Llamrei.

“Oh, he’s funny now,” Daddy muttered, barely audible over the splash of the marsh.

Isaac watched Daddy ride off until he disappeared behind a copse of trees as he tracked down the horses before coming to stand beside Mr. Mason, admittedly still a little nervous around the stranger, but the bubbling enthusiasm he had as he explained the process for taking the photo alleviated his anxieties.

“...Then once I, or your father, as he has deterministically showed up to assist me lately, have wrangled my subject, I press the button-” Mr. Mason pantomimed the steps he was explaining as he spoke of them, still keeping everything stable and ready to shoot once Daddy came by but intent on finishing out his lesson. “Bam the flash goes off and a picture is born!”

“Where does the picture come from?” Isaac asked, moving around the camera as if he could see where the glossy picture might drop out of.

“Ah yes,” Mr. Mason checked where Daddy had disappeared to see how much longer he had and decided it was enough before digging through his bag and pulling out a metal plate. “These are inserted into the camera and the image is imprinted on it, then after quite a long stint in a dark room inhaling God knows what then the picture is truly born.”

“Sounds like a lot of work just for a picture,” Isaac said after contemplating the metal plate, carefully handing it back over so as not to drop it in the water beneath them.

“Oh, yes, dear boy, scads of terrible work, and for what? A foolish optimist’s rendition of the American landscape and all those magnificent animals, great and small, that might be destroyed in the pursuit of society.” Mr. Mason rolled his eyes, reminding Isaac an awful lot of Daddy at that moment. “But as any man with a muse and an ounce of artistic drive can tell you life just isn’t worth living if you aren’t engaging in your craft. I may die and be devoured in the process, but damn it all if I don’t see this to the end!”

“You’re awfully passionate, Mr. Mason.”

“Yes, I’m told it’s one of my few good traits,” Mr. Mason cleared his throat and smoothed down his vest, coming down from his impassioned oration with an embarrassed flush. “Though I am happier out here on the frontier than back in the city I do find I tend to ostracize myself with my ramblings. Not many lively artistic minds out here to properly admonish me for my Emersonian beliefs.”

Admittedly Isaac was only able to follow about half of what Mr. Mason was talking about, but he caught enough, “Y’know Daddy draws real nice, I don’t know how much he could say about photos but he’s an artist too.”

“Truly? I would not have expected it of him-” Mr. Mason stopped himself, thumping his forehead with his fist. “I swear, infernal New York pretentiousness will be the end of any and all worthwhile connections I might make. I should have known not to doubt a man as competent as Arthur Morgan.”

“How much have you and Daddy talked?” Isaac asked, persistently amused at Mr. Mason’s antics.

“Only two or three times, but he saved my unworthy hide from an all too deserved end, I am very grateful for his timely intervention.” Mr. Mason said, turning to Isaac with fond appraisal. “You know he spoke very highly of you last time I saw him-” That surprised Isaac, as far as he knew he was a well-kept secret to the outside world by Daddy, who always worried he’d be targeted for being his son. He really must trust Mr. Mason, or at least not find him to be very dangerous. “You two make quite a remarkable family.”

Before Isaac could ask anything further about what Daddy had said they both heard the pounding of hooves through the slim marshland and Daddy yelling at the herd of horses running just ahead of him, the prized silver pinto leading the charge.

“Go on, and look pretty doing it!” Daddy hollered, sending the herd into a proper gallop.

In a blink, Mr. Mason disappeared from Isaac’s side and seemed to magically reappear at the camera, tools in hand and poised for the perfect shot. Isaac watched the pinto haughtily toss its head like it knew they were all here for it and the camera went off with a loud flash and a little burst of fire, signaling Mr. Mason’s success.

“I’ve got it!” Mr. Mason stepped back from his camera carefully before boisterously clapping and cheering, his relief at finally accomplishing his goal making him look ten years younger. Isaac was surprised but not alarmed when Mr. Mason grabbed him by the shoulder to enthusiastically shake him, his excitement too much to contain. “My God, and what a beautiful shot! You and your father, lucky charms the both of you.”

Daddy soon returned, watching the herd disappear into the fields past the train station and sliding off his horse with ease. Upon seeing Mr. Mason eagerly chatting about the beauty of the photo he’d taken to a temporarily captured Isaac he grinned, looking pleasantly surprised that Isaac was permitting the contact.

“Mr. Morgan, you are a genius,” Mr. Mason said jubilantly, releasing Isaac to spread his arms wide in praise.

“No, but I can ride a horse.”

“Well, in my world that makes you a genius.”

“You’re too kind. “How are the, uh, photos coming along?”

“Oh, amazing! Here-” Mr. Mason rustled in his overstuffed bag until he reached a portfolio, reverently pulling out a print and handing it over to Daddy. “I have a print of the wolves! Before they tried to eat us. It’s for you.”

Daddy looked over the photo, holding it so Isaac could look as well, both of them in quiet awe at the captured visage of the wolves. “That’s real fine.”

“Well, thank you,” Mr. Mason replied, looking pleased as could be at the compliment.

“Daddy,” Isaac gently tugged on his sleeve to get his attention. “Can you show Mr. Mason one of your drawings? Since he showed you the wolves?”

“Ah, yes, young Isaac was telling me how you were quite the artist in your own respect, Mr. Morgan.” He turned back to his camera for a moment, missing the embarrassed glare Daddy shot Isaac, before turning back, still beaming. “It would be my honor to see your work, Mr. Morgan, though please feel no undue pressure to reveal. I remember when I was first venturing outside the portrait studio, I would rather have chewed off my arm than shared my results.”

“It ain’t nothing to fuss over,” Daddy grumbled, reluctantly drawing out his journal, more bound by the idea of reciprocity than any desire to reveal his drawings based on the pained grimace on his face. He flipped through the pages, his face screwing up in frustration before finally he sighed and held out the book to Mr. Mason who took it reverently. “Just…just don’t read anythin’.”

As Mr. Mason slowly looked over the drawings and turned the pages, finding more and more Isaac watched Daddy’s face and felt his stomach twist as he felt he’d done something wrong. Daddy looked scared almost, or vulnerable, whatever best described the look of a man who was holding something very precious and delicate out on a plate for the world to see, and Isaac had made him.

“My word, Mr. Morgan, your son wasn’t lying, you are exceptionally talented,” Mr. Mason piped up, that same passion from earlier intertwined with pleasant surprise, he could barely tear his eyes away from the pencil sketches. “I could see your work in compendiums, pamphlets, books, galleries even! I’ve read a fair few guides on flora and fauna and consulted their provided references, but you make them all look like drunken chicken scratch!”

Instead of being happy at the praise like Isaac would have expected Daddy just looked sick. Like Mr. Mason’s exuberant words pained him. “Flattery will get you nowhere.”

“So they say,” Mr. Mason said with a wry laugh, handing over the journal. “I suppose my dithering has put you well off your schedule for today, I won’t impose any longer.”

“Take care, Mr. Mason,” Daddy said as he slipped the photo of the wolves between pages and tucked away the journal, patting his satchel closed like it might fly open and bare his secrets if he wasn’t careful. But the nauseous, terrified look was gone, he was amiable and smiled at the photographer, at ease once more, Isaac could almost convince himself that he hadn’t seen those frightful slips of vulnerability.

“You too Mr. Morgan, young Mr. Morgan,” He tipped his hat jovially at Isaac as he spoke to him and Isaac couldn’t resist the laugh shaken free from his chest.

“Thank you for showin’ me your camera, sir, good luck!”

Mr. Mason waved them off as they splashed back over to Llamrei, and Isaac waved back until he could no longer tell him apart from the greens and blues of the landscape, couldn’t see him turn back to his camera to fuss and mutter to himself until it was just him and Daddy back on the trail.

Without the distraction of Mr. Mason, and his surprise only a distant potential, there was plenty of space for his prior anxieties to return, for guilt to prickle along his scalp and spine, hot and unwanted, but with Daddy’s continued silence he felt it was deserved. He didn’t understand why showing his drawings to anyone but Isaac always made Daddy so squirrely, acting like something terrible was going to happen if folks caught a glimpse of it. He’d thought it was just Daddy not being comfortable enough to share, but he’d been comfortable with Mr. Mason, he was comfortable with Grandpa and Uncle John and Charles and lots of people at camp and yet Isaac was still the only one Daddy let look at them freely.

If Daddy didn’t think his drawings were that important how come it twisted him up in knots? How come he was still stewing over it long after they’d left Mr. Mason? Isaac didn’t understand, and he was too afraid to break the silence and ask, afraid that Daddy would turn around and be mad at him for his meddling.

It wasn’t but an hour more, an hour of Isaac going round and round in his head over all of it hoping fruitlessly that he’d find an answer, until Daddy finally pulled to a stop, surprising Isaac with the cessation of movement, handing over his binoculars and pointing across the mesa.

Isaac gave Daddy a confused look, he’d been steeling himself for a gunsmith, for having the rifle handed over to him, he had no idea what Daddy was trying to do, but brought the binoculars up nonetheless, tracing where he was pointing to a small herd of wild horses idly grazing a few yards away.

“There you go.”

Isaac gasped softly. Brown and pale cream morgans clumped tightly together, and trotting along the edge was a silver mustang its coat shimmering in the midmorning sunlight.

“You mean…” Isaac trailed off, not eager to get his hopes up and have them unceremoniously dashed, so he tried his best to keep his mounting excitement tight to his chest.

“Got a little sneak peek with Mr. Mason,” Daddy said with a grin, hopping down, and taking the lasso off his belt to swing it lazily, all of the tension he’d been carrying since pulling out his journal melted away, impossible for Daddy to be anything but pleased when surrounded by horses. “How’d you like your very own horse?”

Isaac couldn’t contain his sudden, lightning-bright joy and relief into words, instead, he launched himself into Daddy, wrapping his arms around him as tight as he could, as overcome as he was after the movies with Auntie Tilly.

“Really?” Isaac laughed as Daddy swung him around, his laughter rumbling under Isaac’s ear. “I’m really gettin’ a horse?”

“Sure enough,” Daddy said, finally setting Isaac down on his own two feet. “I used to drive Pa crazy bringing wild horses back I’d tamed, you listen to him and he’ll make it sound like I had a whole herd followin’ me. They got me Boadicea but I’ll still catch one here and there, ain’t just havin’ the horse but tamin’ them, gettin’ them to trust you that I love. Decent money, and gives me a chance to teach you too.”

“How old was you when you got Boadicea?”

“Just around 16, they called it a birthday gift but they gave me her three months early, I figure they were just well and truly sick of all the horses I brought by.”

“I’m only 13,” Isaac whispered shyly as if the reminder might shake Daddy out of the delusion he’d spun where Isaac was going to get a horse all his own.

“That may be true,” Daddy pulled him in tighter, still keeping an eye out on the Mustang. “But I trust you now a helluva lot more than I’d trust myself at 16, so long as you’re responsible and keep your head on your shoulders then I trust you.”

“I promise, I promise!” Isaac hadn’t considered the possibility of having his own horse, even with how much time he spent taking care of the herd back at camp, but now that it’d been offered he couldn’t think of anything he wanted more.

“Alright, then,” Daddy grinned and swung the lasso slowly, his eyes sparkling in excitement as he tracked the Mustang. “Let’s get you that horse.”

Isaac stayed near Llamrei, hopping back up to have a better view as he watched Daddy skulk through the sparse grass toward the Mustang. When he was close enough Daddy quickly spun the lasso and threw it over the horse’s neck, sending the others running in fright as Daddy reeled in the Mustang. Isaac watched enraptured as Daddy shushed and settled the horse enough to jump on its back and hold on tight.

The Mustang bucked and kicked, panicked whinnying loud over Daddy’s placations, and for a moment Isaac worried Daddy would get bucked off but all at once, like a sigh of relief, the Mustang settled, panting heavily, and Daddy grinned victoriously.

“You did it!” Isaac cheered, running over to Daddy gently guiding the horse in a lazy circle, firmly keeping it in line whenever the horse tried to stray or shake Daddy off.

“Ain’t nothing to it,” He chuckled, hopping down and keeping a tight grip on the lasso around the Mustang. “If you weren’t so green at it I’d’ve had you break her in yourself. Now come on.”

Isaac took a deep breath, shaking off the nerves that skittered down his back, worried he’d scare off the horse, worried he’d try to ride and get hurt, that all of Daddy’s hard work would go to waste, but he knew if he acted frightened and nervous the horse would pick up on it and only make it worse. He brought his hand up to the silver snout, pushing through his hesitation as it snorted and tossed its head at him and patted down her snout, gently coaxing her to come closer. He wished he had some carrots or apples, or even a horse brush to soothe her, but after a few tense minutes, even just the attention and affection from him was enough to calm her down.

Slowly Daddy handed the rope over and backed away, letting Isaac remain alone in her space, but staying close enough that he could intervene if needed. With an encouraging nod and a fortifying breath, Isaac moved over to the side and, in one smooth movement, mounted the horse.

Where most people might have worried about riding bareback Isaac felt comfortable enough without a saddle. Since he got too big to ride in front he didn’t get more than a saddle blanket when he rode on the back of Silver Dollar or Llamrei, the real worry was the lack of a bridle but he and Daddy were able to make a makeshift one with the rope for the time being.

Sitting on the Mustang’s back, directing her around the section of the mesa the herd had deserted, he felt like the whole world was opening up before him. Not just the unobstructed height and view he was given atop her back, but the knowledge of the four powerful hooves beneath him that could take him wherever he wanted to go. But looking over and seeing Daddy happier than he’d seen him in a long time, grinning so much it was going to hurt his face, Isaac knew there wasn’t anywhere else he’d rather be.

“What’re you gonna name her?” Daddy called out as Isaac slowly trotted in a circle, pride clear on his face.

Isaac slowed to a stop, patting the Mustang's neck as he considered, “I was thinkin’ Bella. I read it in a book recently, Javier told me it means ‘pretty’ in Italian.”

“Is that right?”

Daddy had told Isaac a long time ago what Mama had shared with him about her history. About how her grandparents had come from Sicily looking for a better life, how they’d settled in New York and had their children, how Isaac’s grandmother had been charmed by a traveling snake oil salesman and the two of them started their own family out on the road, but in the interest of fitting in with the American towns they passed through Mama’s mother never taught her any Italian or anything of the culture their family had once had, so she’d been left feeling bitter and alone when her parents had died, no identity or stability left to her.

In the end, naming his horse something in the language his mother had never gotten to learn was a pitiful attempt at reconnecting to a heritage that neither of them had had the opportunity to have, but it was something.

“I think your Mama would like that very much,” Daddy rumbled, a bittersweet smile as he came round and patted Isaac on the shoulder. “Something nice and eye-talian.”

“Daddy!” Isaac groaned even as Arthur laughed loudly at his exasperation.

They stayed up on the mesa for a while longer, until Arthur felt Isaac was ready to hit the road with Bella, once the little Mustang started trailing after Isaac when he wasn’t riding her, the mare was just as taken with him as he was with her, nibbling on his hair and nudging him when he spent too long not paying attention to her.

Isaac was barely listening to what Daddy said regarding anything but directions, so nervous he’d suddenly startle Bella and get tossed or worse she’d get hurt, but once they made it to the trail, passing by other weary travelers Isaac was relieved to find that it wasn’t quite so daunting as he’d been making it out to be.

Bella sometimes tossed her head and bristled at his instructions but she remained a calm, gentle ride, and would lean into Isaac’s hand hard whenever he leaned down to pet her. She reminded him of the cats that he and Aunt Tilly used to feed a few towns back, how defensive and tough they acted, and how quickly they melted into a puddle of purring after scratching just the right spot.

As they idled through the plains, watching buffalo graze and antelopes bound through the tall, yellow grass, their two horses sticking out in the golden landscape like shiny silver coins, Isaac felt the whole wonderful day wash over him; their morning at O’Creighs run, the meeting with Mr. Mason, gaining the trust of his sweet Bella, and Daddy right beside him the whole time. Whatever bumps and worries had plagued him throughout the day didn’t matter in the face of how blindingly happy he was.

“When we get the land Uncle Dutch keeps talkin’ about will every day be like today?” Isaac asked hushed and content, the moment too perfect to be anything else.

Daddy looked over at him, slowing his pace to ride alongside Isaac, his bulky frame and bulkier horse completely overshadowing him and Bella, scrutinizing Isaac’s expression and the bare desire there. “Ah’would hope so,” He said slowly. “Is that what you want?”

“Yeah, I want us to be near a lake so I can go swimming every day, and lots of animals like on a farm,” Isaac started listing out the things he’d been hoping for when Dutch had been negotiating the land in California, and every new thing he’d been thinking about the longer they strayed away from that idyllic dream. “And I’ll go huntin’ with Charles and then teach Jackie how to hunt too and you and I can go riding every day!”

What Isaac left unspoken was the safety in that dream that he craved, a time with no more fear, no more bloodshed, no more Pinkertons and O’Driscolls, when he wouldn’t have to hold his breath for news of Daddy after a ride out. Stability and safety, that was what Isaac wanted.

“Well, it sounds like you got it all worked out, huh?” Daddy said with a rueful chuckle.

“What do you want? When we get land?”

Daddy paused, considering it, one hand scratching the scar under his beard. “Well, I dunno, maybe a house with a porch, somewhere in nature.”

Memories of Mama’s house rose in them both, the endless sky, the cool, winding river, the cozy, clean rooms. The house emblematic of a home, even as distant and faded in memory as it was. The last home either of them had had beyond canvas tents and campfires.

“We’ll get a dog, have some horses, a proper little ranch all our own.” Daddy continued slowly, carefully, each word seeming too fragile and precious to let out from the safety of his thoughts. “I’ll learn how to cook proper, feed you somethin’ better than stew you can’t stomach, get you a better life than we got right now.”

“We can both have a better life, you could draw as much as you like, learn how to paint too. Do whatever you want.” Isaac prodded carefully, Mr. Mason’s words echoing in his head. ‘But as any man with a muse and an ounce of artistic drive can tell you life just isn’t worth living if you aren’t engaging in your craft.’

“Don’t know why you’re so focused on the drawings today,” Daddy grumbled, his face twitching and frowning at the suggestion.

“I mean you’d have the chance, not like you’d have to work and steal all the time,” Isaac shrugged, shame heating up at his neck as he watched Daddy grapple with something inside.

“If we had a ranch there’d be plenty of work, there’s always plenty of work,” Daddy said, his words sharp, refined, practiced even, like a warning he’d done well to memorize. “If I want to keep us all afloat, if I want to get that good life for you, then I’m always gonna have to work hard for it. Drawing and painting and all that artistic nonsense can wait till when I’m a dotty ol’ fool like Hosea.”

“Why do you act like they ain’t worth anything at all?” Usually, Isaac had the good sense to back off when Daddy was getting snappy and mad, usually knew when to make himself scarce and save them all from an unfortunate confrontation, but today, just the two of them out alone, no one from camp there to witness or intervene, he couldn’t help but continue to push.

“‘T’s cause they ain’t.”

“But you like doing it! Ain’t that worth something?” There was something about Daddy at that moment that was making Isaac’s chest crack open. Folks at camp liked to make a big deal about Daddy doing anything but working and earning liked to tease him for napping or try and pester him for a look at his journal, poking fun until he got back up, gun in hand, and rode out. Isaac hadn’t realized that Daddy thought the same, that he figured himself no better than a train that never stopped.

“Listen,” Daddy gentled, hearing the rising upset in Isaac’s voice and finding the patience to calm them both down. Shoving his frustration to the side. “Once I can earn as much money with my silly little doodles as I can in a day's work then maybe I’d say they were worth more, but today ain’t that day.”

“Are things only important when they make money?”

“Spending time with you is plenty important, making sure you’re happy, keepin’ you from tearin’ your hair out that’s more important than anything else.” Daddy squeezed Isaac’s shoulder, comforting him, but Isaac wasn’t worried about his value in Daddy’s eyes.

Instead, he was stricken, cold in the pit of his stomach, realizing that Daddy didn’t count himself and his happiness among important, worthwhile things. That at the end of the day Daddy only valued himself in as much money as he could earn. It felt like a problem far beyond his comprehension, even farther outside his influence, something rotten and terrible, something he desperately wanted to look away from.

He wished for the first time all day that someone else, anyone else, was there to fix it in a way he simply couldn’t. But did anyone else know? Had any of their family back at camp looked close enough at Daddy to see? It wasn’t his place earlier to divulge Daddy’s artistic inclination to Mr. Mason, and it certainly wasn’t his place to reveal the exposed psyche he’d discovered to anyone else, but if no one else knew then he had to be the one to fix it. But he was young he didn’t know how to fix Daddy and Daddy always said Isaac needed to stop worrying about things outside his control. So in the end, did he have to just ignore the terrible revelation? To sit back and let Daddy destroy himself? For what, money?

Suddenly the heavy silence between them was broken with someone else hollering, startling Isaac out of his thoughts and nearly off of his horse, and making Daddy look around wild-eyed, tearing himself away from where he’d been worridly staring at Isaac, ready to take care of whatever might be coming to harm them.

“I’m just a blind ol’ fool!” Cried a raggedy beggar down the road, with cloudy eyes staring up at the sky, nothing to his name but his bag, a walking stick, and a dented tin cup jingling with change. “Don’t be like me, be a wise man! Be a fool for love!”

“I seen this fella before,” Daddy said, slowing to a stop, the relief at the break in the tension obvious in his shaky smile. “Here-” Daddy rustled around in his satchel until he pulled out a wrinkled dollar leaning down to hand it over to Isaac. “Spread the wealth.”

“Ain’t much wealth to spread,” Isaac grumbled, wondering to himself just what Daddy had gone through to get that dollar. “You sure we should be doin’ this?”

“Talk to the reverend, I’m sure he’ll tell you that makes it worth twice as much,” Daddy said softly, kindly. He was never one for God’s word, but he believed in what Uncle Dutch said. “It’s a cruel, cruel world we live in. We gotta help those who manage to be less fortunate than even us.”

Isaac contemplated his words, the reiterated teachings of Dutch, harkening back to an older, younger time when Dutch and Grandpa could afford to donate their earnings en masse to the poor and decrepit. When money was not so much their reason for living, as it felt like nowadays, but a pleasant consequence of their lives. Isaac had to admit, it sounded a lot nicer than stressing and worrying over every cent and dollar, sounded like a charmed life, one who could help others.

Without another rebuttal Isaac slipped off his horse, giving her a pet down her snout as he walked over to the old man, scuffing his shoes in the dirt to alert him of his presence, as if he and Daddy hadn’t just been talking 6 feet away.

“Hello, sir,” Isaac greeted, gently stuffing the dollar bill into the outstretched tin cup. “Here’s a dollar, from me and my Pa, hope it helps.”

Isaac expected a thank you, or any acknowledgment of the donation, what he wasn’t expecting was for the man to stand up straighter, his gaze falling from the sky to land on Isaac, as if he could see him through the milky haze obscuring his eyes.

“You’ll seek the King’s treasure but it’s the prize it earns that you’ll pay for in blood.” His creaking madcap voice had dropped to something solemn, stone-written, wind-spoken, something like an omen spoken plainly in the hard sunlight of the Heartlands.

“Sir?” Isaac asked shakily.

The man didn’t respond, instead turning back to sightlessly gaze at the sky, his mad rambling from before returning, any hint of the solemnity he’d shown gone.

Isaac didn’t understand the strange words he’d been given, but his heartbeat was racing like he was running from something just outside his vision.

He was pulled back from where he stood frozen, Daddy behind him suddenly, and was guided back to Bella with a firm hand on his back, Daddy’s smile quirked in amusement.

“He tell you somethin’ strange?”

“Y-yeah,” Isaac muttered, mounting up, trying to subtly shake out the tremors in his hands, trying not to let Daddy know how affected he was.

“Don’t worry none, he’s harmless, last I saw him he was talkin’ ‘bout my father and snakes.” Daddy laughed to himself as he led the two of them back down the trail and away from the strange beggar. “He don’t know what he’s sayin’, my father’s been dead for years, it’s just a trick he’s playin’.”

Isaac shivered, he wasn’t so sure. The man seemed perfectly serious when he’d imparted his strange wisdom. Even now as they finished out their trip and returned home, as they left the Heartlands and traveled through wind-carved mountains and trees to find camp once more Isaac still felt that blind gaze on him, pinning him down with those ominous words.

* * *

We weren’t back at camp for five minutes before Dutch was sending me out, to Blackwater of all places, to help Charles and Javier with a lead from Trelawny on Sean’s whereabouts. A city that wants us dead, the promise from a man more ghost than real, and all for that fire-headed little shit. If Isaac didn’t like the damn kid so much I might’ve just left him there.

Found him hanging up in the bounty hunter’s camp, looking more like a slab of meat than a man, but unluckily for us that didn’t seem to temper his runaway mouth. Poor Javier had to listen to the kid jabber on for the whole trip back.

But at least bringing him home was a well-earned victory, the first lucky break we’d had in months, so of course a party was in order. Everyone was celebrating, the girls, Uncle, and Javier singing their songs, folks were dancing, lots more folks were drinking, and Isaac and Jack were flying around as happy as could be. Honestly seeing Sean with them sometimes makes it seem like we have three kids running around and not just the two.

It feels like we’ve all taken the first breath since the whole mess in Blackwater. I can only hope there are many more good things to come.

* * *

With how wonderful and exciting the past few days had been, with his trip with Daddy, with Sean miraculously returned from Blackwater, it seemed hard to believe that anything bad could happen, that their downtrodden reality would assert itself once more. Yet he seemed to forget that when everything seemed bright it only made the shadows that much darker.

“Mama loves you, sweetness, Mama’ll be right back.”

He awoke from his vivid memories with blood under his nails, with a stampede of horses in his chest, and breathing so hard he was worried he’d pass out. The cellar, Mama with the gun in her hand, seeing Mama for the last time, the gunshots, the dark, the dark, the dark.

Isaac tried to focus on the canvas covering of the tent, tried to catch dying embers reflecting off the light material, tried to find any brightness where there was none. Anything, anything at all to prove he was here and not there, anything except for the sharp, stinging pain of his broken nails digging into his arms, of bright red welling up and disappearing into his bedroll.

Horseshoe Overlook was fine, nice even, it was a pretty spot, but what Isaac hated more than anything was that the main fire was behind their tent. Even before it went out each night Isaac could barely see the light from it, often he couldn’t get to sleep in time before it was extinguished. So he lay in his bedroll now trying to find any bit of light, any bit of calm amidst his blinding panic, but there wasn’t even a moon tonight, so the darkness lay upon them even thicker and richer snuffing out any chance of light, any wisp he could grasp onto and convince himself he wasn’t four-years-old locked in the cellar with his Mama dead just outside his reach.

Isaac looked over at Daddy, contemplated waking him up for a second, and immediately dashed it away. He’d been so much better lately of not having to wake Daddy up, of waving away his nightmares, of letting him sleep through the night. And after having come back from Blackwater and dealing with all the bloodthirsty bounty hunters Daddy was more antsy than ever. Sleeping with his boots on, guns easily within reach, hardly resting at all. Isaac couldn’t deprive him of even that poor facsimile of sleep, not for his childish fears, not to plunge Daddy back into the icy memories of that day.

Instead, Isaac shivered and clutched his heart, willing it to calm down, willing his legs to be strong enough to hold him. He rolled out of his bedroll, grabbed Daddy’s coat sitting folded up at the base of his cot. It dwarfed him but the scent of Daddy’s hair pomade and cigarette smoke helped, gave him enough strength to shuffle out of their tent.

Isaac immediately veered over to Bella, his legs as shaky and uncertain as a newborn deer as he clumsily stumbling around Mr. Duffy sleeping at the edge of the herds to avoid waking him, and threw his arms around the little Mustang. She barely bristled at the sudden embrace, instead tucking her snout over his shoulder and snorting, blowing hot air down his back.

The familiar scent of horse, the placid calm of the camp, feeling Bella’s freshly brushed mane beneath his fingers, Daddy’s coat keeping him warm against the chill of night, it helped ground him, helped remind him where he was, convinced his heart to slow from its galloping pace to something closer to a trot. Panic still raced through him but it wasn’t quite so pressing, the horrible memories pressing against him didn’t feel as urgent and lifelike.

But each time he closed his eyes in the dark at the edge of camp he heard Mama’s last words, heard the gunshots, watched the lamp go out and plunge him into stuffy darkness. Each blink spiked his heartbeat and made his breathing thin and ineffective, he felt like he was walking a thin line between calm and total panic, and the trails of blood dripping down his arms, itching as they dried only reminded him how very thin that line was.

He wasn’t going to get back to sleep tonight, at least not in the tent, not in the dark. He squeezed Bella tight one last time before grabbing the bedroll off the saddle and heading to the scout fire.

They didn’t have an official schedule or anything for guard duty, it was often just who was the least drunk and who hadn’t done it last. Isaac was hoping it would be Charles on duty tonight, though he knew the man had been standing outside camp earlier today, but Charles never made a big deal about Isaac coming to sleep at the scout fire. He hardly acknowledged when Isaac came by and laid down the bedroll and didn’t talk to him unless Isaac spoke first, not like Uncle John and Javier who always wanted to ask what was wrong and kept trying to get him to talk to Daddy about his bedding down at the scout camp. Isaac could settle down and sleep immediately when Charles was guarding, knowing he was safe, knowing they were all safe, confident the darkness would not follow him with Charles nearby.

When he approached the scout fire Isaac nearly turned on his heel and walked away, and were it not for the thick darkness behind him he might have. Tonight it was Uncle Bill, which was fine, unlike most people in camp Isaac had no problem hanging around the lumbering bear of a man. What he did have a problem with was Micah sitting across from Bill half-drunk and laughing meanly at some joke he’d made.

Bill looked up and saw him at the edge of the firelight, making Isaac’s decision for him as he scrambled to hide his beer and waved Isaac over, “Hey kid, can’t sleep?”

Isaac cautiously took the invitation and moved to sit next to Bill on the log, trying to hide his discomfort with the way Micah was watching him by feigning being chilled, which wasn’t hard with how hard he was shaking, tugging his coat tighter, and leaning against Bill. “Grandpa said he’d skin you if he caught you drinkin’ on watch again, Uncle Bill.”

“Yeah well, Hosea ain’t here,” Bill groused, kicking the box of beers further away. “It’s been quiet tonight anyhow, don’t you worry.”

“What’re you,” Micah slurred, leaning forward, the fire throwing shadows across his red-flushed face. “The old man’s little spy?”

Isaac stayed silent, still avoiding Micah’s gaze, Daddy’s warning running through his head over and over again. He wished with all he had that the man would just leave and let Isaac sleep, his nerves were far too frayed tonight to deal with the awful man, but of course, things couldn’t be so easy.

“Guess I ain’t good enough for the little Morgan to talk to is that it?” Micah said, moving to stand, swaying, and nearly tumbling back over.

“Lay off, Micah,” Bill barked, one accusatory finger pinning the other outlaw where he stood, a threat clear in his glare. “Kid just came out here to sleep by the fire, don’t go running your mouth.”

Isaac took that as his cue to lay out his bedroll, backing Bill’s statement, though he could still feel Micah watching him.

“What? Arthur Morgan’s kid is afraid of the dark or something?” No answer but the crackle of the fire. “Oh, that is too good. You know I’ve been sayin’ that Morgan is goin’ soft, but he must’ve already been soft. Wouldn’t let no kid of mine be such a yella belly, wouldn’t be no son of mine for long I tell you.”

Isaac desperately tried to will away the heat behind his eyes and the tremor in his hands, looking weaker wasn’t going to help anything.

“Micah, if you don’t shut up I swear-”

“Now ain’t no need to get testy, Uncle Bill, I’m just making conversation, getting to know the folks in camp you know,” Micah said jovially, picking a beer bottle out of the crate and stumbling over to Isaac. “How about this, a peace offering from your dear ol’ Uncle Micah, a little liquid courage.”

Isaac flinched when Micah accidentally, he hoped, smacked him in the head with the bottle trying to hand it over, Micah didn’t seem to notice, instead just leered over him, beer in hand and on his breath. Isaac bolstered what little courage he had, took the bottle, and set it to the side before standing up and facing Micah, looking him in his bloodshot, unfocused eyes.

He imagined how Daddy sounded when he was giving orders, firm and unquestionable, he remembered Grandpa and Uncle Dutch diffusing situations with easy confidence and poise, he straightened his posture like Miss Grimshaw and spoke quietly. “I don’t want the beer, and I don’t want to talk to you no more, I just want to sleep.”

They held eye contact for a while, Isaac no longer shaking and afraid as he invoked the most fearless people he knew, but something in Isaac’s expression must have pissed Micah off, something spoiled his unfocused gaze like rotten milk, drawing itself into deep furrows of anger.

Isaac felt like he was watching Micah from a million miles away as he brought his hand up to backhand Isaac. So shocked at the threat that he couldn’t move in time, all of his limbs weighed down with dread.

Luckily, the blow never landed.

Uncle Bill, moving faster than Isaac had ever seen him, snatched Micah’s raised hand, using the grip to turn him around and punch him in the face. Red-faced and furious, he easily grappled the other man away from Isaac. “The hell is wrong with you?!”

“He was disrespectin’ me! Needs to be taught a lesson!” Micah hissed in Bill’s face, trying to break out of the grip.

“You’re drunk!” Bill yelled back, shoving Micah out of the circle of the firelight and into the woods. “You can come on back in the morning, but if I see you back here ‘fore that I’ll beat you black and blue you no good cuss!”

“This is how you get weakness, leeches,” Micah yelled drunkenly as he stumbled down the path. “Boys afraid of the dark with all sorts of folks divin’ in to protect ‘em. Little Morgan needs to see the real world…”

Whatever else Micah had to say disappeared into the night and silence returned to the campfire, as well as the shaking Isaac had fended off earlier. Tremors wracked his body like he was sick, forcing him to sit or collapse on his now weak legs, the adrenaline from the confrontation leaving him so fast his head spun.

“Don’t you worry about him,” Uncle Bill said, clasping Isaac’s shoulder, seeming mighty pleased with himself. “He won’t bother you no more, you get some rest.”

Isaac obediently laid down on the bedroll and closed his eyes, pretending to sleep, but even with the cheery fire beside him and the sound of Uncle Bill humming to himself, Isaac knew sleep would be far off, with more than just his bad dreams haunting him.

* * *

Aunt Abigail got one look at me this morning, pale, shaking, and creeping away from the scout fire and she declared I wasn’t allowed to work today, said I was too sick to not hurt myself. I didn’t have the energy to fight her, I’d gotten little to no sleep and I was jumping at every sound, sure that it was Micah coming back to finish what he’d started.

Admittedly, it was nice letting Aunt Abigail take care of me, she convinced Miss Grimshaw to boil up some broth for me to sip on and found some crackers buried in the chuckwagon, probably the most that I could handle in any case, being so on edge for so long makes me terribly nauseous.

I don’t know if she truly believed me sick, or if she saw me looking grey and worn from a night of beating back nightmares, but I appreciate it all the same.

Daddy had fussed over me too before he’d left, worried that I’d gotten sick from swimming up in the cold lake. He’d scrounged up a bundle of mint leaves from his satchel and told me to make Grandpa some tea, with no small hint that I was to have some as well.

I feel a little selfish, soaking in all their fussing, but I ain’t gonna be the one to stop them.

Luckily Daddy left before Uncle Bill woke up, I don’t want him telling Daddy about what Micah did last night. He wasn’t joking when he said he’d kill Micah, and the last thing I want is Daddy getting in trouble over me, just cause of a nightmare, just cause I’m afraid of the dark.

* * *

It was very strange to Isaac to be sitting around when normally he spent most of his day running around taking care of chores. But his body was tired and an awful headache pounded behind his eyes, despite the nap he’d been heavily encouraged to take. It didn’t help the strangeness that it all felt decidedly undeserved, he wasn’t sick or injured, he was tired sure, but from a nightmare, not from running around doing a job. It didn’t feel right for him to sit out, but even Uncle Dutch had taken one look at him and told him to take it easy.

“We don’t need you keeling over, son,” Uncle Dutch had said warmly, pulling his hand back where he’d pushed Isaac’s hair up to feel his forehead. “Chores’ll still be there tomorrow.”

So Isaac was sat down with Jack, right in Aunt Abigail’s eye line where she was darning socks with the ladies, pausing every so often to make sure they were alright, playing with the domino set. Jackie didn’t understand how to play dominos and instead liked to stack them up or make little houses, so together the two of them were making a trail of the dominos, hoping to get from one side of the table to the other.

Jack was in the middle of telling him a story, something outlandish about how his Pa had shot holes in the moon and that was why they had stars, when Mary-Beth interrupted.

“Isaac, honey?” Mary-Beth called, catching his attention as she strained towards a can of peaches at the top of the chuck wagon. “Can you bring me a chair? I can’t quite reach.”

Isaac immediately stood, grabbing his chair, but before he could bring it over suddenly the O’Driscoll was there, coming around the other side and easily grabbing the can for Mary-Beth, awkwardly overextending himself to not even brush her hair in his reach.

“T-there you go, Mary-Beth.”

“Oh! Kieran you scared me,” Mary-Beth said, one hand over her heart, her cheeks flushing in her surprise. As she calmed she did a double take as she looked up at Kieran and laughed again. “Mr. Duffy! Look how tall you are when you ain’t slouchin’ everywhere!”

The attention immediately made Kieran shrink into himself, his shoulders returning to their familiar home by his ears. “Nah, I ain’t- I think you might just be…petite, Mary-Beth.”

The woman grinned in shocked delight at the attempt at a tet-a-tet, gently shoving at Kieran’s shoulder. “You callin’ me short?”

Isaac rolled his eyes and sighed, returning to sit down. No matter how long he’d had to watch it, adults flirting with one another never got any less unbearable to watch.

The two fools kept jabbering and he and Jack got another few dominos set up before the wobbliness of the table got the better of them and the whole chain fell.

“We were so close!” Jack whined, holding out the domino he was going to place next.

“Don’t worry, Jackie, we’ll just try again,” Isaac placated, already sweeping the dominos into the corner where he and Jack could both reach and preparing how best to set up the next line of dominos when the O’Driscoll came up to him, blushing from his encounter with Mary-Beth but stuttering and slouching all the same.

“Um, I-Isaac, right?”

“Yessir…” Isaac answered tentatively, Daddy hadn’t told him not to talk to the O’Driscoll, and he’d heard from Uncle Bill that the nervous man had even saved Daddy’s life, but he was still an O’Driscoll so Isaac was cautious.

“Nice to finally meet you, when I’m not, you know, tied to somethin’,” Kieran said, scratching the backs of his hands nervously as he spoke. “I wanted to let you know, I-I moved Bella over to the patch nearer to your tent, thought you might appreciate iffin she was closer.”

Isaac scrutinized Kieran, trying to make out the man’s intent past his stuttering and nervousness. There wasn’t much difference between one patch or the other, and most folks didn’t keep half a mind on where their horse was until it was time to mount up. He might’ve chalked it up to Kieran being overly nervous about stumbling and making a mistake, but this felt more deliberate than just a simple precaution, felt like a courtesy.

He had been sure last night that Kieran had been asleep, that he hadn’t awoken the man with his shaky trek out to where Bella stood, but he wasn’t so sure now. Maybe Kieran wanted to avoid being awoken by Isaac finding his horse late at night again, or maybe he’d somehow gleaned from Isaac’s shaking and hyperventilating that he had hated the dark he’d had to push through to find Bella. Cut off from every campfire but Kieran’s own, though it had long been extinguished, no moon to light the way, and tall trees penning in the horses and plunging their little meadow into deep darkness at night. No light even to see your own hands.

Maybe it was nothing, but regardless of why he was doing it Isaac could not help but appreciate the change.

“That’s just fine…Mr. Duffy.” He figured the very least he could do to thank the man for his unspoken kindness was refer to him by his actual name, and judging by how the man positively beamed at him it seemed like that was all he really wanted.

Before either of them could say anything else Aunt Abigail stomped up to the table, one hand on Jack’s head as he concentrated on the dominos, and an arm across Isaac’s shoulders.

“Is there something you needed, O’Driscoll?” She asked frostily, her glare as sharp as flint, cowering the man further.

“N-no ma’am,” He stuttered before tipping his hat to Aunt Abigail and scurrying away as if she’d bite his head off for lingering any longer. And Isaac figured that was a safe fear to have as she pulled him in close like he’d been in danger.

“I still can’t believe Dutch and Hosea just let him wander around as he pleases, who knows what he’s up to.”

“I think he’s just takin’ care of the horses, Auntie,” Isaac said, patting her arm where she was still holding on to him.

“Well, I still don’t like it,” Aunt Abigail said firmly.

“Least he’s better than Micah,” Isaac grumbled, feeling the easy mood of the afternoon sour as he remembered last night and the foul smell of the man's breath as he’d stood too close.

“You’ve got me there,” Aunt Abigail acquiesced, kissing the crown of his head, then Jack’s before heading back to the circle of ladies at the edge of the camp.

Eventually, Sean and Lenny came to sit with them, plates of stew in tow, and Isaac’s mood lifted considerably listening to the two of them argue and bicker.

Jack and he finished their domino train to the men's over-the-top cheering, Isaac read to the ladies with Jackie dozing off in his lap, and he went out to practice his archery and generally had a fine day. But when the night fell and Daddy was still away as camp grew dark and Isaac felt his breath catch in his throat at the threat of terror and panic returning full force from the night before, he wasted no time in heading to the scout fire first thing wishing that Grandpa still had a tent for him to retreat to, but as always the fire was a welcome refuge.

Charles nodded as he approached and did nothing more than move his pile of unshaped arrowheads out of the way so Isaac could lay down as close to the man as he could, allowing Isaac to bed down and will himself to sleep; praying the darkness wouldn’t invite further nightmares tonight.

* * *

Soon enough life at camp returned to normal. Isaac slept despite the fears that plagued him and he returned to his chores, he helped around camp, hung around Sean and Lenny, and poked fun at them both when they talked big, he let Aunt Abigail bully him into getting a haircut -if only to convince Jack to sit for one as well- and he spoiled Bella rotten.

Along with his archery practice in the woods, he could brighten his days with a ride, sometimes taking Miss Grimshaw or Aunt Abigail to town when they needed to get something, earning himself a packet of peppermints and Miss Grimshaw getting misty-eyed.

“Oh, Lord,” She’d said at the sight of him on Bella offering her a hand up. “It feels like just yesterday you were little enough to sit with me on the saddle. Where’d my little Isaac go?”

“I’m right here, Miss Grimshaw,” Isaac would reply, blushing at the mushy attention from his iron-willed Aunt. “And my arm’s getting tired.”

That would always make her laugh and affectionately smack his shoulder before hopping up, her moment of sentiment a dear secret between the two of them.

Though his days were back to normal he still felt off-kilter. Those relaxed days with Daddy had felt so right, had felt like the goal at the end of all this, that it felt silly to continue as if they hadn’t happened. Returning to their normal as if he didn’t know that it didn’t have to be. But the time of ease was still a long way off, and work would pave their way to it.

Isaac saw Daddy infrequently as he was working with Uncle John on something, and taking care of his own business besides that. Which was unfortunate, but similarly Isaac hardly saw Micah at all since that night at the scout fire, busy on his own with collecting debts for Mr. Strauss, so the camp was peaceful if not lonely.

Well, not entirely lonely.

“Oi, Isaac!” Sean called out from where he rode in, a big grin on his face and two rabbits hanging down from his saddle. “Put me down in the ledger for two fine rabbits, best of the best!”

Isaac leaned back in the chair he was reading in, one foot braced against the table to take a better look at the dead things, wincing when he saw the mess of bullet holes through the flank of the one nearest to him. “What’d shoot ‘em with a shotgun?”

Sean scoffed and grabbed both rabbits in one hand, veering close to push Isaac’s chair, trying to unseat him where he balanced. “You disrespectin’ your elders, boy?”

“I wouldn’t if they were here,” Isaac said with a smirk, scrambling to run out of his chair as the Irishman lunged at him with a laugh. He ran over to the ledger, his mischief not overtaking the task assigned, and flipped it open, squawking when Sean still came up and cuffed him upside the head. “Hey! I’m doin’ it aren’t I?”

“You take too much after the grand King Arthur, you little shit,” Sean said with an affectionate grin. The man kept up his pace and laid the two rabbits down on the butcher’s table, turning to lean against it as he kept talking “Young Prince Isaac’s got to learn that Sean Macguire ain’t no one to mess with.”

Behind him Pearson balked at the state of the rabbits and rolled his eyes at Isaac over Sean’s shoulder as the other man kept bragging, Isaac had to hide his laughter in the ledger as he wrote out: 2 poor rabbit carcasses.

“You ‘bout done over here?” Sean said, waltzing over to lean on Isaac’s shoulder, his mouth twitching in annoyance as he noted that Isaac was slowly but surely growing to be as tall as him. “Was gonna take you out for a ride while it was still bright out. That’ll teach you to be so cruel, young Morgan, your very generous Uncle Sean rescuin’ you-”

“Wasn’t Lenny supposed to teach you how to write?” Isaac interrupted, closing the ledger book and shaking Sean off. He never minded writing or reading for the few folks around camp who couldn’t, and he especially didn’t mind hanging around Sean, but he enjoyed teasing the Irishman more than anything.

“I would if he’d ever sit down long enough!” Lenny replied, as the young man walked past with his dinner, his rifle still hung over his shoulder from just coming off his guard shift.

“Aw, shove off the both of youse,” Sean groused and tipped his hat down to poorly try and hide the wildfire blush taking over his face. “I ain’t need no silly ideas fillin’ my head, I’m a gunslinger, not some hoity-toity scholar!”

“What am I then?” Lenny asked in mock offense.

“Well, you, I-” Sean stammered before throwing his hands up, giving up entirely, his bravado and rage right back at home. “You know what, piss off, you could be the bloody president all’s I care. I was just trying to take the boy out for a ride not answer a damn riddle.”

Without waiting for a response from either of them Sean started steering Issac through the camp with a firm grip on his shoulders.

Isaac stammered as they approached Ennis and Bella grazing side-by-side, not thinking Sean was serious about the ride and surprised by the sudden apparent change in his schedule. He was tempted to look around for a, well, an adult to stop this. It wasn’t an ironclad rule, but Isaac very rarely left the camp not under the supervision of his more immediate family: Daddy, Grandpa, Dutch, Uncle John, Miss Grimshaw, Auntie Tilly, and Aunt Abigail, any of them taking him out would give him none of the hesitation he was feeling now. But he had never been explicitly told not to leave without asking permission, and he was awfully bored, so he didn’t complain as Sean encouraged Isaac to get in the saddle and mounted back on Ennis beside him.

“There’s a good lad,” Sean said with a wide grin, gently flicking the reins and guiding the horse out of Horseshoe and down the tree-lined path.

Isaac smiled to himself eager to leave the sleepy camp and take in the fine weather they had, to watch the creatures around them scurry into the underbrush, and the birds above wheel and dance in the air. Their ride was pleasant, if long as Sean led them to the plains, but as always he made for amusing company, the man ceaselessly talking as they traveled, easily filling the time and silence with his over-the-top stories.

Isaac didn’t have the same drive to draw as Daddy did, usually only leaving little doodles in the margins of his thick writings in his journal, but even the sight of the plains painted with the deep red hues and purple shadows of sunset tempted him.

It wasn’t until Sean finally brought Ennis to a stop beneath a wide tree beside a burnt-out shack with a large black oil wagon beside it that Isaac realized just how long they’d been away from camp. When they’d left it’d been around 3 pm, the hottest part of the day making people shed their ever-present coats and linger outside the coverings to enjoy the sunlight, now sunset had come and gone, leaving the star-studded night. The moon, wide-awake and full, was bright, washing them and the clearing they stood in out in the moonlight.

“Sean? Where are we?”

“We’re gonna surprise your Da, he should be here soon, meantime, lad, help me find some bottles.” Sean started scrounging around the burnt shack for unbroken bottles, waving away the additional questions Isaac tried to ask.

He was sure that Daddy was out on a job, he and Uncle John had been talking about it this morning, the two of them saddling up soon after to find Charles out where he’d gone hunting to join them, but there was the possibility that they’d already finished and this spot was their meet-up point after. Daddy never gave Isaac many details about the jobs he went on, always cautious about worrying him, and more often than not leaving him ignorant until the job was complete; his evident safety after the fact was enough to alleviate rising fears in Isaac. So he had no choice but to trust Sean and began looking in the underbrush around the small clearing for more bottles.

A few minutes later Sean had the bottles lined up on a ledge of the burnt remains of the home, Isaac sat up in the long limbs of the tree behind him watching as Sean tried to shoot the bottles a mere 6 feet away from him. Trying being the operative word.

“I’m confused is the point to not hit the target?” With every shot Isaac felt even smarter about being up high in the tree, his chances of getting accidentally shot by Sean were blissfully low. “Cause if so you’re doin’ great.”

Isaac was trying hard to focus on teasing Sean, since the man had drawn his gun Isaac’s stomach had been a twisted mess, each wayward shot only twisting it further. He hadn’t been around any shooting since Blackwater, and that had been enough exposure for three lifetimes, the fleeing, the mass rain of bullets, the dying all around him. He thought he’d gotten over this fear of his when he was younger, after spending more time around the gang where guns were inevitable, but that shootout in Blackwater had dredged up a long-buried weakness and it was taking all his strength not to flinch every time Sean shot. So he just needed to focus, poke at Sean, laugh at all the right moments, and not think about the trembling anxiety inside him at the sight of the gun.

“Lord, no respect from the likes of you, lad,” Sean turned his hands on his hips as he rasped up at Isaac. “I can scrap, Isaac, I’m just no good at homework.”

“Well, we already knew that, but what’s that got to do with shootin’?”

“I’d probably be doin’ better if I didn’t have annoying whelps yapping at me,” Sean growled pointing a threatening finger up at Isaac, before whirling around and quickly drawing his gun, missing the bottle again. “Damn, see! You’re messin’ me up. It ain’t quite so easy as you might think. Why don’t you come down and give it a try? Put your money where your mouth is, Prince Isaac.”

“Me?” Isaac asked an ill-disguised tremor in his voice. The closest he ever got to the guns was cleaning them and doing inventory, never had he even contemplated wielding one. “I-I don’t know if I should-”

“Nonsense!” Sean replied, brightening at the idea he came to the base of the tree and started idly tugging on Isaac’s foot, prompting him to drop down. “I’ll teach you everything you need to know! I’m sure you’ll be a right terror anyways, son of Arthur Morgan and all.”

Just that remark, drawing attention to how great a shadow he grew up in, to how he should be better, was like a gag shoved into his mouth, forcing down his other complaints and worries. Quietly, obediently Isaac hopped down from the tree, to Sean’s delight, and moved to stand where Sean had been, accepting the warm revolver into his hand.

Sean eagerly explained to Isaac how to hold the gun, how to not get hurt, and how to aim. Isaac didn’t listen to most of his advice, though he let himself be adjusted and nodded at every instruction. Sean barely knew how to hold a gun himself let alone teach Isaac how to so instead Isaac remembered how folks around camp held their guns, how they leveled them and aimed, how they didn’t tremble, how they weren’t scared.

Auntie Annabelle pulling out the sawed-off and- nope, don’t go there.

Uncle Davey pushing Isaac through the dust-wreathed streets of Blackwater as gunfire flew around them, leaning back around the corner of a building to shoot someone pursuing them- don’t go there.

Daddy teaching Mama how to withstand the kickback, Mama picking the gun up before- for the love of God anything but that.

“You alright, lad?” Sean questioned, his hands cupping Isaac’s own shaking hands holding the revolver. “You don’t have to-”

“No! I can do it,” Isaac interrupted, surprising himself, but he needed to prove to himself that he could, that he wasn’t so useless. That Micah wasn’t right.

He shifted into a ready stance and held the gun with both hands, uncertain of how well he could withstand the shot with how weak he was feeling. He took a deep breath and closed one eye, knowing not to close both, and focused on the green glass bottles ahead of him. He couldn’t hear whatever Sean was saying over the ringing of his ears so he didn’t even try to pay attention. Instead, he readied and he shot.

Isaac squeezed the trigger three times and could scarcely believe that the deafening gunshot noise and subsequent shattering of two bottles was a result of his own action.

“Look at that, you’re a natural!” Sean crowed, excitedly gesturing towards the now broken bottles. “Well, of course you are! Trained by the great Sean Macguire himself!”

Isaac was very glad Sean was so oblivious, as much as he cursed him for it at that moment. The man barely noticed as Isaac pressed his gun back to him with horribly shaking hands and he didn’t care when Isaac stumbled away, too busy reloading the gun to take shots himself to notice when Isaac was sick at the base of the tree.

Isaac braced himself against the trunk and spat out the bile that swirled around his mouth, his arms still trembling. He should be happy. He should be proud. He, against all odds, seemed to be good at this, taking after Daddy in this way; but he was instead overwhelmed with terror. With a gun in his hand he could have hurt Sean, hurt himself, he could have-

“What the hell is going on here?”

Riding up the hill to their shady clearing were Charles and Uncle John looking concerned and Pa looking furious.

“I was just teachin’ the boy a few things, thought we could provide our services in this little job you lot think you can hide from me,” Sean said gesturing with his, thankfully now empty gun, towards the three men and the oil wagon behind him. “He takes after you, Morgan, next thing you know we’ll be calling him Ol’ Dead-Eye Isaac.”

Sean had barely finished talking when Daddy strode up and slapped him across the face, grabbing the younger man’s collar before he could fall after the painfully loud hit, “You took my son away from camp, gave him a gun, and now you want to come along on a job? Am I understandin’ you correctly you half-wit?”

“Christ, Morgan, hit like a goddamn train,” Sean winced, holding his jaw, before lighting up in reactive anger. “And what’s the fucking problem, huh? I was his age when me Da started taking me out on jobs-”

“And look how you turned out. Grow up!”

“Pa, he-”

“And you!” Daddy suddenly dropped Sean to turn towards Isaac, “What the hell were you thinking? Thought you were smarter than this, what’re you doin’ ridin’ around, trying to join a job? Are you serious?”

“I-I-” Isaac stammered, not expecting to be in trouble as well. “Sean just said we were goin’ on a ride, I-I didn’t know what was happenin’, honest!”

“I’m gonna need you to use that big brain of yours more than that, son,” Arthur grumbled, grabbing Isaac by the shoulder and leading him over to Bella. “Sean is not someone you listen to-”

“Oi!”

“You better learn to shut your goddamn mouth, Macguire,” Arthur growled over his shoulder, before turning back to Isaac. “You don’t leave camp without permission. Does Hosea even know you left? Does anyone?”

“Lenny knew,” Isaac felt his face flush in shame, keeping his gaze locked to the ground and their boots. He was barely keeping his shaking under control, but the stress of the gun in his hand and the lingering aftershocks of the kickback paired with Daddy’s yelling was making it hard. “B-but that ain’t been a rule before! You never told me!”

“I didn’t think I’d have to explain common goddamn sense to you, Isaac!” Arthur threw his hands up in exasperation, taking a moment to try and compose himself before pointing at the saddle. “Get up, we’re goin’ home, and you ain’t leavin’ camp again until I say so-”

“Arthur-”

“What, John?” Arthur whirled around on his brother, his hackles raised once more at the idea of either of the spectating men pushing back on his decision.

“Listen, I ain’t here to argue with you, brother,” John said immediately, his hands up to placate Arthur. “But the train’s going to be coming through in less than an hour now, you ain’t got time to run the boy back.”

It went unspoken between the men that Isaac riding back alone was out of the question. Bad things happened to folks riding alone, especially at night, especially this far out from any town or people. And they knew best because they often were the bad things that happened. But unlike them, they knew there were even worse folks who wouldn’t hesitate to attack the child out on his lonesome. So no, Isaac wouldn’t be riding alone, but that only made things more complicated.

“We could send Sean back with him-” Charles tried to compromise.

“I am not leaving my son alone with the village idiot again, that I can promise you.” Arthur rubbed a hand over his face in frustration, the options available few and in between. “God fucking dammit, Sean.”

“Come on mate, he’s plenty old enough to come along, he can stay with the horses while we-”

This time it was Charles smacking Sean upside the head, his usual stoic face creased in irritation, “I think it’d be best for you if you kept quiet, Sean.”

“Right, right I get the fucking idea,” Sean responded, sullenly rubbing the new sore spot on the back of his head.

Isaac could see the concerns playing out on his Pa’s face, he needed to keep Sean away from Isaac, he needed to do the job, he needed to keep Isaac safe, he needed to bring money back to Dutch. Isaac found his shuddering fear falling away surprisingly quickly in the wake of his anger, burning through all his trembling for white-hot focus. He wasn’t often bothered by his Pa’s priorities, but at this moment it was so painful. Not even getting in trouble was enough to get his full attention.

“I’ll just stay here!” Isaac yelled, stomping back to the tree and swiftly climbing as high as he could. “Since this is apparently my last taste of freedom ‘fore I’m locked up! So you go do your precious job, bring Sean, have a great time! And I’ll just wait here!”

“Isaac, get down,” Arthur came to the base, speaking through gritted teeth, his white clenched fists belying his tindered rage. “You’re goin’ back home, and that’s final.”

“I mean it’s not the worst idea,” John tentatively spoke up. “This is the train that Mary-Beth told us about, we don’t know if the next one will be as profitable. I’m sure he can handle himself for an hour or so.”

“And I’ll be on me best behavior, Arthur, I promise, you’ll curse yourself for ever thinkin’ of doin’ this without your Seanny boy.” Said Sean, incapable of shutting up.

“The longer we stand around the longer he’s away from camp, Arthur,” Charles pushed Sean back and faced Arthur square on, trying to pull the frustration and worry that hung around him like a miasma into a decision.

Arthur growled and kicked at the dirt, sending a spray of dirt and gravel at Sean, before turning to look back up at Isaac, “You stay here, you stay quiet, one of us will be back to get you, we are not done talking about this.”

“It seems like I am,” Isaac grumbled and climbed around to the other side of the tree, facing the wide open landscape and not his Pa, hiding the hot, frustrated tears that built up and the anxiety that trickled back in as the anger left.

The silence behind him was thick with tension, everyone seeming to dance around Arthur who stomped and huffed around the small clearing, the strange stand-off broken once more by Sean’s big mouth.

“So am I comin’ as well, or am I grounded with the boy?”

Some scuffling and Sean squawking in surprise, Daddy had grabbed him again and seemingly slammed him against the heavy oil wagon that sat dark and lumbering at the edge of the clearing.

“Oh, you’re comin’, and if I see you miss a single shot after thinking you’re good enough to teach my son well then I’m gonna string you up like I found you and use you for target practice!”

Isaac would have sympathized with Sean if this whole debacle wasn’t entirely his fault. If he hadn’t listened or followed Sean he wouldn’t be in trouble, Daddy wouldn’t be mad and his stomach wouldn’t be a tumble of nausea and anxiety and anger. He wouldn’t have had to shoot the gun and his old baby fears about them would have stayed dormant.

“Isaac, we’re leaving, one of us will be back soon,” Daddy called out, his voice thick with worry, but Isaac paid it no mind, the scolding more prevalent than anything else.

“Fine, bye!”

Silence, awkward shuffling from everyone else, a loud slap of a hand on the oil wagon.

“Fine, dammit.”

Then the wagon rattled out of the clearing and Isaac was well and truly alone, miles away from camp, relying on their crime’s schedule to get back home. He didn’t stop the tears any longer now that they were gone, didn’t try to contain the hiccuping, gasping sobs. Latent panic from the gun and thick, sticky, uncomfortable guilt clung to his bones and made him shake, made him pull his hair and scratch his arms trying to relieve the ugly feelings, trying to magically turn back time and never leave camp in the first place.

He was tempted to hop on Bella and run back home as fast as he could, hoping he could outpace anything that might lurk in the darkness, hoping he could return and retreat to Grandpa’s side and hope he’d make everything better. But the hot guilt in the pit of his stomach anchored him to the clearing, more afraid of getting in trouble again than anything else.

When he finally came down from the tree branches, after the approaching nighttime breeze proved too cold for him, his forearms were bright red from where he’d scratched all over, sluggishly bleeding in some spots, he tugged his sleeves down where they’d been rolled up and ignored the dots of blood that seeped through. On the ground, like offerings to faeries, he found a pile of things near the base of the shack that only made him cry harder. Charles’ lantern with the thin braided leather strap, the jerky Uncle John preferred laid on his black flannel handkerchief, and Pa’s saddle blanket hung on the splintering fence post.

He wrapped himself in the large blanket and sat against Bella where she’d laid down, submitting himself to her immediate huffing and nibbling on his hair, trying to steady himself on the scent of horse. The light from the lantern flickered and threw shadows across the clearing, shining off the shards of broken glass dotted around him, glimmering green that only reflected his pathetic failures of the night back at him.

He unwrapped the jerky and sullenly gnawed on the dried meat, feeling worse and worse with every minute crawling past, just hoping that his Pa wouldn’t be mad at him forever.

Chapter Text

Arthur was furious, but more than that he was terrified.

It had been hours after finding Isaac in the clearing, sick with gunpowder on his hands, and yet he flushed hot with anger and cold with fear in such rapid, nauseating succession at the memory. The possibilities of what could have happened had he been any later hounded him, beat in his head along with the pounding of his heart, the pounding of the hoofbeats, of the train chugging down the tracks, of bullets bouncing off the walls beside him.

Isaac with a gun, just a child, his baby, holding something Arthur wielded with such devastating precision, something even more adept than he was at taking lives. Isaac accidentally shooting himself, getting scared, getting hurt, dying. Or worse yet, Isaac, just as quick to learn as he’d been, just as skilled with a gun, Isaac finding his way down the long, dark path that Arthur walked. Isaac following in his footsteps right to the grave.

For once he was happy their robbery was interrupted by idiots with badges on their chests, giving him something to take all this pain and rage out on. If he’d been more level-headed he might’ve worried about how quickly the lawmen found them in such a distant stretch of country, but instead, all he saw were foolish targets riding up for their turn in the crosshairs.

Eventually, the swell of lawmen were pushed back and they broke away, escaping through sparse trees and over dark, shadowy hills until their pursuers were nothing more than confused voices following them on the wind. He had hoped that by the time the job was done he would have calmed down some, or at least regained his sanity enough to feel comfortable riding back to Isaac, but killing those men had done nothing but bloody his hands. That white-hot rage at seeing his son dragged out of camp, at risk of who knows what, by a man hardly older than he was was still rushing through his veins. He just knew he’d frighten Isaac with an outburst or worse start an argument with the boy when neither of them were in the headspace to stop.

He’d told Isaac before that part of being a man was knowing when to walk away, knowing when to make yourself scarce so as not to make things worse. It was a bit hypocritical as Arthur had rarely found a fight he could drag himself away from, but he needed to do better, needed to be better, in every sense of the word, for Isaac. So even though it pained him, he asked Charles to be the one to bring Isaac back home, hoping that the man would understand.

“Don’t you think he’d want you to be the one that gets him?”

“Not right now, not after that big fight we had, not when I'm still damn mad.” Arthur sighed and tried to shake out the tension in his hands as he gripped his reins painfully tight. “I need to get my mind right, get sensible ‘fore I see him again, it’ll be better for us both.”

Charles stayed silent for a moment, looking him over with his inscrutable gaze, lingering on his tight, furious fists, before nodding. “Just make sure you come back tonight, nothing’s going to get better if you ignore it.”

“Really? That’s it?” John spoke up, unbeknownst to Arthur he’d been listening in the whole time, not as distracted by Sean’s chattering as he’d hoped.

“I don’t think it’s any of your business, John,” Arthur growled, facing away, trying his best not to start a fight with his brother, but of course, the man knew exactly what to say to piss him off.

“You’re gonna yell at the boy then not even have the decency to go collect ‘em? It’s like you want him scratching all his damn skin off.”

If they were in camp he probably would’ve swung at him. If there weren’t lawmen waiting on the edges of their periphery, searching for them in the dead of night, he would have dragged John off his horse and taught him a long overdue lesson in why you should keep your goddamn mouth shut. But in the end, he couldn’t do anything to John without risking them all, so all he was left with was poisonous bards laid deep in his words.

“Why don’t you let me worry about my son, and you go on back and worry about yours for a change,” Arthur growled. “I’m sure Abigail would like a break instead of you just sittin’ on your ass gettin’ lazier.”

“Least I ain’t makin’ him feel like dirt for gettin’ caught up in another man’s mess!” John bit out, gesturing to Sean who squawked indignantly.

“He shouldn’t’ve been out there!” Arthur yelled, finally turning to glare at John, forgetting for a moment the need for subtlety until Charles shushed him sharply. “Am I not allowed to worry about my son, Marston?”

“Don’t know why your worry ends up with him in trouble! He ain’t see you more days than not, then you come round and yell at ‘em! Real father of the year material.”

Arthur growled, his vision red, his breath coming out in harsh puffs. He felt like that little street rat that Hosea and Dutch had found again, he wanted to bare his teeth and fight back, or scurry away into the shadows and run. Anything to get away from these fears mounting in him, and John certainly wasn’t helping any.

But he knew better, he had to know better, he had to get his mind right if he wanted to come back home tonight and put Isaac at ease. So instead of pushing back against John, instead of scrapping or fighting, he came up alongside Old Boy and kicked the horse hard in the flank, urging him on into a sudden gallop and forcing John to lean over the saddle and direct the horse away or risk being bucked off at the surprise jolt of movement.

Sean stared at Arthur with wide eyes, watched John struggle to control his horse, and looked as if, implausibly, after everything that had happened tonight, that he might open his mouth and say something. But the Lord above must have looked down and let just a little common sense enter into Sean’s thick skull because the man shut his mouth with a clack of his teeth and guided Ennis away from Arthur and Charles, soon enough racing to catch up to John and ride back to camp.

“You probably could’ve handled that better,” Charles said with a laugh after John and Sean were nowhere to be seen on the dark edges of the rolling hills that they waited on.

“Yeah, well, there’s a reason I don’t do the talkin’,” Arthur sighed, tipping back to look at the splash of stars across the sky like chicken feed in mid-toss and wondered if Isaac was staring up at the sky as well. “I’m gonna go for a ride, won’t be long, I just need- I’m just-” Arthur shook his head as the words caught in his throat, nothing felt right, there was nothing he could say that could explain this irrational, bubbling, raw emotion inside him, nothing that wouldn’t feel adequate enough to explain why he was sending another man to go collect his child. “Just let Isaac know I won’t be long.”

Without waiting for an answer Arthur spurred Llamrei on, urging him to go faster and faster, leaning into the wind, hoping all his thoughts and feelings and worries would be blown away in the fast breeze thudding against his face.

It wasn’t until the clouds blew past the moon and bathed him and the surrounding land in bone-white light that he realized his eyes had been scanning the road for something, for someone.

The Heartlands were a far sight from New Austin but all Arthur could think of was those long ago crossroads, that barren desert, and the deathly spector of Eliza. He knew she’d appeared because Issac was in danger because Arthur was moments away from leaving him to die.

He was waiting for her to appear now.

It wasn’t even that he believed Isaac was in danger, he trusted Charles, but that gnawing pit of guilt in his stomach, that flaring red anger, wanted her to appear. Wanted her to harp and yell at him, just like when he tracked mud in her house, just like in his dreams when his worst fears and doubts were weapons in her mouth. Tell him how terrible a father he was, how cruel and unfair he was to the boy, how never in a million years should he have left him for a job.

He needed her to poke and prod at each tender insecurity, for her to yell and scream like hell made real, needed her there to explain himself, needed someone to throw all the anger and confusion at.

One of the many reasons why they never would have worked out in the long run was they were each pieces of flint, ready to be struck, ready to spark, ready to set ablaze. He wanted that fire now, wanted something to burn these bitter feelings out of him.

In the end, having run halfway across the Heartlands, he and Llamrei panting alike, he figured she didn't actually need to be there to torture Arthur about his choices. Just the mere suggestion of her thoughts, of her words, was enough to browbeat him. He could torture himself all on his own and save her the trouble.

When he regained his breath, he looked up, still clinging to some half-hearted hope that she’d be there, and found instead a tree. Tall and spindly, wide-reaching branches, with bottles tied to its dry, leafless boughs. The moonlight catching in the bottles threw stars upon the grass, and the soft tinkling of glass against glass was birdsong in the night.

Arthur looked at the hanging bottles and thought of the bottles Sean had lined up for target practice, of the broken shards laid in the grass from Isaac.

Part of him wanted to draw his own gun, shoot out the bottles, feel the reverberation of the shot through his arm and up to his teeth, hear the deafening sound of bullets shattering glass, turn the tranquil scene into something that reflected the raw, burning anger he felt. But no matter how he tried to reach for that anger, grasp it with two hands, let it burn away everything inside him, he couldn’t catch it.

It drained out of him, like a bleeding wound, leaving only fear in its wake.

Any number of things could have happened to Isaac because Arthur wasn’t there, because the boy was out on his own, vulnerable to the world at large. He wasn’t able to stop it from happening today, but he’d do anything to stop it from happening again.

Maybe Eliza didn’t show up because she knew he’d come to her desired conclusion, that he’d see how unprepared Isaac was for this newfound freedom Arthur had offered him, that he needed to protect him.

Arthur sighed and turned away from the tree, feeling tired and weak, the trembling anxiety over Isaac made his fingers cold, and all he wanted to do was race back home and see his boy. So he kicked Llamrei into a gallop and ran all the way back to camp.

* * *

The campfires were low when Arthur finally returned, hardly anyone awake, and the few of those that were, Sean and Karen, John and Abigail, whispered to each other when they saw Arthur ride in. It set his teeth on edge, and he threw a hard glare over at the two men, feeling more settled when Sean immediately looked away, his shoulders up to his ears in fear.

But John just glared back.

He shook his head, trying to dismiss the urge to go over and beat his brother senseless, the voice telling him to go start the fight a much younger, less responsible him, lashing at the restraints of common sense.

Arthur’d barely dismounted when he saw Isaac run out from their tent, his mother’s thick quilt tossed to the side where he’d been bundled underneath it, shutting out the world behind wool and cotton.

“Pa,” Isaac said tentatively, not a question but a confirmation, pulling up short before reaching Arthur. “You’re back.”

Arthur said nothing, instead taking a moment to grip Isaac by the shoulders, looking him over, confirming he was there, attempting to settle that roiling upset that turned his stomach and sent panic coursing through his veins when he remembered earlier.

“A-are you still mad?” Isaac cleared his throat nervously as Arthur remained quiet.

He gently gripped Isaac’s wrists, pulling his arms closer to the edge of the firelight so Arthur could see them better, grimacing when he noticed the spots of blood, noticed how his sleeves were buttoned tightly at the wrist which Isaac almost never did. Isaac stilled, trying halfheartedly to pull his arms back, but giving up when Arthur moved to unbutton the sleeves and roll them up, taking a better look at the damage.

And damage it was.

Both his forearms were bright red in irritation, raised, blister-like scratch marks traced across his arms, leaving angry welts in their wake, crossing over one another from repeated, panicked scratching. Broken, chipped nails had left gouges, sluggishly bleeding and scabbing over, leaving his arms a frightening mess.

He thought of what John said earlier, and he seethed

Arthur led Isaac over to their tent, turning on the oil lamp to see better. He sat the boy down on the cot and went to work cleaning and bandaging the wounds, boiling at the sight of so much blood on his child. How much pain could have been avoided tonight if Isaac had just stayed home?

“You’re still mad,” Isaac stuttered, holding himself stiffly as Arthur tended to his wounds, barely even flinching when Arthur dabbed them in whiskey, too concerned to care. “Charles said you were gonna be gone until you cooled off, so I’d hoped-”

“What were you thinking?” Arthur interrupted sharply, tying the final bandages up and finally tucking away the sight of the awful scratches beneath clean linen. “You could’ve gotten yourself killed!”

“I know that!” Isaac shouted, pulling his arms in close. “I already know that! Stop talking about it!”

“You are in big trouble, boy,” Arthur said, almost in disbelief at Isaac talking back to him like this. “You don’t get to just wave your hand and make it go away, there’s gonna be consequences!”

“You gave me a horse! You know I go out on rides when y’ain’t here, why is this so different?” Isaac stood, throwing his hands up in the air in frustration, his emotions bleeding into his voice. “I thought you trusted me!”

“Can I?” Arthur stood as well, grabbing Isaac’s shoulder to stop him where he’d started pacing. “Do you have any idea how terrified I was knowing that I’d had no idea where you were? That anything could’ve happened to you and I would’t’ve known?”

“Do I have any idea- I have to deal with that every time you leave camp! I have no clue where you are or what you're doing or if you're alright! I just have to sit and wait and hope you’ll come back safe! I'm always terrified!” Isaac shoved Arthur’s hand off of him and tugged at his hair, hot, frustrated tears falling into the grass below.

“I can take care of myself, Isaac, I'm the parent, it's different. When I leave it’s to provide for this family, not go running around the wilds with Sean just begging to get killed!”

‘I’m not gonna touch a gun again, ok? And I won’t go anywhere without telling someone, so it’s fine!”

“What you’re not gonna do is leave this camp again until I say so,” Arthur growled out, Isaac’s flippant attitude only enraging Arthur more.

Isaac rocked in place like he’d taken a blow, “W-What? But what about Bella? I have chores! I can’t just-”

“No, Sean has chores now.” Arthur turned away, hurting over how he’d made Isaac hurt, but he needed to do this, needed Isaac to understand that his actions had consequences, needed to protect him. “He’ll take on what you can’t do inside camp.”

Isaac stuttered, his hands making aborted movements as he tried to comprehend the decision that Arthur had handed down, before the boy snarled, the very picture of frustration, and stomped out of the tent.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Arthur gritted out, his anger not silenced by the sight of Isaac running away from their conversation as if he hadn’t heard a word.

“I'm gonna sleep with Grandpa tonight,” Isaac spat bitterly, turning back at the threshold of the tent with a pinched look on his face. “Unless I ain't allowed to leave the tent neither.”

Arthur sighed and sat down heavily on his cot, waving Isaac away, hoping the distance could do something to alleviate the awful, biting tension between them now.

Their angry words were the only thing left in the tent besides Arthur as the boy ran off.

He roughly scrubbed a hand over his face and wished he could start today over and fix everything before it broke.

* * *

It’s been a long, hard week. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Isaac this upset with me.

He avoids me, he ignores me when I try to talk to him, hell the other day when I tried to bring him dinner he just ran away and climbed up into a tree. He’s been doing that a lot lately, hiding away in the boughs, getting as far away from the daily activity of camp as he can.

With how mad he is with me and how much he fought the punishment I would have expected him to hop on Bella and run away at his first chance, I certainly would’ve when I was his age if I’d been with Dutch and Hosea and they’d done this to me.

They’re both real amused by all this. Bastards. Dutch says I’ve earned this after all the hair-pulling they went through with me when I was young. Pa ain’t say as much but I swear I hear the old bastard laughing when Isaac runs away from me. On top of that, Isaac’s been retreating to him more often than not lately, staying in his tent now that he has one. I’m sure, despite the circumstances, Pa’s enjoying his time with the boy.

John tried to come round and brag about how he told me so. Damn fool thinks he’s safe just ‘cause there are still stitches in his face. So I only punched him in the gut.

Sean surprised me too, coming to talk, hat in hand, apologizing for, I imagine, the very first time in his life. He told me how Isaac hadn’t known, how he’d just dragged the boy out thinking he’d surprise everyone with having the boy along for the ride. How he’d put the gun in Isaac’s hands because he’d assumed I’d already taught him how to shoot.

I appreciate him fessing up, honestly, but I ain’t mad at him no more. It was stupid, and he won’t survive if he does it again, but he’s plenty remorseful, done twice as much around camp to make up for it.

I ain’t mad at all, I’m just afraid.

Afraid of what could’ve happened, afraid of what I’ve done, if we will ever recover from this. So I’ve avoided it myself, letting the days pass by and hoping the answer to fix this will fall in my lap hoping that I’ve not chased him off for good.

Damn coward am I.

* * *

Eight days passed before anyone said anything to Arthur. Most folks unconcerned with the familial dispute, or too afraid to intercede, so of course it was Abigail who broke the silence.

“Arthur, come here a minute,” Abigail called from her and John’s tent, a fierce stitch between her brows that told Arthur that trying to evade her would only end poorly for him.

“What is it?” Arthur sighed, coming to loom over her, though he still felt small under her piercing glare.

“Would it at all be possible for you to get your head out of your ass?”

“Probably not,” Arthur replied with a tired chuckle, already knowing where this was going, and wondering what had taken Abigail so long to tear him a new one.

“Very funny,” Abigail snapped in a tone that said the opposite. “This whole nonsense has gone on for too long.” She pointed up one of the taller trees surrounding the campsite, the dark silhouette of Isaac sitting on a high branch just barely discernible through the foliage. “He’s going stir-crazy, not to mention you’ve got him all tied in knots about gettin’ in trouble.”

“Somethin’ could’ve happened to him out there, Abigail,” Arthur hissed, trying to keep his voice low, though the reminder of finding Isaac on that hill only made him want to shout and fume. “I ain’t lettin’ him make another stupid mistake like that, it’s my job to protect him-.”

“I’m not saying let him run around the whole state! You’ve already scared him senseless about steppin’ outta line, I just don’t think you need to drag this whole thing out any longer.”

“What if he gets hurt or gets himself killed and I ain’t there to stop it?” Arthur whispered harshly, terrified more than ever of Isaac leaving his sight and stumbling into catastrophe.

“All I’m sayin’ is if this continues-” She gestured between Arthur and Isaac like the uncomfortable tension was visible, a taut, quivering coil of knots tying them together. “It’s more likely he’ll do something stupider, and be too terrified to let you know when he’s in trouble.”

Arthur closed his eyes to the mounting panic of knowing Isaac was growing beyond his reach, beyond his protection, that his little boy was becoming curious and wild and contrary and all it did was scare Arthur more and more every day.

A gentle hand on his arm opened his eyes, and Abigail’s crooked, sympathetic smile drew out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding.

“He’s a good boy, Arthur, and he’s your son, he’ll be alright. You just gotta trust him.”

“It’s the rest of the world I don’t trust.”

“Doesn’t have to be anything drastic,” Abigail said quietly as she began leading Arthur over to the tree Isaac was hidden away in. “Take him outta camp, give him a break, you both need it.”

“Fine, fine,” Arthur sighed, waving Abigail away and taking a fortifying breath before approaching the base of the tree. “Son? I know you’re up there, come on down.”

No response.

“Didja hear your Aunt? Calling me a damn fool…well, she ain’t wrong.”

He heard rustling above him and looked up to see Isaac lying down across the strong bough he sat on, facing down to look at Arthur. His face pulled down in a glower, but he was waiting to hear what else Arthur had to say.

“I ain’t mad, I’m just worried for you, but that don’t mean you should be miserable.” Arthur shifted nervously. “We can- I’ll take you out today if you want. Don’t gotta be so confined anymore, can do your chores and all, and we’ll…we’ll talk about you going out on your own.”

Another crash of branches and more rustling followed as Isaac made his way down, dropping down with a grunt in front of Arthur.

“Is this really just ‘cause Aunt Abigail told you so?” Isaac said, bitterly, his shoulders raised and fists balled like he was ready for a fight. Frustration clear in every line of his posture.

Internally Arthur sighed in relief, even if the boy was still angry and sensitive over the whole thing at least he was talking to him again.

You shouldn't've left like you did-“ Arthur held up a hand to stop Isaac before he could blow up over the half-finished sentence. “But I shouldn’t’ve snapped at you like that. I didn’t need Abigail to tell me that. But I’m stubborn, and seeing how long you kept up this cold shoulder routine I can say pretty confidently that you got that from me.”

Isaac was bashful enough to unclench his fists and stand down from his anger, watching Arthur warily. “And?”

“A-and-” Arthur cleared his throat as he considered the last bridge he needed to gap. “I’ll teach you how to shoot if you really want to, don’t gotta go to Sean. It’s important, so I’ll take care of it.”

Isaac flinched at that, Arthur figured that the clear reminder of the incident wasn’t helping, or at the very least that wasn’t what Isaac had been fishing for.

“And I’m sorry.”

Isaac kicked at the dirt, avoiding Arthur’s gaze, his determined focus fading away, “I’m sorry too, for ignorin’ you and bein’…difficult.”

“Naw, you’re a growin’ boy,” Arthur said with a relieved laugh, pulling Isaac into his side. “Bein’ difficult’s just part of the experience.

Before Arthur could get too misty-eyed over their reunification Isaac bounded away from him and over to Llamrei, roughly rubbing at errant tears and turning back with red-rimmed eyes and a wobbly smile.

“So where’re we goin’?”

Arthur chuckled, “How ‘bout down to the river? ‘T’s been a while since we’ve gone fishing.”

Isaac couldn’t resist the excited grin that spread across his face at the suggestion, bouncing on his feet in anticipation of being let out of the camp. “Can Jackie come?”

“You’re a good boy,” Arthur said, ruffling Isaac’s hair. “Well go on, go get ‘em. We’re burnin’ daylight here.”

Soon enough Arthur and Isaac were mounted up, Jack sitting safely with his Uncle on Llamrei, all of them buzzing with excitement or just pure relief, the ride down to the river an impromptu race fueled by Jack’s giggling.

When they got there Isaac took in the scene at the riverside with his arms spread wide, like he was embracing an old friend, his whole demeanor shifted to something lighter, more eager, ready to take on the day with his freedom within reach.

Arthur regretted being the one to take it from him, as much as he still worried what returning it might lead to, what dangers lurked in Isaac’s future that he couldn’t defend him from. But he vowed to push those thoughts away, to not darken the warm, auspicious day with his anxieties, instead focusing on the task set to them.

“Daddy, can I go swimming?” Isaac asked, grabbing the hem of his shirt in anticipation of ripping it off and diving in.

“I brought you out here to fish, not swim, son,” Arthur laughed as he gently set Jack down before following. “‘Sides, river here ain't deep enough to swim.”

“But it's deep enough to fish in?” Isaac complained.

“Now you’re getting it!” Arthur said, extending his fishing rod. “Now come on, let's see what’s bitin’.”

“But fishing is boring-“ Isaac started to whine when Daddy turned to him sharply, pointing down at Jack who was sticking close to Isaac and watching him with big eyes.

They’d learned that Jack would follow Isaac in anything, Aunt Abigail had turned that to her advantage and would enlist Isaac’s help in getting Jack to eat unpleasant camp stews or sit still in his lessons with Grandpa, but if Jack heard Isaac complaining about something or refusing to participate then Jack was right behind him.

“I mean it’s boring if you’re bad at it like me, but I bet you’re real good, Jackie,” Isaac said hastily, hoping to smooth over his misstep, pulling out his rod from Bella’s saddle.

Arthur was surprised at how long Isaac stayed at the rod, helping Jack with his casting and reeling in the line when the boy actually got something. Often whenever Hosea tried to take Isaac out fishing the boy would disappear into the water or the trees surrounding them, hardly giving longer than five minutes to the boring activity. But the distraction of tending to Jack kept his attention better than any of their previous attempts at getting him to fish.

However, it couldn’t last for long, especially with how frustrated he was getting from not catching his own fish. Arthur tried his best to give advice or directions for fishing but it only made Isaac tense further. Too sensitive to accept whatever Arthur had to say following their conversation earlier and the hard week they had. When Jack finally got bored and wanted to stop, Isaac jumped at the opportunity so fast that the boy’s fishing rod was hastily discarded on the rocks, abandoned in favor of playing.

Arthur sighed, shaking his head and laughing to himself. Isaac might’ve been mature for his age and more responsible than half the men at camp but he was still a rambunctious kid at the end of the day.

He let the day while away, watched the sun trail across the sky, decorating the river in glittering sunbeams as he continued fishing, and listened to the boys chattering and laughing behind him, enjoying the peaceful moment and the absence of strife that seemed so rare for them.

After a while the pleasant backdrop of sound was broken by Isaac’s excited shout, “Daddy look!”

Arthur turned away from the placid river to where Isaac and Jack were standing, both of them scuffed and covered in grass, looking more like dogs rolling around in muck than boys, but their grins were wide and wild.

“What’ve you been doin’ instead of fishin’ with your old man?” Arthur asked good-naturedly, reeling in his line and collapsing the rod to give the boys his full attention, glad to see Isaac in such high spirits compared to just this morning.

Once he was looking, Isaac took a wide position and waited for Jack to do the same before slowly counting down, at one the two moved together and lunged forward into cartwheels. Jack was a little unsteady and fell down at the end but looked just as proud and excited as if he’d done it flawlessly, Isaac got two more cartwheels in before rocks rolled under his palms and sent him sliding, splashing down on the riverside with a laugh.

“Very nice, boys!” Arthur said proudly, giving Isaac a hand up before going to pick up Jack. “Your mama’s gonna be real cross with us seein’ how scruffy you look, maybe we’ll hide you, she’ll never know.”

Jack laughed as Arthur poked at his sides until his eyes lit up and he wiggled out of Arthur’s grip and over to a nearby rock where he picked up a delicate necklace made of flowers, “I can’t be hidden! I made Mama a necklace.”

“Then that just means Daddy will be in trouble,” Isaac teased, wringing out his coat from where it’d gotten wet, sticking his tongue out when Arthur shot him a good-natured glare.

Arthur felt breathtaking relief for a moment as he watched Isaac laugh and smile and joke around. It had been hard seeing him so down the last week, especially being the cause of it, on top of all the stress and anxiety he’d had about his son. But today felt like a good step in the right direction, that they could return to the easy days of before, despite the bump in the road.

So of course, once he’d thought such hopeful things, the world had to prove him wrong.

“What a pair of fine young men-” A prim, grating voice called out to them and Arthur whirled around to find Pinkertons dismounting from horses and approaching them. “And in such complex circumstances.” The first man with the red vest smiled like a wolf, his sharp gaze tracking Arthur and the boys behind him as his partner pulled out a repeater. “Arthur isn’t it? Arthur Morgan?”

Arthur felt his mind clear and his heart stop, just like in the moments when he’d pull out a gun and in a blink five men would be down, adrenaline pumping through his body like blood at the sight of the government men. But he stayed his hand, kept the eager revolver out of his palm, not wanting Isaac and Jack to see firsthand what a weapon could do.

Behind him Isaac held Jack tight to his side, quietly shushing the boy, assuring him that everything was gonna be fine, that Uncle Arthur was going to take care of it, shielding his cousin from the confrontation as best he could.

Arthur stood between his son and the men, felt Isaac grab the back of his coat as assurance, and could feel him tremble. He wished he could let them remain as happy and carefree as they’d been just moments ago, but no matter what Arthur might try, no matter how he might will his very presence to send it running away, trouble always found them.

“Who are you?” As if he didn’t already know, as if it mattered.

“Yes, Arthur Morgan,” His tone was casual and meandering, the predator toying with its prey. “Van der Linde’s most trusted associate. You’ve read the file-” He said to his partner like Arthur was an interesting specimen in a museum they were discussing. “Typical case, orphaned street kid seduced by that maniac’s silver tongue and matures into a degenerate murderer.”

He introduced them, confirmed Arthur’s suspicions, and got ever-increasingly closer. Arthur stood strong, still keeping the boys firmly behind him, and wondered if it was worth the trauma in the end to just shoot the two beady-eyed men before they could say another word.

“You’re a wanted man, Mr. Morgan. There’s five thousand dollars for your head alone.”

“Five thousand dollars? For me? Can I turn myself in?” Arthur leaned in conspiratorially, silently marveling at such a large bounty, especially considering he hadn’t even been at the ferry job, but he supposed it came with the territory of being such a well-known member of the gang.

“We want Van der Linde.”

“Old Dutch? I haven’t seen him for months.”

“That so? Because I heard a guy fitting his description robbed a train belonging to Leviticus Cornwall up near Granite Pass.”

“Oh, ain’t that a little…old-fashioned nowadays?” Arthur said with a nervous chuckle.

“Apparently not,” Milton said, hooking his thumbs in his belt loops as if he was anything more intimidating than the badge on his chest. “Listen-” Milton stepped even closer, stopped just outside of arms’ reach, hands up in a show of peace, which didn’t fool Arthur for a second as his armed partner stayed close by. “This is my offer, Mr. Morgan, bring in Van der Linde and you have my word that you won’t swing.”

“Oh, I ain’t gonna swing anyways Agent, ‘cause I haven’t done anything wrong aside from not playing the games to your rules,” Arthur growled, frustrated and cornered and feeling the ever-present threat of the encroaching government on all their lives.

“Spare me the philosophy lesson, I’ve already heard it from Mac Callander.”

Isaac perked up, so surprised at the familiar name that his shaking even lessened, noticeable as he pressed against Arthur’s back to hear every word.

“Mac Callander?”

“He was pretty shot up by the time I got to him, so really it was more of a mercy killing.” Milton put on an affectation of sympathy, a farce of emotion as he illuminated Mac’s fate at last, and Isaac trembled with the force of restrained sobs behind him. “Slow but merciful.”

The image of Mac, punctured and gaping with craters dug by bullets, lying in the aftermath of the massacre, gunpowder, and dust settling over him like a corpse yet buried, only to be harassed and needled at by this weasel of a man made Arthur’s blood boil.

He let his temper get the better of him for a moment, throwing down the fishing rod, preparing to clock Milton and break his smug face. The other man, Ross, leveled the gun at his head just as soon as the rod hit the ground, and Isaac flinched so hard he sent rocks tumbling into the water.

“You enjoy being a rich man’s toy do you?” Arthur rasped, his voice rough with promised violence, as much as he was trying to contain himself, he could not help but lay out to Milton in his inflection just what would happen if the two of them were alone.

“I enjoy society, flaws and all. You people venerate savagery and you will die savagely. All of you!”

“Oh, we’re all gonna die, Agent.”

“Some of us sooner than others.” Milton broke away from Arthur’s steely gaze and stomped over to his horse, his angry, hateful words still hanging in the air, tainting the once tranquil scene. “Good day, Mr. Morgan.”

“Enjoy your fishing, boys, while you still can,” Ross said with a mean chuckle, locking eyes with Jack as he looked up from Isaac’s side, until Isaac, his hands still shaking awfully, yanked Jack behind him and snarled at the man, who only laughed.

“Who are they?” Jack asked, too young to be afraid, instead pushing away from Isaac to get a better look at the men riding off.

“No one to worry about, no one at all,” Arthur gently urged Jack away from them, hands on his head, taking strength in that they were all in one piece and as safe as they could be after such a confrontation. “Go on, get your things, we’re done for today.”

As Jack busied himself with grabbing his and Isaac’s fishing rods and putting them dutifully away on Bella’s saddle Arthur turned his attention to Isaac.

The boy was pressing a hand to his mouth, another to his stomach, like he was going to be sick. His whole lanky, growing frame shook like a leaf. Without another word, Arthur pulled Isaac into a too-tight embrace, holding him like he could keep the boy from shaking apart through sheer force.

He hadn’t quite achieved the monumental act of forging together all of Isaac’s fragile, trembling parts before Jack came up and tugged insistently on his cousin’s sleeve, his little features drawn into confused concern.

“Isaac, what’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

Arthur watched, worried, as Isaac mustered enough strength to smile reassuringly at Jack and take the boy’s hand.

“I’m alright,” Isaac’s voice was barely a whisper until he cleared his throat and repeated himself, desperately infusing his words with the confidence that he was lacking. Doing whatever he could to watch out for the younger boy, putting his own worries and fear to the side in the face of Jack’s big blue eyes. “Come on, let’s get home, Aunt Abigail will be worried.”

Riding back Arthur hurried him and Isaac along, always keeping an ear out for Bella galloping just behind him, but beyond returning as fast as he could he had to be gentle and thoughtful as Jack asked hard questions dredged up by those men; doing his best to maintain the boy's innocence and peace of mind. Only one of them that had any left.

“...World is full of disagreeable men, that’s why you got all of us.” He said, slowing a bit so he could turn and lock eyes with Isaac who seemed distant and unfocused even as he followed behind. Making sure to give both of them this bit of assurance. “To protect you two from folks like them.”

Isaac hardly acknowledged him, didn’t even look up from the ground just ahead of him, his thoughts forming a dark cloud in his mind that blocked out everything else.

It wasn’t more than a minute later that they were riding back into camp, Abigail eagerly awaiting them to collect Jack.

“How’d you boys get on?”

“Great! We caught a fish, and Isaac taught me cartwheels, and I made you a necklace!”

“Ain’t that pretty,” Abigail gently took the necklace, catching Jack’s grass and dirt stains with a grimace. She went to scold Arthur but paused, her bright smile dimming as she caught sight of Arthur and Isaac's expressions, both looking grim. “Y’all have a good time?”

“‘Course, we’ll do it again soon,” Arthur said, nodding to Jack, hoping he wasn’t lying.

Jack ignored Arthur and went to Isaac who’d slowly dismounted, every move of his shaky and disjointed like a puppet with half the strings, he was in shock, barely holding himself together with the Pinkerton's words racing through his brain. Jack gave Isaac a clumsy hug, holding on tight until his cousin returned it, Isaac slowly bringing his hands up to wrap Jack up.

When Jack finally ran off, fishing rod in hand, Abigail leaned in close, furtively glancing at Isaac as he came up to the two of them.

“What's wrong?”

“Nothing just met some folk,” Arthur said quietly, keeping a firm hand on Isaac. “I’d better go speak with Dutch. Could you-”

He gently pushed Isaac towards Abigail, hoping she could speak to the boy, calm him down, and bring him out of whatever distant state he was in, but as soon as Isaac took a step at his suggestion the boy whipped around and grabbed Arthur’s wrist tightly, his fingers still shaking in fine tremors.

“I’m coming too,” His voice was surprisingly strong despite everything.

“If that’s what you want, sweetheart,” Abigail said with concern twisting her face, she brushed a hand down Isaac’s back when he nodded firmly, conviction sparkling in his eyes. “You come find us later, let me fuss proper.”

Isaac didn’t let go of Arthur’s sleeve for a second as they approached Dutch’s tent, as if worried Arthur would leave him behind without it. Though Arthur didn’t mind, it kept his hands busy, and he could only imagine how harshly Isaac would’ve scratched himself over all this, how he would’ve worn himself ragged thinking about this round and round.

Arthur was expecting to find Dutch alone, or even with Molly, but he hadn’t expected to find Hosea standing there arguing with Dutch.

“All I’m saying is there must have been a better way to handle that, you know how he is! I swear the boy loses more weight to stress than he’s ever gained.”

“I told you what he said, Hosea, that wasn’t anything to take lightly!”

“And you’ve known from day one how we felt but you just-”

“We got a problem,” Arthur growled, trying to keep his voice low for some semblance of privacy over the strenuous manner. He was glad to interrupt them, suspecting what the subject of their argument was and not willing to hear any more than he already had.

“What?” Dutch’s gaze flashed over to Isaac, trembling and pale at Arthur’s side. “Something happen?”

“I thought you three were just goin’ fishing, what on Earth could happen?” Hosea threw his arms up in frustration. Arthur could see the exact moment that Hosea caught sight of Isaac, his sharp anger immediately crumpling into concern at the look on his face.

“We just met some government men out by the river, a feller named Milton and, um-”

“Ross.” Isaac finished.

“These fellas again,” Hosea sighed in exasperation.

Dutch pinched the bridge of his nose. “And?”

“And they are employees of the Pinkerton Detective Agency and they know about the train and they know we’re here!”

“Were you followed back here?”

“They left first, they went back to Valentine,” Isaac piped up, gripping Arthur's arm tighter every time Dutch looked at him.

“They know we're near here,” Arthur continued, patting Isaac’s hands to try and calm him to no avail. Dutch stalked past them all to stand in the clearing, pacing around the more open space, like a lion in a cage. “And they want you, Dutch. They offered me my freedom in exchange, they’re desperate.”

“Our esteemed government, trying to make deals with us lowlifes,” Hosea mused as he came to stand beside them at the threshold of the tent, holding Isaac by the shoulders and tracking Dutch as he continued to pace.

“Why didn’t you take it?” Dutch asked, his tone completely blank of anything by idle curiosity. He looked back over his shoulder at Isaac again, his dark eyes unreadable.

“Very funny.” Arthur was only getting antsy and angrier watching Dutch walk around, with hardly a sense of urgency to be found. “What do we do now?”

“I say we do nothing, just yet” Dutch finally muttered, after making his circuit around the clearing. “They’re just trying to scare us into doing something stupid. We have turned a corner, we survived them mountains. We just need to stay calm.”

“Dutch, they saw the boys, clear as day, threatened ‘em a little too. We can’t stay around, they could be gearing up to attack us.”

“And what if they’re just waiting until we’re on the road? Until we’re unprepared and vulnerable? We’re in danger all the time, Arthur, that doesn’t mean we can’t be smart about it.”

“We can be smart and be cautious, Dutch,” Hosea spoke up. “I agree, we shouldn’t just go running right away, they’re probably trying to smoke us out, but they know we’re in the state, we can’t let them get any closer.”

“I understand the concern, but it’s not like the boys are out running around New Hanover, especially lately-” Beside him, Isaac winced, though with how shot his nerves were it looked more like a violent flinch, the small reminder of the previous tension unwanted at the moment. “Them knowin’ they’re here won’t change anything. We got a few things cooking here and we need every dollar we can get, now’s not the time to leave it.”

“If we got unfinished business here we can send folks back to finish it, it’ll be even safer when we’re not right next door,” Arthur pleaded.

Usually Dutch was more paranoid than this, more cautious, any sniffing around of lawmen or bounty hunters would instigate some retaliation or a strategic upheaval, but never this passive inaction. It bothered Arthur, made him want to yell and fight back, but he knew pushing back against Dutch’s word was a good way to get a loud-mouthed lecture and stubborn refusal. He knew that if Dutch held his ground all of Arthur’s complaints and arguments were going to dry up like a well in a drought.

“We have not let any arm of the law or their governmental fathers dictate us before, I’m not planning on starting now just because those godforsaken Pinkertons are involved,” Dutch said firmly, adjusting his coat and vest and turning away like that was that. Leaving Arthur disheartened and terrified for the boys. Hosea looked ready to chase after him and argue until the two were blue in the face, but Isaac spoke up first, surprising them both.

“Grandad, they killed Mac. I-I’m scared,” Isaac broke away from Arthur and Hosea, approaching Dutch where he’d stopped to listen. “I’m real scared. They bragged about it. I think they’ll kill us all too, they don’t like us, not one bit; and they don’t like you most of all.” Isaac tentatively grasped the back of Dutch’s coat. “I don’t want to lose anyone else.”

Dutch stayed silent, his dark eyes distant as he considered the paths laid before him, but he didn’t move away and he didn’t argue back. He stayed, and he considered what Isaac said.

“If we do run, Dutch,” Hosea spoke calmly, taking advantage of Dutch’s hesitation. “It doesn’t mean that they win, just that we get another day to fight. It’s not a bad idea.”

Arthur was ashamed to say he was surprised when Dutch turned to look at Isaac with such sympathy and affection, it’d felt like Dutch had been keeping the boy at arm’s length for so long that he often forgot that deep under their fearless leader lived a beating heart, a heart that beat for his family.

“I suppose y’ain’t wrong.” Dutch ruffled Isaac’s hair, giving the boy a comforting smile, before looking back at Arthur and Hosea. “We’ll head out in three days, give Miss Grimshaw enough time to get everything packed, and for you, Arthur, to find us a new campsite.”

“Ah’course.”

“Now get some rest, boy,” Dutch said to Isaac, pushing his thick hair up to look at his wild eyes and pale expression. “You look ready to fall over, can’t have that.”

Dutch strode away, back towards the ladies’ wagon, looking frustrated but focused, leaving Isaac standing unmoored, the boy swaying like he was a tree in the wind.

With an encouraging nod from Hosea and silent approval, Arthur gently guided Isaac over to the old man’s new tent, covered and dark in a way theirs wasn’t.

As soon as the flaps closed behind them Isaac collapsed to the ground, his shaking legs giving out from underneath him, his breathing harsh and erratic as he pulled at his hair and gripped his chest. It wasn’t the first time Arthur had seen Isaac in such an extreme panic like this, and unfortunately, he knew it wouldn’t be the last, but it still hurt, watching his boy so lost in the depths of his own mind that he could hardly come up for air.

Arthur urged Isaac up onto the cot, sitting down so the boy could lay with his head in his lap. He curled around Arthur as best he could, wrapping his arms around him and burying his face in his shirt, trying to do his best to push away the temptation to scratch at his wrists and bite at his hands. Arthur rewarded the effort with a firm hand rubbing soothing circles into Isaac’s back, and another scratching at his scalp, threatening to send him off to sleep if Isaac’s heart wasn’t beating so painfully hard.

“I’m here, you’re here, Jackie’s fine, we’re all alright,” Arthur repeated slowly, his voice a soothing rumble, trying not to let his worry get the best of him as Isaac continued to breathe in harsh, clipped puffs, as he could feel Isaac’s frantic pulse pressed against his leg. “Breathe, son.”

“That’s the biggest bounty you’ve ever had,” Isaac gritted out. “There’s gonna be folks coming for you, the Pinkertons are gonna come for you, gonna come for everyone, they’re in the state, they’re gonna find us, they-”

“Darlin’, please, you gotta calm down,” Arthur pulled him even closer. “I ain’t gonna lie, they’re a threat, but they’re not here right now, and you’re just gonna make yourself sick.”

“What’s the point in calming down if they’re just gonna try and kill us all anyways?” Isaac yelled, sitting up to glare at Arthur, pulling roughly on his hair, tears welling in his eyes but never falling, like his overwhelming rage was burning them before they could. “Everyone’s gonna die over money we don’t even have! I wish we’d never done that stupid ferry job!”

“I ain’t arguin’ with you there,” Arthur soothed, tugging Isaac’s hands away, smoothing his furious fists into gentle hands. “I just need you to take a deep breath.”

Isaac sobbed and collapsed into Arthur’s embrace, “Uncle Mac’s dead, Daddy, they’re both gone.”

“Ah’know, ‘t’s terrible,” Arthur sighed, rocking in place as he held him.

He’d suspected it, once they left Blackwater he’d assumed both Sean and Mac would wind up dead, and when the bounty hunters had Sean and not Mac, who had at least double the price on his head than the mouthy Irishman, it’d been all but confirmed. But suspecting it, and having it thrown in your face were two different things, and despite how irritable the Callander’s had been he mourned their loss all the same. Old friends, long-time allies, and they couldn’t even do them the service of burying them together.

Fate was not kind to men such as them.

They sat in silence for a while, nothing left to say that wouldn’t be painful to hear, instead filling the tent with Isaac’s heaving sobs and Arthur’s quiet, humming. It wasn’t until Isaac calmed enough to take a deep, rattling breath that Arthur spoke again.

“You just hold on a little longer and we’ll all be outta here, for good, go get you that house by the lake, some animals, hell, I’ll paint if you want me to so bad,” Arthur pulled Isaac back just enough to look his boy in the eye, the same lake-water blue reflected back at him, to show him his conviction, his love. “But I promise you darlin’, sure as there are stars in the sky, things will get better.”

“I’m gonna hold you to that,” Isaac rasped, his voice rough from crying.

“I’d expect nothing less.” Arthur looked at his son and saw Eliza, looked at him, and saw himself, but more importantly, he looked at Isaac and saw Isaac. Someone unwilling to let the world keep him down for long, someone so young and so terribly wise, someone rash and angry and sweet and kind; someone he’d do anything to save.

Arthur held his heart in his arms until he fell into a restful sleep and thought of everything he needed to do to protect him, and he planned, and he waited.

* * *

I was worried that Dutch was gonna back out of what he said to Isaac, us heading east, but he did talk to Miss Grimshaw, and if there’s a better assurance than that I’d like to see it.

Camp’s been hellish the last two days, packing up has been fine but Dutch is refusing to tell folks it was Pinkertons that lit the fire under us so they’re all jumping to wild conclusions. If Karen comes up to me one more time asking if we finally got the Blackwater money back I’m liable to toss her in the lake.

We did tell them about Mac though, said I heard it from a feller in town. We all had a drink in his honor and broke the bottles to pieces on the rocks in Davey’s. I will miss those boys, we all will.

* * *

We have found our new camp and successfully disappeared from New Hanover. Dutch was worried that we might be being watched and followed, but I think he underestimates how good we are at running.

The spot Dutch had us look at on Micah’s word was awful. Every day when I think that man can’t get more useless he proves me wrong. And on top of how terrible a campsite it was, Charles and I found this frightened, babbling German family squatting in our place.

Despite how quickly we needed to leave and how urgent our situation was and always is I could not stop myself from helping them, finding the father who’d be taken. The daughter, that poor girl desperately trying to protect her family with half a language and a gun, was just about Isaac’s age.

At least we got money out of it, worth the trouble of finding the father, and found a much better camp in the process. Right by the lake, just like Isaac wanted. Charles went back to direct the gang here, and I can’t wait to see the look on Isaac’s face when he sees it. That should chase away the last of the gloom that’s been lingering on him, at least I can hope.

Chapter Text

Isaac knew most others in the camp would disagree with him but he loved their new camp at Clemens Point. Sure he missed Horseshoe Overlook and the Heartlands, it was certainly more mild and peaceable up there, and he was no fan of what he’d heard of the people in Lemoyne outside the boundaries of their camp, but he couldn’t help it; he loved the land here.

It reminded him of Oklahoma growing up, beautiful everywhere he looked. Massive trees and lush, green vegetation everywhere you looked coupled with the rich, dark red clay that was so prevalent in the area it made everything seem so bright and storylike for its vibrancy.

He loved that they were camped right at the water's edge so he could see the sparkling rays of sun offset the rippling waves and the coy glimpses of shining fish. Every moment he wasn’t doing work around camp he was swimming, relishing in the sensation of overbearing heat and humidity giving way to chilly depths.

Aunt Abigail and Miss Grimshaw clucked their tongues like hens when they saw him sloshing around camp after a long dip in the waters, fussing over his flushed face and deep tan from so long out in the sun, but Auntie would often push Jack his way and send him to swim and play with him and he could always get Miss Grimshaw to laugh and teasingly scold him by going in to hug her still soaking wet.

At the end of the day, neither of them stopped him from retreating to the waters every day, and Daddy seemed pleased that Isaac had something to fill his days that wasn’t just working, even if that entailed some mischief.

He’d gotten the idea when he’d seen how longingly Sean had been looking at the waters himself, but he was already in trouble with Grandpa many times over for sleeping on the job, so swimming on the job would ensure his untimely demise.

Isaac bobbed along at the end of the pier, waiting for Sean to pass nearby before calling out to the young man, when Sean turned to respond Isaac dipped below the water and disappeared.

Just as he’d hoped Sean cautiously approached the shore looking for Isaac, everyone knew he was a great swimmer but there was always that fear of seeing someone in the water one second and turning and finding them gone. He waited patiently for Sean to walk down the pier, and saw him cup his hands over his mouth as he went to call out for Isaac; leaving him vulnerable to attack.

“Gotcha!” Isaac lunged out of the water like an alligator and grabbed Sean’s jacket, pulling him over his head and into the water with a startled squawk.

Sean resurfaced sputtering and laughing, swiping fire-red hair out of his face and searching around him for his hat. “Oh, you wee terror! You’re gonna pay for that!”

Isaac just grinned and snatched Sean’s hat where it bobbed beside him, placing it on his head and darting away.

What followed was a mad dash in the water, Sean racing after Isaac to retaliate, and Isaac, just a hair faster than the Irishman, splashing him every time he got close. By the time Sean finally got a hold of him and dunked the boy the two were breathless, their fight well fought in the end.

“Alright, alright, you got your revenge, wee Morgan, truce?” Sean held his hand out after catching his breath, his face flushed red in exertion.

Isaac stared at him in confusion and tentatively grasped Sean’s hand, “Revenge?”

“Well, I didn’t mean to but Ol’ Arthur was right pissed at you wasn’t he? I’ve learned my lesson, won’t be takin’ you out of camp no time soon.” Sean balked and crossed his heart as if Daddy was nearby to hear his solemn vow.

Isaac shrugged, having Sean acknowledge it reminded him that he’d only brought him along in the first place because he’d thought Isaac was ready to join them on a proper job. It was the kind of thing he expected from Sean, and Mac and Davey were they still alive, it made him uncomfortable but it didn’t surprise him. What had surprised him was learning that Daddy did not agree with them, that he was firm in the position that Isaac be kept safe at camp.

Isaac appreciated the sentiment but now he had to contend with knowing that Daddy didn’t trust him outside of camp anymore, that he still saw him like a little kid who couldn’t take care of himself or help. Sean’s mistake had unearthed a lot but he hadn’t done it maliciously, and as much as Isaac wished it hadn’t happened he didn’t still blame the man.

“I was only playin’, Sean, I ain’t mad.”

“Oh, that’s a relief, if I were you I would’ve told me-”

“Sean! Where the hell are you, you lazy sack of shit?” Hosea called out suddenly from the center of camp, shattering their moment and draining all the color from Sean’s face in fear.

“Oh, Lord, now you’ve done it, you’ve doomed me, lad.” Sean sloshed his way over to the shore, his wet hat slapped on with a cascade of chilled water down his back. “Your Granda’s gonna chop me into pieces and feed me to the horses I bet.”

“Grandpa!” Isaac called out, ignoring Sean’s betrayed look. Hosea rounded Dutch’s tent, still looking around for Sean.

“Yes, what is it- Sean!” Hosea interrupted himself, his face flushing red in anger at the sight of the younger man swimming back to shore. “You think this is a game! We have work-”

“I pulled him in,” Isaac said after hoisting himself up onto the pier to approach his Grandpa. “I thought it’d be funny, wasn’t his fault.”

Hosea narrowed his eyes, looking between Isaac and Sean, still valiantly trying to return to land with his wet clothes weighing him down. Finally, Hosea laughed loudly, bracing himself on his knee as he cackled, before inevitably devolved into coughing. By the time Hosea had recovered Sean had finally emerged, hat in hand and terrified.

“Good on you, son,” Hosea clapped Isaac on the back, leaning in to whisper theatrically. “Between the two of us, he needed a good washing, could smell him across the camp.”

“Oi!”

“And you!” Hosea wheeled around. “Get back to work!”

Hosea adjusted his vest and marched back to the center of camp, chuckling to himself as he left. Sean hastily followed after him, turning back after a moment to salute Isaac.

“Now we’re even,” Isaac said with a grin, the irony of the situation not lost on him.

“Bless you, lad, you wee devil,” Sean winked and turned back, arms stretched. “Now where’s my darlin’ girl?”

He couldn’t see Sean’s nefarious smirk but he could hear Karen screech as Sean chased her around the big tree in the middle of camp. Isaac watched the two fight for a while, cheering Karen on each time she got a slap in on the younger man until both of them were giggling and panting. Finally, Sean feinted to one side and tricked Karen, giving him the chance to run and scoop her up into his arms, much to her feigned fury and hidden delight.

“Now what say you come sit on watch with me and I tell you how lovely you are with your top wet like that- Ow!”

Isaac snickered and moved to run back down the pier, ready to dive back down to the bottom of the water when he heard Daddy yell for him from across camp. Reluctantly he bid farewell to the crisp blue of the lake for today and trudged back into camp.

“Yessir,” He called back, hurrying over to Daddy and Mrs. Adler by the wagon, the woman looking sharp and irritated.

“Go towel off, come on, we’re goin’ into town',” Arthur turned to Mrs. Adler, sarcastically bowing as she scowled. “If that’s alright with you, princess.”

“Call me that one more time and maybe I’ll skin you.”

“Oh, I’d like to see you try,” Arthur chuckled, sticking his thumbs in his belt loops as he leaned against the wagon, jutting his chin over to their tent, telling Isaac to get a move on.

Though they had had their big talk following their argument they hadn’t yet broached the topic of Isaac going out on his own again, and with the now unfamiliar territory neither of them had been eager to bring it up again. Isaac was grateful he was being brought along today, it seemed as good a start as anything.

A few minutes later Isaac was presentable and lounging in the back of the wagon as they trundled down the path, watching the patchwork crown of leaves above them leave speckled shadows as they passed. The lovely sight was ruined by Daddy and Mrs. Adler’s arguing.

“You cooled down then yet?” Arthur rumbled.

“I guess,” Mrs. Adler grumbled back, crossing her arms in irritation. “But I ain’t no scullion, and I sure as hell ain’t taking orders from that sweating halfwit!”

“Well, I guess we all gotta do our share, princess.”

Sadie growled and turned to look back at Isaac who startled, not expecting to be spoken to by the angry woman, “What do you think, would you wanna spend your whole day gettin’ ordered around by a pig in a dirty top hat?”

Isaac snorted at the image, “I like Mr. Pearson, he’s nice.”

“See, the boy knows respect,” Arthur said pointedly at Sadie.

“Yeah, nice, if you like idiots,” Sadie rolled her eyes and turned back to the front. “Now where’s that letter?”

“You readin’ his mail now?”

“Oh, robbin’ and killin’ is ok but letter-reading’s where we draw the line?”

Daddy grunted and rolled his eyes, having put in the maximum amount of effort he was willing to expend on protecting Pearson’s privacy he rifled around in his satchel and provided the letter to Sadie who immediately unfolded it.

Isaac didn’t resist his curiosity at seeing the letter and got up on his knees to look over Mrs. Adler’s shoulder at Mr. Pearson’s hard-pressed, scratchy handwriting.

“Dear Aunt Cathy,” Sadie said in a gruff voice impersonating the cook, bumping shoulders with Isaac as she put on her little show. Isaac grinned and bumped back, eliciting a tiny smile from the widow.

“You are somethin’ else,” Daddy said with a chuckle as they broke out of the treeline and made it onto the main road that snaked past their camp, heading towards the nearby town.

Sadie’s impersonation was funny and the little lies Pearson sprinkled in even made Daddy laugh as he guided the horses. Though Isaac was finding the warm air on his back, the letter-reading, and the easy movement of the wagon was fitting to put him to sleep where he leaned over the wagon bench. He was tired and sore from swimming, but a good sore, your muscles letting you know they had a good time kind of sore, and a nap sounded perfect right about now.

His dozing didn’t last long, as they approached the welcome sign to Rhodes Daddy shook his shoulder, “Hey, why don’t you tell Mrs. Adler who Tacitus Kilgore is.”

“It’s Uncle Dutch’s idea,” Isaac said with a yawn, his jaw cracking loudly. “All our mail going to the same fake name hides our tracks. Herr Strauss goes into town whenever we set up a new camp and lets folks know to expect mail to whatever name we’re usin’. Uncle Dutch named this one after some Roman fella, but I chose Kilgore.”

“Well ain’t you fancy,” Sadie said as she folded the letter back up and handed it back to Arthur who slipped it back into his satchel. When Daddy eased the horses to a stop beside the general store Isaac nearly fell out of his seat in shock as Mrs. Adler pulled out a shiny revolver from her skirt pocket. “So what’s the plan I shoot the shopkeeper while you two-”

“Are you insane?” Arthur hissed pushing the gun back down, sparing a glance at Isaac who was wide awake now.

“I thought we was outlaws!” Sadie protested.

“Outlaws, not idiots, we rob fools that rob other people. These people, they’re just trying to get by.” Arthur shook his head and handed over a list. “You take the boy, head on in there, and buy us some food to eat. And no guns.”

“Are you sure?” Sadie needled, put out at having been told off from violence in the same tone that Jack used to beg for candy.

“There’ll be time for killin’ soon enough, Mrs. Adler.”

“Well, what are you doin’ then?” Sadie complained, Isaac guessed she had been expecting a more exciting trip outside the camp. Based on how much he’d seen her skulking and threatening Pearson over the last few days Isaac would wager housework and chores were not her favorite activity. Opposite of him who was overjoyed at getting to go shopping after having a gun waved around in front of him, it still felt like his heart was ready to explode.

“I’m gonna go check the mail, nothing exciting…” Arthur responded, harried and exasperated from his short time dealing with the widow. Before running down to the train station to drop off the letter Arthur grabbed Isaac’s hand and slapped ten dollars into it. “Go and get yourself a hat, son, gonna burn your hair off swimmin’ around all day, you hear?”

“I hear,” Isaac responded, jumping down from the wagon to follow Mrs. Adler into the store. He stopped just on the porch and turned as he remembered something, worried about leaving Mrs. Adler alone for too long but needing to ask: “D’ya got the package? For Leann?”

Since discovering Mac’s fate Isaac had wanted to pass the news along to their sister, from what he recalled she’d been awful cross with them last time she wrote, something about wishing they hadn’t broken all of their mother’s china before running away, but outside their sibling squabbles, he was sure she’d be glad to know.

Daddy took out the brown paper package that Isaac had given him before, the letter and what little effects they still had from the men enclosed. Mac’s collection of horseshoes from his unfortunate trail of lost mounts, their stack of letters and photos from Leann, Davey’s knives, and their most recent wanted poster, which they showed with pride at the high price on their head. Davey’d always joked to Isaac that he only knew how to read their names and the words WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE for how often he saw them on the posters.

It was bittersweet sending it all out, but he knew it was what the brothers would’ve wanted. They would never be able to bury them beside one another, or even reclaim Mac’s body, but at least in this way they would be reunited with their sister, their family together at last.

“It’s a good thing you’re doin’, son.” Daddy ruffled his hair, despite Isaac’s indignant squawk. “I’m proud of you.”

Isaac blushed and kicked at the dirt, glowing in the warmth of the praise even for such a somber topic.

“Now go on, get, can’t imagine what Mrs. Adler is gettin’ up to on her own, and I don’t want to see you without a hat!” Daddy pointed back at the store in feigned sternness and Isaac saluted in response making Daddy laugh as he headed down the dirt road to the station.

By the time Isaac had made it in, Sadie had already dropped off the list to be gathered by the grocer and was looking through the clothes available, uncaring of the grocer and the assistant running around to collect their requests as she analyzed the clothes with a steely-eyed focus.

Isaac ducked behind the curtain at the back of the shop to the overly warm dressing room stuffed to bursting with clothes, grabbing the first hat he touched, a large flat-brimmed straw hat with a blue and gold band, and squashed it down onto his hair, thick and wild from the rampant humidity, pleased when it fit.

“Look at Tom Sawyer over here,” Sadie said from behind him, grinning at him with a tall stack of clothes varying from different styles of jeans and pants to a selection of colorful shirts. “Very handsome.”

Isaac blushed and pulled the brim of his hat down, understanding now why his Pa did it so much, and stepped out of Mrs. Adler’s way to go pay for the hat, throwing a packet of peppermints for Bella on top; excited to treat his girl when he got back to camp.

“Helpin’ your aunt with the shoppin’, son?” The shopkeeper said as he rounded the counter, coming back from gathering all their requested items.

Isaac nodded, he’d learned a long time ago to stay quiet and let other folks make up the story, whether it was Grandpa or Uncle Dutch. He was glad Mrs. Adler knew well enough to give a story here in town, but to stay close enough to the truth to remain plausible.

“She’s lucky she’s got such a nice young man to help her out,” The shopkeeper smiled as he stuffed the cash in the register, throwing another packet of peppermints in with a wink. “She’s quite the character ain’t she?”

“Yessir,” Isaac responded with a grin, sneaking a peppermint out for himself.

“Hope you ain’t talkin’ bad about me, boy,'' Sadie called out, coming back from the dressing room looking completely different. Not only were her clothes new, and she’d switched from skirt to pants, but Isaac could see the way the new clothes made her feel. The furrow in her brow had faded and a confident smirk took its place, her shoulders relaxed and even her tone had a hint of teasing snark that her anger hid earlier.

She looked like herself.

It didn’t take them long at all to haul the large supply of camp necessities up onto the wagon, took longer fending off the shop boy trying to give them a hand who only served to annoy Sadie into scaring him off. They were loading up the last crate when Arthur came striding up, cigarette jutting out, smoke gathering under the brim of his hat, and a parcel under one arm.

“Well, thank the Lord, now we know there ain’t too much water in your ears that you can’t listen,” Arthur grinned, resting an elbow on Isaac’s shoulder, pressing down to try and make him stumble which only made Isaac stand up straighter to withstand the weight. The two of them doing their best to win and not outright laugh. "And Mrs. Adler, I see-”

“Don’t start, Arthur, I can wear what I damn well please,” Sadie snapped as she closed up the wagon, interrupting their covert jostling. Isaac would guess that being herself after so long of being the Widow Adler made her even more defensive than she usually was.

“I was tryin’ to be nice, lady,” Arthur said tossing her the parcel before climbing up onto the driver's bench.

“I like Sadie, not lady,” Sadie bit back, opening up the parcel to find a spare holster and a shiny new bandolier. Her fight left immediately and her eyes grew shiny just for a moment, before blinking it away and staring up at where Arthur was watching her open it up, finishing off his cigarette.

“I know, now come on, why don’t you drive us back?”

Sadie nodded absentmindedly as she slipped on the equipment, running her fingers over the loose loops ready for bullets. Badges of honor, badges of a gunslinger, markings of equality within the outlaw world.

Isaac ducked away to give her her moment with the new items, the new meanings and climbed up the wheel to get back onto the bench in the back, clapping Daddy’s shoulder as he moved past. “Nice job, Pa.”

“I thought so,” Arthur smirked, pushing Isaac’s hat down to cover his eyes, both of them grinning like morons when Sadie finally took her seat. “Now you ain’t gonna kill Pearson with all them bullets, right?”

Sadie dropped her head back and laughed as she flicked the reigns, steering them out of Rhodes. “No sir, more scumbags in the world deserve these than him, I’ll let him live, for now.”

“Hey there!”

All three of them jumped out of their skin as a man on horseback called out from where he rode alongside the wagon. Dressed all in gray on a dusty, old horse, tobacco-blackened teeth glinting where he grinned up at Arthur.

“Hey,” Daddy called back cautiously, one arm going back to lay casually across the set of the bench, as if he was possessive over his woman, instead gripping Isaac’s shoulder, warning him to be prepared.

“What are you folks up to?” The man’s tone was confident and slimy like he was waiting for one of them to say something he didn’t like.

Isaac started pushing the crates and bags away from the bench as surreptitiously as he could, trying to carve a space on the floor of the wagon. He stared at the side of Daddy’s face instead of looking at the man talking to them, pretending he didn’t notice the second man trailing behind the wagon.

“Just heading home, gotta get the boy back before supper.”

“You’re in Lemoyne Raider country,” The man said, not paying Isaac or Sadie any mind, only focusing on the man in the wagon. “You need to pay a toll to pass through here.”

“Keep it cool, Sadie,” Daddy murmured to Mrs. Adler out the corner of his mouth, before speaking up to talk to the Raider, not taking his eye off him for a second. “No, I don’t think so.”

Daddy wasn’t looking so he didn’t see as Mrs. Adler pulled her shiny revolver out and rested it on her knee, but Isaac did. His heart started pounding loudly in his skull, his hands shook where he rested them on his legs.

He could barely even hear Daddy and the Raider arguing just beside him, something about trying to pull them over. All he could do was watch as Sadie cocked the hammer of the revolver as quietly as she could, before leaning over behind Arthur, the hand bearing the gun sticking between him and Isaac, and yelling out. “Hey! How’s about this?”

She shot at the man’s knee and all hell broke loose.

As if moving at lightning speed Daddy turned, pushed Isaac down to the floor of the wagon, and drew his revolver to take out the second guy following them. Sadie was whipping the horses into a frenzy beside him, trying to get them to go as fast as they could, shaking Isaac along with them.

“What the hell was that?!” Daddy yelled at Sadie, looking around for other men coming to attack them.

“They was gonna rob us!” Sadie rasped back, ducking as gunfire came in from behind.

Isaac tried to control his breathing as he watched the bullets dig into the wood where he’d been sitting mere seconds ago, trying not to shriek as they flew around Daddy, burrowing into the wagon just inches apart from him.

“A new pair of pants and you think you’re Landon Ricketts,” Daddy growled, rising on the bench momentarily to get a better angle and shoot down the group of men following them on horseback. “We’ve got my son in the back, you didn’t think to try and control your temper?!”

“They’re the ones shooting at us, yell at them!”

Suddenly the wagon jolted roughly over the body of one of the Raiders as Sadie ran him down before the whole wagon pulled to a stop, unintentionally sealing Isaac further into safety as all the crates slid towards the front. Isaac’s breathing was getting more strained, he tried to just curl up and block out the ensuing gunfight but he couldn’t control the anxiety crawling over him like bugs, couldn’t stop the panic as he was squished into a smaller and smaller space. The sound of guns loud outside his wooden confines, and it felt like the whole world was growing impossibly dark despite how bright the sky was overhead.

Sadie and Daddy jumped off, guns drawn to shoot the attackers on stable ground, chatting back and forth with only a hint of bite. Isaac tried to take comfort in that, they weren’t scared, they were still talking like normal, this was a walk in the park for Daddy. But Isaac couldn’t get his thoughts under control with how loud the rushing of his blood in his ears was.

“Yeah, you run you goddamn coward!” Sadie hollered, excitement and rage equally matched in her voice. “I think we’re good here, Arthur. Nice shootin’.”

Isaac still shaking, his vision spotted with darkness, his ears full of the bouncing echo of bullets, but he pushed the crates back and sat up, not enough strength in his limbs to get back on the bench. He was just barely holding himself together, he wanted to run somewhere wide open, get away from the darkness, but he knew they needed to get back to camp first. His little episode wasn’t as important as them getting back safe.

Distantly he felt Daddy reach back and squeeze his shoulder, saw his mouth move as he said something, but Isaac couldn’t hear it over his shaky breathing and pounding heart. He managed to stutter out an answer, some assurance that he was still in one piece, at least on the outside; trying not to reveal just how terrified he still was. Whatever he said seemed to work and Daddy left him alone, turning his attention back to Mrs. Adler. Isaac was both grateful his ruse worked and desperate for Daddy to focus on him again.

He felt worse for his panic as they trundled along, Daddy and Sadie were having a fine conversation, camaraderie blossoming between them. The gunfight did not impact their good day out, instead bringing them closer, like real outlaws.

He didn’t want to ruin the nice day for Daddy, or even for Mrs. Adler, they both needed it. Daddy had so few people he could have a good day with at camp without the burdens of his responsibilities weighing him down just by being near them, like Isaac. So he tried to take the broken shivering parts inside him and crush them into something whole, tried to steel himself, tried to be a man like his Pa.

He was focusing so hard on not falling apart, on not letting the fear win, that he didn’t realize they were back at camp until Mr. Pearson was suddenly at the back of the wagon loudly chatting with the two of them while they all started to unload the wagon.

“I enjoyed myself out there,” Mrs. Adler said, real relief thick in her voice.

“Yes, uh, Mrs. Adler did okay.”

“At shopping?” Mr. Pearson shifted the crate Isaac was leaning on and he could feel his breathing getting heavier quicker. Nothing was wrong, everything was fine and he was freaking out like a baby, he just couldn’t get it together.

“Thank you, Mr. Morgan,” Mrs. Adler sounded so small and genuine.

“Don’t mention it, I would ride with you again, Mrs. Adler, if you will ride with me.”

“Maybe…” Sadie teased as they walked towards the mess wagon. “If you prove you can handle yourself!”

“Well, they say I lack finesse, but…” Daddy stopped just beside the wagon right outside where Isaac was still cowering, seeming to talk directly to him. “I ain’t afraid of no gun smoke.”

Isaac could not stop his broken sob at that statement, he slapped a hand over his mouth to try and muffle himself but it was too late.

“Isaac?” Daddy called out, the amusement quickly drained from his tone, replaced with that familiar worry.

Isaac hated it, hated making Daddy worry for no reason, he should be fine he was just too stupid to get over it. He could hear Daddy hustling back over to the wagon to check on him and Isaac could not bear the thought of it, here in the middle of camp, where everyone could see them, could see how weak he was.

He found enough strength to vault over the side of the wagon and race away, sprinting out of the camp towards the sparse trees and sun-filled pockets amidst the dappled shade, sprinting towards quiet and light. Though even the short run it took to escape camp felt impossibly long, felt like he’d fall apart before that and everyone would be right there to see it.

When he finally stopped he was pressed against a tree looking out over the lake, gasping and not breathing, his panic tenfold as whole colonies of bugs seemed to march up and down his arms and back. Seemed to flood into his mouth and constrict his throat, as they trailed into his heart and beat against the walls, trying to make it explode, trying to kill him. He was going to die of fright, he hadn’t even been in the firefight, hadn’t been affected at all, yet he was the one in shambles after the fact.

He thumped his chest like he could smack the bugs off his heart, smack some sense into himself, fix himself, to no avail. He kept smacking himself, tugging on his hair, scratching his arms, trying to pull himself together by any means, blood gathering under his nails, stands of hair falling to the tree little below him, his skin growing pink from the abuse he meted out.

Suddenly it all stopped as his arms were pulled up and away, drawing his focus to a narrow pinprick in front of him.

“Isaac, breathe,” Daddy said, obviously panicked at Isaac’s sorry state, his own breathing heavy, evidence of how he’d chased after the boy. “You’re alright, son, everything’s alright.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Isaac sobbed brokenly, his face bright red in embarrassment, he was nearly grown, he should’ve been able to handle this, handle himself on his own, he shouldn’t still need his Daddy to come and make everything better, but as always he did anyways.

Daddy pushed Isaac forward slightly to sit between him and the tree, then pulled Isaac into the outstretched vee of his legs and tightly hugged him to his chest. Just like it did every time the firm, unrelenting pressure of the tight embrace suddenly relieved his lungs of the iron bands around them. Chased away the dark spots still plaguing him and let him think clearly.

“That’s good, you’re doing good,” Arthur murmured into Isaac’s hair, and he realized in his mad dash he’d lost his hat which only made him sob harder. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“I-I don’t like guns, I don’t like the shooting,” Isaac blurted out, the stuttering weakness bursting out from him, too big to contain any longer, causing too much of a disturbance to hide. “I lost my hat.” His frantic words broke into panicked sobs, disappointment in himself stabbing through him like a red-hot poker.

“The shooting…” Behind him he could feel Daddy pause, the tight embrace letting up for a moment in his surprise, and then it was back ten-fold, Isaac was crushed to Daddy’s chest, the man curling over until it felt like Isaac was disappearing into his Pa’s bulk. “Shit, Isaac, I-I’m sorry, ‘course that scared you, I should’ve stopped Mrs. Adler or-- guess it don’t matter none, harm’s done, I just- ‘m glad you’re safe.”

His hiccuping sobs abated but the flood of things left unsaid was rising uncontrollably and he could dam it no longer. “It ain’t just today, I…I’m afraid of guns, I’m afraid of bein’ shot, of you being shot,” Isaac felt braver, not seeing Pa’s face, staring out over the serene waters, the pressure around his chest, felt more inclined to speak his truth.

“I know. That’s fine,” Daddy replied, his tone gentle and confused. “Lot smarter than some other folks, nothin’ wrong with respectin’ something dangerous.”

“No I-” Isaac stuttered, shrugging off his Pa’s arms to stand and pace, he felt unmoored now that he’d left the pressure, like he’d float away without it. “I don’t think I’m ever gonna not be afraid, I don’t think I’m gonna be able to be a real member of the gang…I can’t be like you.” Isaac’s voice cracked as he gave voice to his deep shame, and the tears he’d sent away returned with a vengeance, only coming faster and hotter the longer Daddy stayed silent.

He was startled when his hoarse words sent Daddy swelling to his feet, looking at him wide-eyed and devastated, but he was more shocked when Daddy’s hands shook as he grabbed him in another strong hug.

“I don’t want you being like me, son. Isaac-” Daddy took a breath. “I am so proud of you, your mama would be too, exactly as you are.”

The force of the statement took Isaac’s breath away, the power Daddy infused into every word like he was hammering them into the very fiber of reality. The thought of his Mama looking down on high, and being glad of what she saw caved Isaac’s chest in with bittersweet, unattainable joy.

“B-but I’m your kid! I’m Arthur Morgan’s son, shouldn’t I be able to live up to you?!” Isaac curled further into the embrace, frustrated that he could not stop talking. But it was too powerful, too perfect, too good to be true, he had no choice but to retreat under familiar insecurities, try to assuage Daddy’s opinion, try to lessen the might of the powerful intonation.

“I don’t know who or where you’re getting these ideas but let me tell you what being my son means,” Daddy said, pulling Isaac back to look him in the eye. “It means you should surpass me, it means you get to do whatever you want, whatever makes you happy, and not a soul gets to tell you otherwise, includin’ me.”

Isaac couldn’t help his weak laugh, Daddy’s conviction and promise so bright that it filled him with joy, uncontainable joy. He tried to wipe his lingering tears away but newer, happier tears came to join them. “Ok, alright, I believe you.”

“Good,” Daddy’s voice was thick with emotion as he held Isaac tighter, rocking them back and forth. “And I thank you for it, if your mama heard you was anxious to join us she’d drag herself out of the grave to kill me herself, I swear.”

Isaac laughed again, the stream of tears on his face suddenly lemon-sharp, sour with just a hint of sweetness. A breeze blew in from across the lake, pushing strongly against his back, and for a second it felt almost like Mama was reaching out to embrace him as well. He sniffed against tears and could imagine the smell of Mama’s perfume weaving between them.

They stayed entwined like that for a while, the unspoken awe at the imagined breath of her presence among them, and it wasn’t until that familiar scent disappeared with the dying wind that they separated and returned to reality.

The walk back hushed and sacred like stepping through the silent arches of a church, neither of them speaking a word, not even a crack of a twig or a rustle of leaves to interrupt, until they emerged into the unfiltered sunlight and noise of camp, of home.

“You two lose this?” Charles called out from the scout fire once they broke the treeline, startling both of them at being acknowledged so soon after their reverent walk, holding up Isaac’s new, slightly dirtier hat.

Daddy barked out a laugh and snatched it up before squashing it down on Isaac’s head. “Ah’course it is, trust a boy to lose a hat.”

“Thank you, Charles,” Isaac said with a blinding grin, grateful beyond belief to see the hat, to remember that not everything terrible and lost stays that way.

* * *

It was a few days past his excursion with Daddy and Mrs. Adler, and though he was feeling better since his episode about the shootout Isaac still found himself recusing himself more often then not and keeping his days small and uneventful. Trying not to think about gunshots or men yelling or being trapped in a wooden box like a coffin, still feeling fragile from everything despite Daddy's best efforts.

He had tried to push himself, reading with Jack in the morning and playing games with him, but Jack’s high energy and enthusiasm had drained him quicker then he’d thought possible. The moment Aunt Abigail had come to check on them and see if Jack was actually reading or if Isaac was doing all the work for him he’d made his excuses and ran away, soon, and predictable, retreating to the water, wanting to drown out the sounds of everyone else.

Moss covered stones and water-softened branches, flashes of sun glinting from the waters surface and the dark, chilly murk of the deeper parts of the lake, fish parting around him like he was one of their own, the deafened sound of people working and talking and laughing on ground, distant yet comfortingly near where he sat with his hands buried in mud, keeping him anchored down underwater as long as he could. All of it washed over him, soothing the wrinkled, terse parts of him that wanted to be alone, drawing him into quiet seclusion.

He wasn’t sure of how long it took him to emerge from his panicked desire for silence, but eventually he could stay above water longer then it took him to take his next breath, he could swim laps or float on his back and absorb the sun, taking in the everyday noise of camp as a pleasant backdrop then a grating, overbearing presence.

It felt immediate, once he’d calmed himself to the point of being ready to return and immerse himself in the noise again, he was suddenly snatched out of the shallow end he’d been floating in and hauled up on to someone's shoulder sputtering and gasping.

“Dinners on me, fellas! I hooked a big one!” Dutch laughed as he carried Isaac, jabbing into the boy's ribs to tickle him.

Isaac shrieked with laughter and tried to kick his way off Dutch unsuccessfully, only soaking Dutch’s fine clothes with his thrashing. Their pretend fighting continued for a few moments, the ladies down the beach laughing and cheering them on, until Dutch’s foot caught on a rock and the two of them went sprawling.

Isaac winced at the scattering of pebbles and rocks that dug into his bare back and, still breathless with laughter, looked over at Dutch. The man had managed to pull Isaac down to avoid braining him when they fell and Isaac lay half in the dirt and half splayed across Dutch who was laughing as well despite his groans of pain.

“I am too old for horesplayin’ like that,” Dutch chuckled, sitting up to keep jabbing and tickling the boy. “And you are too skinny, you’re all bones! I’m gonna get more bruises from your elbows than these rocks!”

The wrestling started up again in earnest, Isaac doing his best to push Dutch into the water and Dutch trying to pick Isaac back up to toss him in. Both of them quickly sweat-drenched in the thick summer heat and smeared with dirt.

It wasn’t until Isaac slipped and fell into the water unprepared that they finally calmed down, Dutch fretting over the boy as he coughed up the mouthful of water he’d inhaled on impact. Once the coughing abated, Dutch slung an arm over Isaac’s shoulders, muttering in surprise at how tall Isaac was getting, and looked out onto the water, the two of them breathing heavily as they recovered.

“Grandad…” Isaac tentatively started, he’d gotten better as at determining how Dutch wanted to be called. Most days it was Uncle Dutch or even just Dutch, but rarely, on good days, when Dutch’s eyes softened more easily and he called Arthur son readily or sat beside Hosea to read and touch the back of his hand when they talked, when he’d reach out and greet Isaac with a ruffle of his hair, or when they’d pore over the ledger together tallying up the days take, he would become Grandad.

Dutch hummed in affirmation and looked down at Isaac, his mouth pulled up in amusement.

“Miss Grimshaw is gonna be so mad at you for gettin’ your clothes all dirty,” Isaac said with a grin, his chest warm with affection at the familial acquiescence.

“You might be right, son,” Dutch looked down at his smart clothes and grimaced at the mud splatter across the silk detailing of his vest. He grinned again and shook Isaac with the arm across his shoulders.“Maybe I’ll just stand behind you, she likes you more than me anyhow.”

“Wouldn’t be so sure of that,” Dutch and Isaac turned to see Daddy coming up the beach towards them, a bundle of clothes under one arm and a fond smile peeking out from the shade of his hat. “Miss Grimshaw just assigned me to go wrangle my ‘wet dog of a boy’ back to finish out his chores.”

“I did all my chores!” Isaac whined, looking between the two men as if either of them had a hope of calling off Miss Grimshaw.

“Someone got a little too excited about goin’ swimmin’ and forgot about the dishes and his hat,” Arthur said, pushing the bundle of clothes into Isaac’s arms and placing Isaac’s hat on his wet mop. “Get changed ‘fore you get started, gonna catch a cold one day with how much you walk around soaked to the bone.”

“It’s too hot to catch a cold!” Isaac sniped back, ducking Pa going to catch him in a headlock and grind his skull for being a smartass and ran back to the tent with a cackle.

As he darted away he heard Dutch complain, “Now why’d you have to come along, Arthur? I was having a fine time with my grandson.”

“I’m just the messenger, don't go and blame me.” Arthur replied.

He could imagine the pleasantly surprised look on Daddy’s face as he heard Dutch refer to Isaac so warmly, he wasn’t always around camp and didn’t hear the increasing frequency with which Dutch claimed Isaac, so every new time was special; and every time Dutch didn’t he hurt Arthur all the worse.

Some of the giddy joy of his tussle drained out as reality set in, but despite that he still felt lighter, freer. His lingering worries about the shootout and the Raiders felt less prevalent after his good moment with Grandad, felt like things were going to be alright.

After he’d finally changed and dried himself as much as he could he headed over to the mess wagon, still grumbly knowing he’d managed to forget something when he’d been so good lately about staying on top of everything.

“There you are!” Miss Grimshaw was waiting for him, interrupting her argument with Mr. Pearson when she saw him shuffle up. “I know you like your fun but we all gotta contribute or else this whole place will fall to pieces.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Isaac groused and took his spot at the wash tub. He’d heard the little speech dozens of times, directed at him or not, any slip-up or procrastination under Miss Grimshaw’s rule was as good as a death sentence. After ensuring that he started the task, and he wasn’t sassing her, Miss Grimshaw nodded resolutely and turned to find whoever else was slacking, her gaze sharp and unforgiving.

From his position behind the wash tub Isaac had an unobstructed view of the two men chatting on the shore, but the amusement and ease had left them with Isaac, they were tense, Daddy was avoiding eye contact, and Grandad was watching him with a calculating glare.

“I see I’m boring you, Arthur,” Dutch’s voice just barely reached Isaac over the splashing of the dishtub and the chatting around camp.

“Worrying me…we lost men back there.” Back there, back in Blackwater, these days it always came back to the colossal failure that was Blackwater. Isaac shivered as the memory of the Massacre trickled over the back of his neck, the sound Davey made when he got shot, the sound Boadicea made when she got shot, Jenny’s utter silence as she hid her own injury until it was too late.

“We have lofty goals, Arthur.” Dutch got louder as he started proselytizing. "We're trying to reform society to a kinder, truer, better way, now of course there’s gonna be casualties.”

“We’re thieves…in a world that don’t want us no more.” Daddy sounded weary, worked to the bone, scrubbed down to nothing as he uttered that dreadful truth.

“We are dreamers in an ever duller world of facts, now I’ll give you that, but come on…” Dutch started striding up the shore, Arthur ever faithfully following, “We got the day. It’s nice out, and Hosea’s been talking up some creek he found nearby.”

Dutch peered around the corners of the tents, spotting Miss Grimshaw turned away from him and darted over to his tent to change out of his ruined shirt and vest, throwing a wink over to Isaac when he saw the boy watching him sneak.

Isaac shook his head and laughed, tried to focus on the silly consequences of muddy clothes instead of all the big scary things the two of them had been talking about, tried to focus on dishes instead of blood-soaked dirt.

“Isaac,” Dutch called out, buttoning up the new vest. “You want to go fishin’ with us old men? I’m sure we could convince Miss Grimshaw to let you go.”

“And I’m sure I could find better ways to be bored to death,” Isaac couldn’t disguise his disgusted expression, sending Dutch and Arthur into guffaws.

“Oh, Lord, Arthur he really is your kid, I swear I seen you make that exact face when Hosea started taking you fishing,” Dutch said, literally wiping a tear from his eye, laughter shaking his shoulders as he recalled long ago times of a younger Arthur Morgan.

“I’m sure the boy just sympathizes with his fellow fish,” Daddy teased, looking lighter for it, his burdens and worries not so heavy as laughed at his boy.

Isaac grinned into the soapy, food-filled water, please he could have amused them so highly with his silly complaining.

Eventually, Dutch was presentable once more and he and Arthur left camp in high spirits with Hosea, the three of them rowdy and excited for the little departure on their own, and Isaac was happy to see it, though not as happy as he was to not to have to go fishing.

* * *

On one half of the page, notes have been recorded from overheard conversations about the Braithwaites and the Grays. BAD IDEA is written at the bottom and circled.

I thought folks were busy at Horseshoe but that was nothing compared to the nonsense Uncle Dutch has them working on now. Being deputies of all things, allying with two feuding families, working against them as much as for them. Apparently, there’s gold at the end of all this but it feels a little dangerous.

Daddy’ll be gone for days at a time working towards it though, I think he comes back at night but he’s gone by the time I wake up. And I’m not trapped in camp any longer, but I don’t feel safe enough going out on my own, not with the Lemoyne Raiders out there. So I’m glad I like Clemons Point so much, cause I ain’t seeing much else.

* * *

All day Isaac had been buzzing with energy, he’d done his chores, swam up and down the peninsula, and even practiced his archery, managing not to lose a single arrow, yet even as the day wound down into evening he was still anxious for something to do.

Any time he tried to wind down, take a nap, read a book, play dominos anything, all he could think about was the empty cot in his and Daddy’s tent, could only focus on how little he’d seen him over the last few weeks, with nothing to be done but wish that money would fall from the sky and alieve him of the burden of work.

Blackwater spoiled him, he thought, the schemes Daddy and Grandpa were working towards weren’t so dangerous so Isaac got to trail behind them in town. Staying well enough away while they were scouting and talking to people so he couldn’t be connected to them later, but close enough to see them work, and be seen in return.

They’d had fancy meals, watched the ferries come in, climbed trees in peoples yards to rescue lofty, fragrant fruit, it had felt normal, like a vacation from their dangerous lives. But of course reality could only wait so long in the wings.

So it was back to only seeing Daddy once every couple days, set to the side and forced to wait and see if he’d come back at all, and yet every time, against all odds, he’d come back. Riding back into camp, a buck or goat slung across Llamrei’s haunch, turkeys hanging from the sides, and a couple hundred dollars to drop in the donation box. Breathing life and prosperity back into camp, all of them dependent on Arthur coming back and providing.

He wished things were different, fruitfully and earnestly, he wished things were different. He wished Daddy didn’t have to go out killing and robbing, he wished he didn’t have to work himself to the bone to provide and still be sent back out to provide more.

But it was an old, old wish, and a foolish one at that, nothing so miraculous as a fortune falling into their laps would ever happen, certainly not without the dangerous work that frightened Isaac so much. So all he really could do was wait and busy himself.

He was sitting with the ladies as they did their mending, reading from one of Grandpa’s mystery novels, doing his best to put on the voices like Grandpa did when he was telling stories, entertaining the ladies as they worked when Charles rode into camp calling for Miss Grimshaw.

Isaac immediately whipped around, praying it wasn’t Daddy that needed help. At first he was relieved to find Mr. Trelawny riding behind Charles, obviously the one in need of help, and disappointed when he revealed that Daddy wasn’t riding in with them. Guilt replaced the relief soon enough as he took in the brunt of the man’s injuries and he set the book aside to approach, volunteering himself to assist Miss Grimshaw and give the ladies and the Reverand a break. He’d seen him muttering and shaking in his sleep earlier, obviously in no good place to help.

“Good lord, what’d you do, finally drop him off a cliff?” Miss Grimshaw said as she took in the full extent of Trelawney’s bruises and swollen, broken skin.

“Ah, it’d have to be a greater thing then a mere cliff to bring me away from you lot,” Mr. Trelawney said with a pained smile, wincing as his grand, flourishing words pulled at his split lip uncomfortably.

“Bounty hunters got him,” Charles replied, carrying most of Trelawny’s weight as he brought him to the bedroll Miss Grimshaw was pointing to. “Arthur’s cleanin’ up.”

“Isaac, go get some water, gotta see what I’m workin’ with,” Miss Grimshaw ordered, efficiently peeling the sweat and blood stained clothes off Trelawny’s back, revealing more and more sluggishly bleeding wounds. “Mr. Smith, you go let Dutch and Hosea know our resident peacock is back.”

“You wound me, madam,” Trelawny said with a strained grunt as she tugged the tattered edges of his shirt out of the pink, irritated flesh of a cut on his chest.

“Hush up or I’ll do a lot worse,” Grimshaw replied, even as her brutally efficient pace slowed to something a little softer.

When Isaac returned with a basin and rags Miss Grimshaw was digging around in the back of the wagon where they stored their medical supplies, muttering about their terrifying lack of preparedness.

“Miss Grimshaw?” Isaac asked tentatively, setting the basin down beside Trelawny, speaking quietly as the man lay with his eyes closed, every breath rattling through his teeth. “Somethin’ wrong?”

“We’re short on supplies, honey,” Miss Grimshaw said with a sigh, tipping her head back as she considered her options. “You get him clean, I’ll see if the ladies and I can rip up some bandages, send someone into town too. It’s ridiculous, all we have is cocaine gum and whiskey, it’s like Dutch thinks we’re a goddamned circus.”

Without waiting for confirmation Miss Grimshaw stomped away in a swirl of her skirts, barking at the ladies laughing together across the way, quickly silencing them. Isaac chewed his lip in anxiety but set to work, kneeling next to Trelawny and taking in the mess of dried blood streaked across the man.

It all looked bad, but not the worst that Isaac had ever seen from folks in camp, Trelawny would pull through but it would be a few long days of recovery, especially because they apparently had nothing more at the moment to offer him than a sponge bath and a drink.

Isaac had just squeezed out the rag and pressed it to the puckered, blood-flecked skin of his forehead, where it looked like he’d met the butt of a gun, when Trelawny halfheartedly tried to bat him away until his eyes focused on his face.

“Ah, the young Prince Isaac, it’s been too long!” He said with a groan, attempting to sit up until Isaac gently stopped him, pressing him back onto the cot.

“It’s been just three months, Mr. Trelawny,” Isaac said with a chuckle, moving across Trelawny’s brow so gently the rag was barely touching him at times, working slowly until the man’s face was clear of the tacky blood and sweat that made his skin shine a sickly glow. “I can see you’ve been havin’ fun on your own.”

“Yes, well, not to worry,” Trelawny huffed in pain as Isaac continued on, but thankfully stopped trying to roll away, allowing Isaac to focus on getting it done as quickly as he could as moved down to his chest. “As always the good King Arthur was there to rescue me from myself, and men of ill-repute as today should have it.”

“Bounty hunters?” Isaac asked hesitantly, the words from the Pinkertons running around in his head in a sickening loop. $5,000 on Daddy’s head and he was out ‘cleaning up’. The idea of bounty hunters was not a favorable one.

“No match for your father and Charles, of course, just a bunch of city folk running around with self-appointed importance-” Trelawny cut himself off, hissing as Isaac wiped over where his left side where his ribs were bruised and hot to the touch, swollen and painful beneath the bloody rag.

“Sorry!” Isaac winced, pulling the rag away and lamenting over how much more he had left to go before Trelawny was actually clean of the violence and grime he was covered in and how badly bruised and beaten the man was beneath it all.

He got to his feet and darted over to the collection of medical supplies they were supposed to have, thankful that if they couldn’t manage to keep clean bandages that he could at least rely on the men to keep a steady stream of whisky in camp. He popped the cap off the bottle with his pocket knife and helped Trelawny sit up enough to drink a few mouthfuls, “That should help with the pain, just hold on.”

“You are a blessing, my boy,” Trelawny said with a sigh, taking one more drink from the bottle before flopping down and submitting himself to the warm, amber alcohol steadily pulsing through him.

With the whiskey the job became easier, or at least less taxing on Trelawny, and Isaac was able to get the man clean without further injuring him. Yet for all the old, dried blood he wiped away more was sluggishly being pumped out from the slashes and cuts that marked him up, the pressing reminders of the harrowing run in Trelawny had had.

“Miss Grimshaw will be back ‘round with the bandages soon,” Isaac called over his shoulder as he splashed the now pink water into the grass on the other side of the wagon. “We’ll get you patched up, Mr. Trelawny.”

“Am I no more then a ripped pair of trousers?” Trelawny slurred, laughing to himself at the absurd comparison.

“Well pants don’t bleed half as much so I can’t be sure,” Isaac chucked alongside him, resisting the temptation to pull the bottle away from Trelawny, the man deserved a drink after the day he’d had.

Trelawny tipped his head back to laugh, louder then Isaac’s quip warranted, and enough to show the half bottle he’d already drank. When he finally calmed his head lolled over to look at Isaac with a lazy smile and tugged Isaac’s sleeve towards him, gesturing for him to come even closer. “Can I tell you a secret, my boy?”

Isaac rolled his eyes but nodded, expecting Trelawny to weave a grand tale or even be so delirious to think about his tricks at a time like this. When the man did speak though it was loose and slurred, but softened with fondness and heartache, a more genuine tone then Isaac could ever recall hearing from him.

“You remind me of my oldest, he’s witty like you, bit more soft spoken though.”

Isaac stopped, blinking in surprise at the older man, never in a million years would he have expected the sly magician to say such a thing, “You have kids?”

“I have children, a wife, a home even if you can believe it!” Trelawny gestured with one hand, his preference for dramatic movements getting the better at him as it pulled at his wounds. “Of course you mustn’t tell anyone, mystery’s all a man like me has.”

“Why’re you here then?” Isaac asked, still reeling. “Wouldn’t your wife be able to help you? I’m sure they’d want to know you’re in one piece.”

“They don’t know the trouble I dabble in my boy, not as embroiled in this as you are. So I can’t very well bring trouble down on their heads can I?” Trelawny shook his head softly, staring into the distance, his gaze growing warm and soft. “No, I’ll recover here, get some money, then I’ll head on home. I’ll kiss my wife, give my boys wonderful presents, and we’ll all sit down for a good family meal. That’s what it’s all for, all for them.”

Isaac’s breath caught in his throat, his heart frozen in his chest as he listened to Trelawny ramble on, only coming back to the present when the man grabbed his wrist again.

“You know, you’re quite an astounding young man, Isaac, I can’t imagine my sons taking on any of this with a fraction of the grace you do. If I were Arthur I’d be very proud.” Trelawny patted his hand even as he spoke quieter and quieter, sleep tugging insistently on him. “Very proud indeed.”

Isaac sat frozen beside Trelawny for a while, his fingers twitching as his thoughts raced around like crashing stars. The house in Oklahoma, Mama sneaking him bites of food as she cooked, the wooden cross, a lifetime of sleeping under stars, the empty cot waiting for him, astounding young man, he was strong, he was alone, there was someone elses’ blood under his fingernails and it was normal.

“Good boy, honey,” Miss Grimshaw suddenly came up behind with a bundle of freshly torn bandages, startling Isaac when she patted him on the head. “I’ll finish taking care of him, you go get some dinner in you.”

Surreptitiously Isaac wiped at his eyes, resenting the heat that was gathering, the tears that were welling. Without a word, Isaac left, not even bothering with the stew pot, the already contentious meal sounding awful with his stomach in knots as it was. So instead he dug through his bag until he found crackers to sullenly gnaw on as he contemplated what Trelawny said.

It sounded good, it should have felt good to hear, to have his strengths and skills appreciated, but all he could think was that Trelawny's sons couldn’t do any of that, that he was distinctly different from him.

They were kids who had a home, who didn't know enough to worry about their father being killed as soon as he left, a home, and their mother. They were kids who’d never had to tend to a man rescued from torture, who wouldn’t know their way around a gun, kids who violence had made no acquaintance of. Of course, they weren’t like him, of course, they’d never understand this life.

They weren’t broken like he was.

As the bitter, sour feeling in his gut boiled and grew Isaac watched as, across the camp, Uncle John grabbed two plates of stew and snuck a big chunk of bread out from under Pearson’s nose. Then with his bounty, he sat by Aunt Abigail’s side who was tenderly watching Jack sleep, running her hands through his hair where his head rested on her lap.

Abigail took the plate absentmindedly and grinned in a way that wrinkled her nose as John handed her the heel of bread. Uncle John settled in beside Aunt Abigail, his knee crooked behind her to give her something to lean on and they ate together, quietly talking, and teasing judging by the irritated slap to John’s chest as he snickered to himself. Jack shifted in his sleep and both of them froze, watching the boy until they were certain he was settled and silently laughed at one another, relishing in the quiet intimacy of their solitude together.

Isaac rubbed his chest where his heart twinged uncomfortably as he watched the family scene, he thought of Trelawny’s distant reunion, of Daddy’s empty cot, of him out in the wilderness fighting off Raiders and bounty hunters and Pinkertons, coming back to Isaac like an afterthought.

The constant noise of camp around him and yet he felt as small and alone as a speck of dust in a tornado. He missed Copper who would have flopped across him and crushed him into the grass, trying to lick away the tears streaking silently down his face, he missed Daddy, he missed Mama.

The food in his mouth turned to ash and his limbs felt deadened with grief. All he could bring himself to do was retreat to his bedroll and wonder if he’d ever be whole again.

* * *

Mr. Trelawny’s recovering fine, only took him a few days and now he’s back on his feet. I was surprised when he didn’t head back to his family right away, but then he took Daddy out on a job so I shouldn’t’ve been that surprised. There’s always big jobs happening when Trelawny is here, Uncle Dutch says he gives us access to a higher way of living from which to steal.

After the job, Daddy had more for me to tuck away. It’s always nerve-wracking for me, more so when I’m dealing with it in camp, but this was the worst yet. I went away to the little wash nearby to tuck it away and the whole time it felt like I was being watched. I was checking the whole time, and I’d brought my bow and arrow out to practice so it wouldn’t look suspicious, but it still felt like someone was following me.

I think I'm just anxious. It’s a lot of money, it’d go a decent way, but no matter what I say Daddy won’t let me reveal it. He says it’s for more miserable men than me to worry about the money, that I should just forget about it and hope I won’t need it.

He’s always saying I shouldn’t worry, but it’s impossible! I hear the grown-ups talking about how dangerous things are, talking about the folks after us, about all that money we had to leave behind. It felt like we were close to getting out just a year ago when Dutch was looking at that land in California, and again when we’d had the jobs lined up in Blackwater, and now that that’s all gone it feels like we’ve dug too deep of a hole, that we ain’t going nowhere but down.

But maybe Daddy’s right and I’m making myself sick over nothing, maybe I need to just leave it all to the grown-ups and wait for them to fix it. At least that’s what they keep telling me.

* * *

Where before he’d thrown himself into his days to distract himself from Daddy’s long stints of absence, now Isaac was just searching for any distraction. That weight in his chest hadn’t quite left, the grim realizations that followed Trelawny’s arrival hounded him like his nightmares. But no matter how he lamented and grieved and raged against his life nothing would change, it never did. So diverting his thoughts was his only choice, was all he could do with his limited power.

He had awoken that morning to find the sun beating down on them with such vengeance that he had no choice but to retreat to the water again, taking Jack with him, ready to throw everything he had into playing with his cousin and leave his troubles and worries at the shore.

Auntie sat with the other ladies in the shade of the big tree darning socks and repairing clothes while keeping a close eye on Jack and Uncle John was nearby fixing the wheel on one of the wagons. He pretended he wasn’t watching but Isaac would catch him nervously following Jack, knowing that he couldn’t go in and get the boy if he swam out too far.

So Isaac kept them near enough to the shore, not quite so deep as he would like but deep enough that Jack could stand without struggling. They’d spent the last hour playing tag and trying to catch the little silvery fish that circled their ankles and now Isaac was doing his best to teach Jack how to swim better.

He had a feeling that Uncle John’s anxiety around Jack going in the water made his cousin more afraid than he needed to be, because the kid was terrified of moving into the water where he couldn’t touch the bottom, and he could do barely more than keep his head up, so he wasn’t wrong for being nervous.

“Ok, Jackie, kick your feet,” Isaac held onto Jack’s hands and slowly walked backwards, keeping him aloft as he watched Jack furiously kick. “You’re gonna go too fast, Jackie! Gotta slow down, we’re just paddlin’.”

“But I’m gonna sink!” Jack whined, gripping Isaac’s hands as tight as he could as he tried to kick slower.

“You ain’t gonna sink, I’m right here, bud.” Isaac teased, pulling Jack a little faster to make him squeal and grip his hands even tighter. “Come on, how’re you gonna get better if you don’t practice?”

Jack acquiesced and let Isaac teach him and pull him around for a while longer, his little face furrowed as he concentrated on propelling himself when Isaac let go of his hands for a bit. After a while, Isaac looked up and saw how far down the shore they’d gone and could see Jack’s energy flagging, completely worn out from the heat and the swimming.

“Let’s get you back to Auntie. I think you need a nap,” Isaac said as he pulled Jack up onto his back, adjusting his hat so it wasn’t poking the poor boy's eyes. He made sure Jack had a tight grip around his waist and neck before sliding into the water and swimming back down the shoreline to camp.

“I dun wanna go, I’m still playin’,” Jack yawned, not making a strong case for not needing a nap.

Isaac snickered to himself and just concentrated on keeping Jack’s head above the water as he swam. He’d been working on teaching Jack how to hold his breath but catching him unaware would not be the best time to showcase those skills.

When he made it past the little dock Isaac immediately spotted John and Abigail standing on the shore nervously scanning the water for the two of them. Auntie spotted Isaac swimming up and nearly shoved John over as she ran to meet the boys. “There you are! Scared me half to death disappearin’ like that!”

“Sorry, Auntie,” Isaac mumbled, coming out of the water to let Abigail pluck Jack off his back. “We were havin’ fun, didn’t mean to scare you.”

“I can see that,” Abigail said with a laugh as she hefted the dead weight of the sleeping child, fussing over his red shoulders and face before turning to Isaac and affectionately pinching his cheek. “Come on let’s get some food in you two.”

“We can even go into town, get somethin’ better than stew,” Uncle John continued, leading Isaac towards the edge of the camp, following after Abigail.

With how guilty he felt over worrying them Isaac was content to just allow them to fret and certainly wouldn’t complain about a nice, hot meal, but the circuitous route seemed strange, no quicker than just going through camp would be. He slowed to look up at Uncle John and found him trying futilely to cover the unease that lay thick over him like the humidity; still pulling Isaac along despite how he’d slowed.

Before Isaac could even ask what was wrong he caught a glimpse between tents and wagons and trees of a clump of men and saw a familiar silhouette, long been absent from the camp for nearly 3 days now.

“Is that Daddy?” Isaac asked any hint of exhaustion in his voice gone at the sight of him.

“Isaac, don’t they’re-” John barely got the reprimand out before Isaac was shaking off his grip and darting away, ducking under the table at the chuckwagon when he heard John still running after him.

It wasn’t like Isaac hadn’t listened in on important discussions before, what made this one so different?

“I don’t see the point in any of this!” Uncle Dutch yelled, and Isaac caught himself on the large tree in the center of camp to watch him stalk over to the table Grandpa was sitting at, Micah and, for some reason, Mr. Pearson following him imploringly; Daddy a terse shadow behind him.

“It’s a chance we gotta take,” Micah said in that same tone of voice he used when he told Uncle Dutch just how great he was, how honored he was to work for him, his simpering, pleading voice.

Isaac heard John come to a stop behind him and felt the grasp of fingers on his shoulder as his Uncle tried to pull him back. Isaac shrugged him off again and kept his eyes glued to the tense meeting of men, watching as Grandpa stood, irritation clear in every line of his body.

“What’re they talking about?” Isaac asked quietly, edging away from Uncle John and keeping his eye on Daddy and them.

“Nothin’ important, just come on now, leave ‘em to it.” Uncle John was a terrible liar, but a quick one and he’d grabbed Isaac again before he could make it around the tree.

“If it wasn’t important you wouldn’t be trying to get me away,” Isaac said, fighting against his grip.

“I killed Colm’s brother…”

Isaac froze in place, and Uncle John groaned in frustration behind him.

This was about the O’Driscolls.

Before either of him could move or speak Dutch looked over, casting his gaze away from the men staring at him as his eyes became shiny and wet, memories and emotions pulling on him. Isaac’s breath caught in his throat when Uncle Dutch saw him when he watched his expression twist in grief and anger, like fire, burning across his face

“Then he killed a woman I loved dear.” He took a deep breath, blinked away the brightness in his eyes, and gestured for him to come closer. “Ain’t that right, Isaac?”

Suddenly all the men were looking at him. Daddy and Grandpa looked like all the color had drained out of them upon finding that he was listening, and Micah looked like a cat who’d decided it was done playing with the mouse.

Isaac was glad that Uncle John didn’t leave him, that he came over with him, his tight grasp now turned into a supportive hand on his shoulder, now it felt like the only thing keeping him from running away.

“The boy here is exactly why we need to go, Dutch,” Micah said, coming around the table to push Isaac forward. “We need to protect the children, the women, from this god-awful feud. And if we even got a chance of ending it, ain’t it our job as men to take it?”

“Daddy, what’s he talkin’ about?” Isaac asked tentatively. “Where’re you goin’?”

Fear grew cold and hard in Isaac’s gut as Daddy hesitated, instead sharing a look with Grandpa, both of them looking tense and uncomfortable.

“An opportunity has fallen in our laps, my boy, to sort out this mess with the O’Driscolls,” Dutch answered, not sounding any surer then Daddy and Grandpa looked. “Though it relies on our foolishness to believe that Colm might be interested in talking.”

“He ain’t had anything to say in ‘bout 6 years, what’s changed now?” Uncle John asked pointedly, pushing past Micah none too gently to keep a protective arm around Isaac.

“Maybe he’s just as tired of fightin’ on all fronts as we are. I mean we’ll never know if we don’t go.” Micah gritted out, gesturing around at the peaceful scene that surrounded them. “They’re already nearby, they might know where we are now, what’s to stop them from rushing in and killin’ all of us?”

As frightening as the prospect was, Isaac was sure Micah didn’t know the power he wielded with that hypothetical, didn’t know the full story of Uncle Dutch killing Colm’s brother, how they’d only barely avoided that happening previously. But Isaac knew, and he could see the grim determination in his family, the way Unce Dutch and Daddy snarled like they were facing down the O’Driscoll brothers once more. Micah had hit the nail on the head, and whatever inhibitions they had were pushed to the side in favor of anger.

“You really think y’all can fix all this? Today? With just one talk?” Isaac asked, trying to catch anyone's gaze when they all seemed more intent on having silent conversations over his head. “That’s g-good right?”

He wanted to believe them, he wanted it to be possible more than anything. He couldn’t imagine the kind of ease that would come to him if the burden of worrying about Colm and his ilk was lifted, if there was one less group of people that wanted Daddy dead, if he didn’t have to go to sleep wondering if he’d ever see him again, or if he’d never wake up, either of them snuffed out like Aunt Annabelle was.

It was immeasurable. It was too good to be true.

“It very well could be.” Uncle Dutch clapped him on the shoulder. “Only one way to find out…Micah, Arthur, let’s ride.”

Isaac didn’t even realize he’d pulled away from Uncle John until he’d grabbed onto Daddy, wrinkling his vest in his tight-fisted grip. Daddy looked back at him, his worry plain.

“I-it’s a good opportunity,” Isaac muttered to himself, blushing as everyone stared at him. He knew that he was being a pain, that he was slowing them down, that he was being childish, but the childish part of him was desperate to keep ahold of Daddy and keep him safe in camp. “You’re gonna go a-and fix everything o-or they’re gonna be waitin’ to, to kill y’all-”

Isaac wheezed around the breath caught in his throat. The benefits possible were so grand it’d be foolish not to try, but the potential consequences were everything that Isaac feared and he knew that every nightmare of his could come true if he let go.

The choice was soon made for him as he was yanked away from Daddy forcefully, looking up with a sneer to find Micah hauling him off by the collar with a tobacco-stained grin. “Very touching, really, but we gotta go if we want to get there in time to set you up, Morgan.”

“Micah…” Daddy growled, his threat pushing him away from Isaac like a physical force.

“Listen, I’m just tryin’ to help the kid,” Micah said with his hands raised in surrender. “You gotta think of the big picture, Isaac, your Pa’s the best we got! If those O’Driscoll’s are up to somethin’ well I trust him best to put a stop to it. And that’s all you want right? For those nasty O’Driscolls to be stopped?”

“Y-yeah but-”

“Then it’s settled! We’ll go take care of everything, and you’ll wait right here for dear ol’ dad. You just gotta be patient, kid.”

Without another word Micah and Dutch headed over to their horses, Dutch throwing one last firm look over his shoulder at Arthur.

“Shouldn’t be long, you be good for Grandpa and Uncle John,” Daddy said, pretending to be nonchalant as he adjusted his belt and holster, but the rage in his eyes undercut the facade.

“He’ll be fine, Arthur, just…you be safe now,” Grandpa interjected as he sat down with a heavy sigh.

Isaac’s head span with how quickly everything had been decided, how brief Daddy had been in camp, and how little he’d seen of him before he’d been sent out again. His stomach churned with acid, anxious nerves like bitter poison in his gut, and all his flickering hope did was upset it further and clutter his words in his throat.

He was frozen even as Daddy squeezed his shoulder and left. Silent even after he said: “Be back soon.” And still despite his desire to chase after him. All Isaac could do was sit down with a heavy thud and hope that peace was achieved and that Daddy wasn’t made a liar; that all of this was worth it in the end.

* * *

Dutch and Micah came back without Daddy. They say he’s off taking care of other business. What other business? He said he’d be back.

Things didn’t shake out so well according to them. Nothing was fixed. So where is Daddy? And why isn’t Uncle Dutch concerned?

* * *

I always get worried when Daddy’s away, but this is different. Something’s wrong. It’s been two days now and Grandad still says everything’s ok.

I know he doesn’t believe it though. I ask him and he hesitates, and I know Grandad hates being proved wrong.

And then there’s Micah he’s hanging around Grandad like a bad smell lately, taking up the space that Daddy would usually be in. Keeps assuring him nothing’s wrong, that Daddy’s off running around like he does.

He’s wrong. I know he’s wrong. He wouldn’t be saying it so much if we needed convincing. But so long as he’s talking louder than I am folks will believe him.

* * *

Charles and Uncle John caught me.

I ran out on Bella hoping I could find Daddy. I’d overheard Dutch and Grandpa talking and heard where they’d gone originally, I was gonna track them down. Thinking about it now it’s plenty scary, but I couldn’t think of anything this morning past making sure Daddy was alright.

I didn’t even make it out of the state before they caught up to me though. They kept saying that Daddy would want to know that I was safe more than he’d want me rushing in to find him. Just because that’s true doesn’t mean it’s not wrong. Daddy would rather die than ask for help.

* * *

“Grandpa, it’s been three days,” Isaac shouted, pacing in circles around the camp table, too agitated to sit, too nervous to do anything but worry. “We need to find him!”

“You ain’t in any place to be makin’ demands, Isaac,” Grandpa scolded. “I thought you would’ve learned by now how dangerous running off by yourself is, especially here!”

“I don’t care! Daddy need help!”

“Even if that’s true, and I ain’t sayin’ it’s not-” Grandpa interrupted himself when Isaac moved to pitch a bigger fit over the issue being ignored. “You ain’t gonna be the one goin’ and gettin’ him, alright?”

“Well then who is?!” Never in his life had Isaac been so rude to his grandfather, but the longer this prolonged agony of waiting carried on the less he cared about trivial things like manners and propriety.

“I’ll have Charles go look, I swear. He’s been antsy too.”

“Then why’s it taken this long to do something about it?!” Isaac said, strangled as he tried not to sob openly in the middle of camp. He felt ready to crack open like his ribs were nothing more than a weakening dam, helpless against the pressure of panic.

“Your father is an independent man,” Grandpa said gently as he pulled Isaac closer. “I didn’t want to leap to conclusions when he very well could have been out on business. But you’re right, he’s been gone too long.”

Isaac breathed a sigh of relief and tried to ground himself with the familiar scent of herbs and the pestle-bitten fingers that carded through his hair. Charles was gonna go find Daddy, and he’d find him much quicker than Isaac would’ve, so it was all for the best in the end. Hopefully, by nightfall, Daddy would be back safe and sound and he could finally rest.

It was when they were going to Charles on guard duty that they saw it.

The lone horse riding down the trail to camp, with what could only be a corpse on its back. All dead blood and festering wounds. But then the corpse breathed, exhaling a broken groan, and suddenly it was Daddy on Llamrei, looking as if he’d been dragged to hell and barely made it back alive.

The world slowed as Isaac watched him, each movement or jolt painful and sharp, each wound and smear of blood startlingly clear even by the dying sunlight. He was so stunned, so shocked to silence that he could hardly comprehend the dark truth that lay before him, could hardly resent the fact that he’d been right. Instead, all he could think of was the day Daddy found him. When he’d rescued him from the cellar and the dark. The last day he’d seen Mama. Lying in the grave Daddy had painstakingly dug for her. Her pallid skin, her blackened wounds, her unblinking gaze, eyes filmed over in death, her horrible, awful stillness.

He could see Daddy’s chest move as he breathed, if weak and shallow, could see him twitch in pain as every step of Llamrei jolted every aching part of him, but Isaac knew. He knew that Daddy was on the cusp of that same stillness, that same endless sleep.

Charles and Grandpa were quick to act, calling for help, guiding Llamrei towards camp, and trying their best to catch Daddy as he limply slid off the side.

People were talking, yelling, freaking out over Daddy’s reappearance, he could tell, could see them running around like chickens with their heads cut off, but he couldn’t hear them, couldn’t hear anything over the pounding of his heart in his ears. Horror rushed through him like a river, beating against him, eroding him like sandstone, carving out anything that wasn’t the knowledge that Daddy had almost died.

His legs shook as he moved forward, his hands, cold and numb, pushed past bodies, unaware of who he slipped past, uncaring once they were out of his way. Everything felt disconnected, disjointed, unattached to Isaac Morgan, instead, he’d become just a body clawing its way forward until he stood beside Daddy.

Blood. Dirt. Flesh knitting itself back together. Bruises, yellowing and black, like he’d been hit by a train.

“I told you it was a set-up, Dutch.”

A voice so hoarse it was as if his throat had been ripped out and roughly reattached.

“My boy, my dear boy, what-”

Brown eyes meeting latewater blue. Shock and horror met pain and grim acceptance.

“They got me…but I got away.”

Daddy had almost died, he might not even make it through the night looking at the nasty divot taken out of his shoulder. The O’Driscolls had chewed him up and Daddy had dragged himself out. All because they’d been stupid enough to believe in parlay, to hope for peace. All because Isaac had been so terrified to lose his father that he almost had.

Dutch was yelling, always yelling, calling for help, rallying folks to carry Daddy back to his bed. Grandpa was frantically checking over the rotten-looking wounds, the smell of sickened flesh so familiar from his time at Pearson’s butcher table that Isaac could have thrown up then and there if he was in his body anymore, if he wasn’t watching the scramble of folks like ants over dropped sugar from above.

Someone was trying to pull him away, speaking soft words to him, trying to bring him back down to earth, but he was rooted firm to the ground, he was up in the boughs of the trees, he was lost in the sight of all that blood.

“Isaac, Isaac! Where is he?” That broken, hoarse voice called out, pulling him forward, pulling him down. Daddy fought against the folks gripping him, trying to carry him, fought to look through the gathered crowd until he found him.

Delirious with pain and blood loss, looking half-dead from his run-in, Daddy smiled in relief, some of his teeth missing, red streaked across the ones that remained. “You were right, ‘Liza. He’s just fine, just fine…”

As if the very sight of Isaac was the permission he needed, Daddy slumped over, finally succumbing to exhaustion and the crowd of people supporting him flew into a frenzy to get him laid down, get him checked over, get him fixed.

The rest of the camp watched on in horror as Daddy was carried away like a limpet, their stalwart supporter, protector, provider, now half dead, proof that the meeting with the O’Driscolls had gone very, very wrong.

Isaac let himself be pulled away, knowing that no matter where he went the sight of that blood-stained smile, of that cavernous wound, would not easily go away. Knowing that had it been anyone else they would be dead somewhere far off, wherever the O’Driscolls were hiding, that only Daddy could have survived hell and lived to see another day. Knowing that guilt was a pain he would only grow more acquainted with over the coming days, guilt of not stopping him, of not getting folks to go after him sooner, of being the thing that Daddy needed to throw himself on the line to protect, of being so useless.

He was adrift in fog, lost in the breakneck pace of tragedy, and yet he still managed to catch sight of Micah half-hidden by the shadow of the big tree, looking furious and disappointed before he saw Isaac in turn and shoved his nastiness behind a mask. He threw on a smile and winked at Isaac before disappearing into the chaos of camp, planting dread in his gut like a seed.

Chapter Text

Arthur can hear the distant night from where he hangs in the dank cellar, with the doors thrown open as they are, freedom so tantalizingly close yet agonizingly far away. The hush of breeze passing over grass, horses huffing, men chatting, warm fires crackling, the common sounds and comforts taunt him.

Though there are no cicadas and no thick summer night humidity, he figures they’re outside of Lemoyne, yet it’s not cold enough that he’d say they were in Ambarino but he can’t tell much else, no sound of water or anything more distinctive. He hears the cry of a hawk and closes his eyes to try and place it.

When he opens his eyes, Eliza is standing there.

No pale spector, no rotting skin or dirt-streaked hair, just, Eliza.

Despite her concern, she looks as warm as the sun, she looks more alive than Arthur feels. Vibrant blood pumping through her veins, her hands twisting around one another, her eyes shining with unshed tears, he would even say the scent of her familiar geranium and rose perfume wafts towards him, placing him in a kinder time then now for a brief, blissful moment.

“Arthur,” She breathes.

“‘Liza,” He grunts, her name feeling too precious, too unstained to be spit from between his teeth into this filthy room, but it’s pulled from him nonetheless.

“Oh, look at you, Arthur,” Her voice catches and breaks on his name and she approaches him in stops and starts, like she can’t tell if he’s safe to approach, if she might break him with her touch as illogical as that is. “How could they?”

“So, you’re sayin’ I ain’t pretty no more,” Arthur grits out with false humor, the distraction of her phantom presence not quite enough to quiet the loud pain in his shoulder and ankles and everything.

“Damn loud-mouthed fool,” She laughs despite herself, one phantom hand reaching out to brush over the hot, bright spot of his shoulder, where pain seems to pump like blood from a heart. He could swear he feels her delicate, work-worn fingers pressing coolness into his skin.

“What’re ya doin’ here? It’s just me, ‘Liza- thank God.” Talking is hard, hung up as he is, the pounding of his blood and pain rushes through his mind, narrowing his focus just to this dirt-encrusted cellar and his blood on the ground, he can barely keep his eyes open to look at Eliza, can barely think. “Tell me, am I dyin’ or dead?”

“You’re not dead,” Eliza says, panic in her voice, making his heart ache with how much she sounded like Isaac.

“So I’m dyin’, makes sense.” Arthur coughed, wincing as it tugged on everything. “Suppose I should thank you for comin’ to send me off.” The full meaning of his situation hit him all at once. That horrible worst-case scenario that kept Isaac up at night, his crimes catching up with him in the end. Arthur might die, tonight even, and Isaac would have no idea until it was too late. “I-I’m sorry, ‘Liza.”

“Don’t apologize!” Eliza said, tears streaking down her face, her expression twisting between gut-wrenching sympathy and storm-like fury. “You don’t deserve this.”

“I’m a bad man, ‘Liza, maybe I do.”

“No,” She said firmly, the bare suggestion of her touch against his fever-flushed face turned his face to hers. “No one deserves this.” If he closed his eyes it was like she was cradling him, gently trying to pry off the awful bag they’d covered his head in, soaked in sweat and blood and bile, sticking to him like a second skin. “N-now you listen to me, you’re not going to die here. No one’s ever killed Arthur Morgan before, why should that change now?”

Arthur laughed at the nonsense she repeated, a stupid affirmation he would give her when she worried over his dangerous work. He laughed at the delirium he found himself in, talking with a ghost, at how she was trying to lift his spirits and give him hope.

He laughed at how it had been days by now and no one but the dead had come looking for him.

“‘Less you got a gun, I don’t think there’s much I can do to save myself, darlin’.”

“You’ll figure it out, honey, you always do,” Eliza said, her cool fingers tracing over his face feeling more like the breeze than physical touch, the once familiar smell of her perfume fading as if it’d never been there, the heartfelt croon of her voice just a whisper in his mind. “You’re not alone, I’m right here.” Eliza’s voice cracked and wavered under her bubbling emotions, he could imagine how she’d shake with rage, how she’d bite her lip to stop her tears, how tightly she’d be holding his hand if she could.

“Don’t be scared, ‘Liza.” It’s all he can think to say, he hates seeing her upset, at least when she’s not up in a furious tizzy directed his way. The thought of her here, in this altar to blood and pain, turns his stomach, he’d send her away if he was strong enough, if he didn’t hate the thought of being alone, of being left to hang here like a dead cow hung up to bleed.

He pries open his eyes to catch one last fleeting glimpse of her, to try and remember that kinder place, remember anything that wasn’t these dark stones closing him in and this heated pain burning away at his body.

But as always, he is alone in the end.

Her perfume is replaced with his own disgusting, festering stench and the smell of stew that churns his stomach in want, when was the last time he’d eaten? Would he ever eat again? Her authoritative, southern tinged voice comforting him is long gone and instead he hears the sound of spurred boots coming down the stairs before him.

He opens his eyes to see Colm O’Driscoll smiling down at him like the wretched snake that he is, any trace of Eliza gone in the face of this man, the lantern he holds only accentuating the victorious gleam in his eyes.

“Arthur Morgan…it is good to see you.”

Then it all fades away to pain.

* * *

He wakes up with a start, his heart pounding like a runaway train down the tracks, and he is free from the cellar.

It has been days, even weeks now, and every time he wakes up he has to remind himself of this, that no matter how badly he aches, how weak he has become, at least he is not in the cellar, at least he is far away from Colm

He reorients himself, finds the familiar stitch in the canvas above his bed where it’d been mended, glances at the familiar pictures and mementos surrounding him, he turns to look at Isaac, sure he will find him in the bedroll beside him, safe and sound, and is hit with a bolt of panic when he finds it empty.

His body resists him as he tries to roll out of the cot to investigate, his shoulder sparking up in hot pain as he unthinkingly attempts to use that arm to push himself up, but none of it matters when Isaac is gone.

Someone is trying to push him back into bed, someone is talking to him, trying to calm him, but it’s impossible as long as that empty bedroll is there.

“Where is he? Where’s my son?” Arthur slurs out, his world tilts on an axis as the strength in his legs gives out, he might be strong enough to ignore the pain flowing through him like poison but the rest of his body isn’t; just flesh on the chopping block left out to rot.

“Arthur! Please, just sit, good lord,” Hosea becomes that person trying to quiet him, begging him to just lay back down, and Arthur can hardly keep his eyes open long enough to take in the bedraggled look of panic on his would-be father’s face. “You’re gonna rip open your stitches again at this rate.”

“W-where’s Isaac?” Arthur grips the older man’s sleeve as tightly as he can, almost knocking him over when Hosea finally gets him laid back down.

“He’s asleep, son, he’s in my tent, perfectly safe,” Hosea says, trying his best to free himself from Arthur’s grip and comfort him all the same. “Just lie still, I need to check-”

“No, where is he? I gotta-” Arthur panted, clutching at his chest as his heart beat a painful tattoo. Despite Hosea’s comforts, he couldn’t calm down without getting eyes on Isaac, without knowing exactly where he was. Every moment he was gone from his sight was another moment something terrible could happen, he knew this, and he’d been gone from camp, from his own mind, for weeks. “What if he ain’t? They could be here, ‘Sea, where is he?”

Visions of the O’Driscolls plagued him. The sight of Colm and Seamus standing amongst the fires they’d caused, Colm beating him with the butt of a gun while he hung by his ankles, Seamus and Colm celebrating a job well done in their camp like wolves among sheep. Knowing that Colm just as easily could have snatched Isaac away from him as he’d taken Annabelle.

“Lie back down and I’ll go wake him up, you stubborn bastard,” Hosea said much more gently than the sentiment deserved, his concern over Arthur in his addled state breaking through, making Hosea look softer and older, more fragile than he’d looked in a long time. “Just rest now please, I’ll be right back.”

Arthur watched as Hosea hurried across camp towards his tent, barely resisting the urge to tumble out of his cot after him, even with as much as the old man had pleaded with him to stay the screaming need to get up and find Isaac was louder than anything else in his mind.

But all the noise and pain and terror faded away when Hosea finally emerged from his tent with a bleary-eyed Isaac trailing behind him.

He was ok, he was alive.

It felt like Arthur could breathe for the first time since he’d woken up once Isaac greeted him with his sleep-worn rasp, “Hi, Daddy.”

“There you are,” Arthur said with a sigh of relief, grabbing Isaac’s hand as soon as he was near enough and squeezing it, taking comfort in the fact that Isaac was alright and that his worries were just fever-addled rambling. “Why’re you sleepin’ over there?”

“Grandpa thought it’d be better. Lots of people coming in and outta here,” Isaac replied dully. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“‘M sorry, darlin’, I’ll be better soon. Ain’t nothin’ I can’t handle…” Arthur mumbled as sleep clawed at him, but he resisted, trying to memorize every inch of his boy, remembering that dark moment under the O’Driscoll’s care where he wondered if he’d ever see him again. “You stay strong, be safe, can’t…can’t protect you right now…”

Isaac leaned down and kissed his sweat-sticky forehead, his hand trembling in Arthur’s, his voice still hoarse, but so achingly soft, “Just sleep, Daddy, I’ll still be here.”

“You’re not alone, I’m right here.”

“Y-you tell your mama I’m alright, she don’t need to worry,” Arthur rumbled, his words sticking together like he could hardly open his mouth to distinguish them, his eyes growing heavier as the adrenaline was washed out with relief.

He could hear a sharp, painful gasp from Hosea at the front of his bed, but he figured the old man’s lungs were acting up, the humidity down here was something awful.

By his side, Isaac stilled and didn’t respond for a moment, before clasping his hand even tighter. His voice coming to him so little and warbly he could almost imagine it was a much younger Isaac sitting with him, could imagine the boy had just woken from a nightmare and was coming to him for comfort, could imagine he was still strong enough to support his son like he was supposed to.

“I’ll tell her, Daddy, you’ll be just fine.”

And as if waiting for permission his hand grasping Isaac’s fell to hang beside the bed as he crashed into sleep as quickly as he’d awoken.

* * *

Hosea would pay a lot of money to hunt Colm O’Driscoll down and kill him like the dog he was. He had never been his greatest fan of the man and after what he’d done to Annabelle, what he’d done to Arthur? Colm should pray he’d never run into him again.

Arthur, his oldest, his first son, reduced to fevered delirium and days on end of restless sleep as sepsis ate away at him. They were doing their best to clear up the infection, he’d keep the arm at least, but every night Hosea wondered if his boy would wake up the next morning or be taken by a gun’s sick poison.

This last week he’d taken a turn for the better of actually waking up and talking, but it’d only taken a greater emotional toll on everyone with how he frantically called for Isaac, no matter where he was, to fret over the dread-weary boy before falling asleep again.

It shattered Hosea’s heart every time, not just Arthur’s mindless panic, ready at a moment’s notice to rip his body to pieces in the effort to find his son, but Isaac in the moments after. As silent as he was since Arthur had come back the moments after Arthur fell asleep it was like Isaac became impossibly distant, his body here, but his mind and his gaze far away.

“I’m sorry, Isaac,” Hosea sighed as Arthur fell back to what he hoped was a deep, dreamless sleep. “Third time this week-”

“Fourth,” Isaac interrupted, his words flat and his eyes looking past Hosea, avoiding any attempts to meet his gaze. “He called for me when Charles’ was watchin’ him the other day.”

Hosea squeezed his eyes shut for just a moment as if anything would change when he opened them, before coming around to gently loop an arm around Isaac’s shoulders.“Let’s get you back to bed.”

Isaac allowed himself to be led through the camp, his feet dragging through the dirt, slower and uncoordinated, as their circumstances weighed him down, threatening to bury him. Hosea was just praying that maybe this would be the night that would relieve Isaac of the heavy bags under his eyes and the unnatural quiet that plagued him. Maybe this time he’d actually rest and Arthur would be healed and everything would be back as it should be.

But he wasn’t quite so blindly optimistic as that.

He was making sure Isaac was turning in instead of staying up writing in his journal or staring into the night, keeping the lantern lowly lit to shed warm light in the tent when the boy spoke up, quiet and hoarse and more emotional than he’d been since Arthur got back. “Is Daddy ever gonna get better?”

“Of course he will, darling, he just needs a little more time.”

“It’s never been this bad,” Isaac whispered, more to himself than Hosea anymore. “He’s never had these fevers or woke up like this. He’s never-.” Isaac hiccuped on his words, biting back a sob that shook his shoulders regardless. “Never talked about Mama like she’s still here.”

Hosea patted the boy’s knee and tried to infuse his words with every bit of showmanship and sincerity that he’d fostered over the years, “Your Pa’s a strong man. He’ll be up on his feet in no time.”

Evidently, he had forgotten that Isaac had become well acquainted with his bravado, could see right through it to his real feelings, to the cold fear and doubt that had gripped his heart since seeing Arthur tumble off his horse.

Isaac turned over without another word, hiding under his quilt and shutting Hosea out, trying desperately to hide the stifled sniffling of tears waiting to shed. Hosea sighed, heavy and disappointed in himself, and rubbed Issac’s back through the quilt before leaving, feeling as if he’d left the boy in a worse state than he’d found him.

Dutifully he hurried back over to Arthur’s tent, anxious as usual to leave the man alone for more than a moment when the drawn flaps of Dutch’s tent parted.

“Hosea, if you have a moment…” Dutch emerged from his tent flagging him down, “Trelawney got a tip for us on a job, I think we can just send Sean and Lenny and still be alright but you tell me if you think they’re ready for it.”

Ringed hands pushed folded notes covered in Trelawney’s looping handwriting towards him and there was nothing he could think of that he wanted to do less than help Dutch, of all people, talk over jobs.

“Oh, now you want to hear what I have to think.” He sneered, trying to stop himself from slowing down to fight with Dutch, all of his frustration and anger were boiling too close to the surface, he didn’t have the will to restrain himself right now. Especially not when Dutch stood there looking unbothered like he was unaware of the darkness that lingered in the tents surrounding his own.

‘It’s a trap.’

“I'm sorry?”

‘We have to try.’

“I'm a little busy right now, Dutch,” Hosea grumbled, pushing past the other man as he stalked away.

“Well, now hang on,” Dutch had the audacity to grab Hosea’s arm and stop him in his tracks, his clever gaze scanning for clues. “If you’ve got something to say, I want to hear it.”

“I ain’t aiming to cause a scene, Dutch.” Hosea hissed, feeling the lack of sleep he’d been cursed with the past week or so with unpleasant clarity. “So there isn’t anything for me to say.”

“What could I have possibly done this time, Hosea?” Dutch griped, rising to Hosea’s challenge as fast as dry wood to a flame; begging to be lit.

“You have got some nerve, Dutch van Der Linde,” Hosea growled, whipping around to glare at his partner, and decided very quickly that they weren’t doing this here. Hosea grabbed Dutch’s wrist, pulling him along out to the woods, sending John over to Arthur with a bark of an order, Dutch complaining the whole time.

Only once the two of them were finally far enough away that they were lit more by the moonlight than the warm campfires did he let Dutch go, and let that boiling rage building up behind his teeth loose.

“Are you stupid or just playing dumb?” Hosea said, whirling around to jab at Dutch. “You really can’t think of a single thing you’ve done to ‘upset’ me? Hell, we’re way past upset-”

“I can’t read your damn mind!” Dutch stalked away to pace around the clearing, his whole back one long tense line. “We ain’t hardly had a chance to talk lately, Hosea, we’ve both been busy I just-”

“Yes, Dutch, I’ve been busy taking care of Arthur who’s got one foot in the grave and Isaac who’s so far gone sometimes he might as well be on the moon…” Hosea ground his teeth together at the thought of how broken his boys had been left. “And where are you?! That is our son, Dutch, our grandson!”

Dutch looked at him with a wild, wounded expression, like he couldn’t decide whether to let the hurt or the anger win. Hosea could barely look at him, now that he’d torn down the dam on all the venomous words that had been brewing in him he couldn’t stop them. “I mean, what were you thinking? Listening to Micah, trying to work with Colm? You weren’t born yesterday!”

“Forgive me for looking out for our best interests!” Dutch hollered, his words cresting and crashing like waves against the coast. “Forgive me for reaching for any grasp of hope we might have in this goddamn mess we’ve found ourselves in!”

“Well, we’re in an even bigger mess now!” Hosea yelled back, throwing his hands up in frustration. “And what are you doing about that?”

“I am trying to keep our heads above water! With Arthur out of commission, we are vulnerable, and God forbid if I leave us unprepared if he…” Dutch winced and choked back whatever else he might’ve said, looking more afraid than Hosea had seen him in a long time, his comfortable layers of obscurity and charm peeled away in the heat of their argument, leaving him with the harsh truth he’d been avoiding.

Hosea closed the short distance between them to grab Dutch’s collar and force him to meet his gaze, forcing him to hear every ice-cold word, “If Arthur dies because you sent him out on that godforsaken job I will kill you. I promise you that, Dutch.”

“So you blame me, is that it?” Dutch easily pushed him off, adjusting his vest to try and hide the fearsome quake in his hands. His voice like the storm preceding a tornado, heralding something terrible, carrying only a fraction of the power that would rain down.

Hosea wished it was that simple, he wished he could pin all this awfulness on Dutch with a clear conscience, but as always things became blurry and gray. He knew Colm was the real villain in all this, that it was by his hands that left Arthur so broken, but if Dutch hadn’t fallen for his lies if he hadn’t listened to Micah if he’d listened to him like he was supposed to, like he always had, then none of this would have happened.

Maybe it wasn’t Dutch’s fault at all, maybe he could spend his energy better on hunting down Colm or drowning Micah in the lake, but no matter the blame it still burned him to see Dutch skirting Arthur’s tent, glancing away from Isaac like it was of no concern to him, he wanted this right here, Dutch emotional and in his face, Dutch proving that he still cared after all when he’d been spending so much time withdrawing from Hosea, trying to prove the opposite.

“I just want to know when you stopped listening to me.” As soon as he said it he knew it was the wrong thing to say, Dutch’s glower only grew stormier, his eyes alight with rage. The ‘I told you so’ dancing between them like a spark.

“I am not Arthur’s master, Hosea, he is a grown man. If he didn’t want to come he wouldn’t’ve,” Dutch lied and lied and lied, to himself, to Hosea, to anyone that would listen to skirt the shadow of doubt. “Now I’d thank you to focus on more productive things than pointing fingers, I’m sure Arthur would appreciate it, leavin’ him alone like that.”

Before Hosea could snap at him or even try and fix it, Dutch turned on his heel without another word and stomped back to camp leaving Hosea in the dark pitch of the lonely night, even the moon gone behind clouds.

“Oh, Bessie,” Hosea whispered hoarsely. “Give me strength.”

* * *

Since he was young Isaac would see the thick, stifling darkness of the cellar every time he closed his eyes to sleep, he’d hear the loud bang of the shotgun blasts that heralded his mother’s death in the quiet moments, but now he knew he would not have a moment undisturbed by the memory of Daddy riding half-dead into camp and collapsing under the weight of his injuries and infections.

It had been two weeks and Daddy was barely hanging on. Grandpa and Miss Grimshaw had cleaned the nasty gunshot wound in his shoulder and managed to beat back the sepsis that threatened it, saving his arm and life with it. But the rest of his injuries and traumas were too weighty for him to stay awake longer than a few hours at a time, and when he was awake it was rare he wasn’t delirious.

Folks around camp kept trying to distract Isaac, tried to draw him away from the closed curtains of his and Daddy’s tent, Grandpa even brought him over to his tent so he couldn’t lie awake long into the night and stare at him, waiting for the moment when he would stop breathing, waiting for the abuse to catch up to him and snuff him out.

But distractions could only take Isaac so far, when the memory of Daddy collapsing was burned into his vision, when the man cried out for Dutch who merely circled the tent like a skittish cat, or when his mutterings turned into a conversation, talking to Isaac’s mama, begging her for forgiveness.

The worst would be when Daddy would jolt awake from sleep and delirium, suddenly lucid for precious few moments and call out for Isaac, not calming down or falling back asleep until he could clutch the boy close, feel his breath and heart beating, confirm he still lived as if his absence would secure Isaac’s death.

Isaac craved those moments of lucidity as much as they worried him, he wanted his Pa back, he wanted to know he was ok just as much as Daddy wanted to check he breathed. But every time Daddy got his answer and fell back asleep knowing his boy was alive and well Isaac was left drowning in uselessness.

He’d been foolish enough to believe in the idea of peace with the O’Driscolls, he’d wanted this parley to go well so much, and now in the aftermath, he couldn’t help feeling guilty. Daddy was convinced to go in the end because he was worried about Isaac, he nearly lost his life in the pursuit of improving things for him and the rest of the gang. He gave and gave and gave until he had nothing left, and here he lay, broken, empty of anything more to give.

Waking up every day and knowing Daddy was still hurting, hearing the folks around camp whisper and worry when they thought he couldn’t hear them, catching Micah staring at where Daddy was recovering with a scowl on his face, watching Uncle Dutch sit and read and try not to hear Arthur, frayed Isaac’s nerves, tindered rage in his heart in a way altogether foreign to him until these past weeks.

He felt wild and dangerous some days, and distant and empty on others. He was worried that he might lash out at the next person who talked to him, or that if he closed his eyes he’d disappear, that Daddy would die in that instant.

Too much, too little, too angry, too hopeless, too nothing.

All of it made him sick, made his skin feel too tight, he wanted to break things, wanted to shake Daddy awake, he wanted to dive down deep into the lake until his lungs threatened to burst, force himself to feel relief instead of nothing at all. But he wouldn’t cause a fuss, wouldn’t add one more problem onto their already toppling pile, so he tore up his wrists, gnawed on his nails and fingers until they were as raw and tender as a peeling sunburn, and passed through camp silently like a ghost.

He hadn’t spoken at all today, not even to Grandpa when he’d come back in the early morning, looking worried and tired after staying up to watch over Arthur. Isaac had ignored his greeting, ignored the same questions that built up in his throat, ‘How is Daddy? Is he alright? Does he need anything?’, if only to avoid the same answers, ‘It’ll take time. All he needs is you to be strong.’ and pushed past him to leave.

The uselessness he felt thinking about Daddy in the next tent over made his skin itch and his thoughts buzz unpleasantly, making him desperate to move. So Isaac threw himself at the chores around camp as soon as there was enough daylight to see.

Moving the bags of barley and grain, feeding the chickens and mucking out the coop, dropping hay bales that weighed about as much as him amongst the horses, filling buckets, chopping wood, scrubbing the dishes in the weak morning light.

His body was moving on pure momentum, by the time noon had come he’d long passed the point of pleasant soreness from the labor. He could feel his stomach sizzling in displeasure, his limbs leaden and weak, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten, too weak, too absent to push himself to tolerate more than bland crackers. If he stood too quickly his world would tilt and threaten to send him tumbling to the ground, his hands and arms were so raw and sore from his continued biting and scratching that they loudly resisted the effort of carrying things to and fro; but he needed to keep going, this was the only thing he could do.

Without Daddy to help the cracks in their camp had become evident, how he’d managed to keep them afloat both through the money he brought in and the work he did when he wasn’t away. Grandpa had gone hoarse with how much he’d hollered at the other men to pick up the slack, ready to kick or lob a bottle at any man he’d found slacking. And Charles, already doing more than two men’s fair share of labor was threatening to work himself to death so the more Isaac could do the less Charles had to, the more time the man could spend at Daddy’s bedside, allowing Grandpa and Uncle John and Aunt Abigail a break. Because Isaac couldn’t be the one to sit there, he couldn’t just watch Daddy struggle to stay alive, he couldn’t.

So he pushed himself forward, found the next task, and kept working until all he could feel was exhaustion.

Since he’d started his assault on the undone tasks of camp Grimshaw and the other ladies had gotten out the big copper pots for the washing and set the coals up underneath them for boiling, using the water that Isaac had lugged in to fill the pots. And by the time Isaac wandered over, no less settled and still buzzing with energy they had the washboards out and were thrashing the lye-soaked laundry, the ladies telling stories and singing songs as they worked.

Isaac had barely stepped near them, hadn’t even said anything when Miss Grimshaw called out, her sleeves rolled up and her hair pulled back tight. “Go set up the lines for hanging, boy, then come help us with the wringing.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Isaac acquiesced, his voice creaky and rough for having not spoken the last day or so, and set about the assigned task, grateful for being able to help.

Behind him he could hear harsh sloshing of water as Karen started scrubbing whatever poor shirt she had at her whim with a vengeance, biting out at Miss Grimshaw in her high, carrying voice. “He ain’t your serving boy!”

“We all have to help,” Miss Grimshaw said in her lecturing tone, softening as she continued to speak. “And you know the boy ain’t shy to work.”

“Well, you think you’d give him some slack considerin’ Arthur’s up and dying-”

The sound of a wet hand slapping Karen was loud in the slowly waking camp and the ensuing lecture was hissed and quiet.

The work of scrubbing and wringing and washing the remaining clothes passed by in a daze for Isaac, trying to focus on the task at hand when all he could think of was Karen’s condemnation and the closed flaps hiding Daddy. By the time he resuscitated from the overwhelming dread pounding away in his skull, he’d been given a basket of wet clothes and left in front of one of the lines he’d hung, trailing down the beach behind their camp, prepared to dry their clothes in the hot summer heat and rich lakewater air.

He set about his task but found his hands would not stop shaking. His refuge of chores had been interrupted by Karen’s words, and now the memories of that last day with Mama, a white sheet in his hand hung up on the line and suddenly he could smell Oklahoma again. He gripped his hair hard and tried desperately to keep himself in the now, to keep away from the dark cellar, but the now had Daddy delirious and bedridden, so he needed to find less than now, he needed to find nothing but the task before him.

Isaac grabbed the next wet lump of clothing in his basket and aggressively ripped clothespins off the clacking string of them, nearly sending the whole thing to the dirt, the sooner he finished his share the sooner he could find something else to distract him.

The final clothespin put Isaac at eye level with Miss Grimshaw’s handiwork in the union suit hanging before him. A dark blue flannel patch, the last vestige of some unsalvageable shirt, keeping the left shoulder of the suit together, a big patch but not big enough to hide the dark brown blood stains emanating from the tear, too deeply set to be washed away with the kerosene.

The little details all came together at once and Isaac realized with a jolt that he was holding the suit his Daddy crawled his way out of hell in. The suit he’d been shot and left to die in, the very last of his dignity when the O’Driscolls had endeavored to take everything else. Clothes were so precious and so few for folks like them, so even this miserable rag had lived to see another day.

A raw, shattered sob broke free from the quivering cage of Isaac’s ribs, fruitlessly trying to keep his heart locked away, but the sight of the union suit had ripped apart that binding.

All the rage and misery he’d been feeling the past few weeks came out in ragged sobs, punching through painfully clenched teeth. He wanted Daddy to be alright, he wanted them all to be safe, and he wanted awful things to stop happening to the people he loved.

The animal lurking in his skin, making him itchy and short-tempered seemed to press closer to the surface, as his wishes and fears bled out of him in tears, seemed to grow hungrier as he cried, turning every sob into the prelude of a bigger one.

“You know,” Micah’s lazy drawl startled Isaac so much he was sent into a coughing fit, the beast caught in his throat, clawing to get out. Isaac whirled around, as he found his breath again, and saw Micah leaning against the barrel the ledger sat on, sharpening his knife, and watching him. “I think you’re real lucky, boy. Dear old Dad ain’t around to see you lily-livered and crying while doin’ women’s work. Real lucky indeed.”

Finally, the beast broke free.

Isaac lunged at Micah, a hoarse scream of fury as he knocked the outlaw to the ground, his surprise leaving him vulnerable, sending the knife and the barrels beside him tumbling to the ground. Isaac could hear the money in the donation box clang around loudly as it fell, could hear the camp erupt around them, shocked at polite Isaac replaced by the feral child in their midst, but he paid them no mind, taking advantage of every moment Micah didn’t shove him off.

Isaac was thin and small, a wan shadow of his barrel-chested Pa, and certainly no match for burly Charles or Bill, but his arms were wiry and strong from years of hard-working and chores around camp, so when he punched Micah in the face he punched hard. Just like Daddy taught him to. He got in three or four good hits, leaving Micah’s nose a bloody mess, clumping in his already disgusting mustache before the outlaw threw him off and against the barrels.

Isaac hissed when his head bounced off the wood but he didn’t stay down for long, springing up to jump at Micah again who had rolled to his feet, wiping the blood off his face and snarling like a mangy dog at Isaac. Before he could reach him, strong arms grabbed him by the waist and hauled him away.

“Jesus Christ, kid!”

Isaac looked up to see Uncle John holding him back, the friendly face did nothing to calm him down or stop him from scratching and tugging at John’s arms to try and break free.

Uncle John managed to keep his grip and snarled at Micah, “Ain’t you have better things to do than fight children?”

“I ain’t done shit!” Micah yelled back. “Little moron attacked me, ain’t got no more sense than that daddy of his.”

“You shut your mouth!” Isaac screeched and pushed against the scarred arms restraining him even harder, barely even hearing Uncle John’s groan of frustration.

“What in the hell is going on here?” Dutch’s powerful holler brought the fight to a standstill as he marched over, his baleful glare inspecting the situation, assessing Micah’s bruising, bloody face, and Isaac’s red knuckles.

When he finally paused in his violent rebellion against Uncle John’s restraint he could actually see the crowd he’d drawn in his fit of rage, could feel the heavy weight of all the eyes in camp turned on him. Half the folks were laughing and cheering, greatly amused by Isaac giving Micah a long-awaited reckoning, while the others watched, shocked and concerned.

Aunt Abigail standing with a stillness that told Isaac she was two seconds away from marching over here herself, Miss Grimshaw and Tilly staring wide-eyed like they couldn’t believe it was him, Charles stepping away from Daddy’s side for a moment to check on the disturbance, his panic quickly falling to concern at the sight of Isaac, weighing heavy on his already worry-weary face, and Grandpa glaring bloody murder at Micah, one hand hovering over his gun, seconds away from killing him in the middle of camp, just waiting for a reason.

Isaac felt sick with guilt, all the trouble he’d gone through not to be any more of a burden, not to worry folks more when tensions were already so high, to be good, was torn to shreds, laid at their feet like the money that had been knocked from the box in their tussle. The beast that had taken blessed control of him, leading with mindless rage, retreated, leaving him shaking with the lack of it.

“I was simply tryin’ to have a conversation and the kid went nuts!” Micah beseeched Dutch, spreading his hands wide as if presenting evidence of his innocence, his blood dripping from his fingers. “I didn’t lay a hand on him, was just defendin’ myself.”

“Isaac?” Dutch turned to him, his gaze sharp as he took in his disheveled, shaking form.

Isaac felt his breathing get quicker as his face flushed in embarrassment. Not since he was little had he had such an outburst in camp, had he had everyone’s undivided attention, it was too much. He wanted to run away but he was only standing because Uncle John was still holding him back, as if he had any strength to do more than curl up into a shameful ball.

“H-he was bein’ rude, he was sayin’ I was lucky Daddy was hurt,” Isaac tried to put the spark igniting his fuse into words and felt that it woefully underrepresented the poison Micah had thrown at him. He could not articulate to the camp, to Dutch, just how angry he’d been, just how much Micah deserved it.

Dutch looked at him like he was so pitiful, made him feel so small and silly in just that scant second of eye contact.

“I understand things are hard right now, son, and I know you miss Arthur, but that isn’t a reason to start fights. In these trying times we must stand united-”

“It’s all his fault,” Isaac spit out, furious once more as Dutch turned to address the rest of camp, gearing up for another speech, dismissing Isaac and Arthur in the turn of his heel. “Micah got folks killed in Blackwater, and he nearly got Daddy killed too. He was mad when he came back at all, and you’re just gonna let him get away with it!”

Isaac was screeching at the end of his accusation, his throat raw around the angry words, around the force of so many buried thoughts and feelings being laid bare to everyone. He needed Dutch to understand, and yet every time he seemed to choose ignorance.

“John, get him out of here. He needs to walk it off and come back with a cool head, understood?” He said with a sharpness like a blade, his teeth on the edge of a snarl.

“Dutch-”

“Now, John,” Dutch said with a wave of his hand, dismissing them. “I will not be listening to this disrespect.”

The silence that followed his condemnation was so weighty that there was no room for anything else, no words no arguments, nothing but the sound of John awkwardly shuffling before sighing, “Come on kid, let’s take a walk,”

As Uncle John led him away from the gathered crowd with one gun-calloused hand, Micah’s slithering voice followed them from the shoreline. “I can’t say I blame him, Dutch, it’s hard for us all. I mean what’s a boy supposed to do without his father?”

* * *

“Get off of me!” Isaac gritted out, trying to shake off Uncle John’s grip on him, aggressively wiping the tears streaking down his face away.

“Take a breath, kid,” John said as he pushed Isaac down to sit on the crumpled remains of a house that lay near the woods surrounding the camp.

The rough, sun-warmed bricks caught on Isaac’s clothes and sensitive fingers but he gripped them harder regardless, trying to ground himself on the neutral stone, to feel the warmth and nothing else.

“You wanna tell me what the hell that was?” Uncle John scolded, standing there with his arms crossed looking stern and disappointed in a way that raised Isaac’s shoulders around his ears. But the shame he might’ve felt at his Uncle’s expression was overridden by louder, purer instincts of rebellion. John wasn’t his Pa, he wasn’t in charge of him, and he was only acting like this because Dutch told him to.

“I ain’t wrong!” Isaac stood to yell at Uncle John. “You heard him! He’s awful, he deserved it!”

“I wasn’t saying he didn’t! Jesus Christ.” John pushed Isaac back down to sit, holding him down with a firm grasp on his shoulders. “Just ain’t like you to haul off on folks like that and I’m tryin’ to make sure you don’t do it again! We don’t need more trouble.”

Usually he had no problem with his family touching him, there was no itching or uncomfortable heat like there was with strangers, but right now, after the morning he’d had, the weeks he’d been having, Uncle John plainly saying what Isaac had been so afraid to hear, the last thing he wanted right now was to even have to talk to anyone else. So even as he burst into painful sobs he roughly shoved John’s offending touch away, curling into himself and rocking back and forth like he might be able to withstand the waves of tumultuous emotions that rocked him on his own.

“It ain’t fair!” Isaac managed to gasp out through his tears, not even sparing a look at Uncle John’s panicked expression. “Daddy didn’t deserve to get hurt! It’s all Micah’s fault!”

“You’re right, it ain’t fair,” John finally responded after a long moment of wracking his brain for something to say. “But it doesn’t matter whose fault it is or what we wished happened. Arthur knows what the risks are, he knows what’s at stake, all that’s important right now is making sure we take care of him, alright? And you can’t do that if you’re getting your clock cleaned by folks like Micah. You just gotta stay out of trouble, don’t go and give Arthur more to worry about.”

“Stop saying that!” Isaac yelled. “Everyone’s always saying I gotta be strong and I gotta be good but that’s not gonna fix anything!”

“It’s not your job to fix anything!” John yelled back before remembering himself and who he was arguing with, speaking with forced calm. “You just gotta be patient, and keep your head on straight, things will be back to normal soon.”

“No!” Isaac argued obstinately. “That’s not good enough!”

“Well, there ain’t no other way around it, boy! We got no other choice but to wait, and we can’t have you starting fights anymore, so what are we gonna do?”

If waiting meant knowing that Daddy would recover and things would be perfectly fine from there he wouldn’t mind the waiting. But waiting for Daddy to recover just to have to watch him dive right back into the life that had nearly killed him again and again? No, Isaac knew now that their normal was no longer acceptable, if things like this could happen. If people like Micah and Colm were so readily able to come in and wreck everything for their own amusement without punishment.

Something needed to change.

The thought sparked something in him, something bright and warm, fire to his hopeless distant chill over the past few weeks, a spark of inspiration, hope, alighting upon the idea that he could do something. Especially if no one else will.

He thought back to sitting in the train station with Miss Mary, he thought about her parting wisdom, ‘There’s always room for what you want if you try hard enough’. And all he wanted right now was for all this pain and strife and terror to be behind them, he wanted the easy days with his family, he wanted that house by the lake that he and Daddy had talked about, he wanted to be done like Uncle Dutch kept promising they would be.

Uncle John was still talking, lecturing him or comforting him. It didn't make a difference, he was a million miles away now, thoughts swarming his brain like a flock of birds, chatting in a cacophonous symphony, each fragment of an idea coming together into a new shiny plan, all assuring him of one thing: He wasn’t going to be useless anymore.

* * *

Grandpa made me apologize to Uncle Dutch, once Uncle John and I came back, after fussing over me for a while. I don’t think I’m in trouble with him, especially ‘cause he’s not making me apologize to Micah, but I think Uncle Dutch was still sore over me talking back and needed to hear it. Judging by how he was hauling off on Miss O’Shea when we came to his tent I would say he was going to make it everyone’s problem until I did.

I was so ready to still be angry at Uncle Dutch, but he actually apologized to me too! He said he was sorry things have been so hard and that I have been left to the worst of it. He doesn’t want me hitting folks but he understands my frustration.

He seemed so genuine, and he and Grandpa were actually talking nice to each other again! Dutch was talking about how hard he's been working to keep us above water with Daddy resting, he was talking about land he wants to buy once we rob these families. He’s got all these plans and if he’s right then Daddy won't be sent right back out to die and we can finally get somewhere safe.

Problem is, I’ve heard it all before.

He says it’s what it’s all been about; but we’ve been so close so many times. We still don’t know why he backed out of the land in California, he could’ve fixed everything then, all this suffering could’ve been avoided.

I want to believe him, I really do, but I think it’s time to start putting things into action instead of words.

All this boils down to in the end is money. We’re on the run because of money, we’re getting into more trouble because of money, we’re doing everything to get money but it’s never enough; except the one time it was.

People died because of that money, people are still dying because of that money, and it ain’t right that for all the bad that’s come from it there can’t be good as well.

I’m gonna come up with a plan, just like Grandpa says you can’t do anything hoping for the best if you don’t have a plan. Then I’m gonna get folks on my side, then, once the time’s right, we’re going to Blackwater.

Chapter Text

The night was as warm and thick with scent and sound as it always was at Clemons Point, cicadas making their mark on the night, the crackling sound of logs and the tendrils of smoke they produced, the gentle lapping of the lake upon the rocky shore and it’s curls of breeze bringing brief respites of coolness. Over the calm, landscape of sensation, low, mindful chatter abounded everywhere in camp as it was known to do, but an unlikely group at the farthest campfire produced a bubble of tense conversation that only the horses could hear.

“...And with all of y’all, I think we can find the money and be back safe in about three days.” Isaac clasped his hands together as he finished the last of his plea to those he’d assembled, Mrs. Adler, deep in thought, Kieran staring at him wide-eyed, and Trelawny doing his very best to hide the aneurysm it looked like he was having. “What d’you think?”

“I think you’ve gone rather insane!” Trelawny hissed at him. “What could have possessed you to think this is a good idea?”

“Something needs to change!” Isaac whisper-shouted back, taking care not to speak loud enough for their voices to carry to the main branch of camp and reveal their discreet midnight meeting. “This can fix everything.”

“And do a very good job in getting us killed!”

“What choice do we have?” Isaac threw a wild arm behind him to gesture to the dark, shadowed form of his and Daddy’s tent where he lay recovering. “Things are getting worse every day, we have a one-way ticket out of all of this sitting in Blackwater and I know exactly where it is, what’s the problem?”

“The problem is this is a wildly dangerous proposition you’ve dropped at our feet and it can only end in things getting even worse!” Trelawny stood to gesture across the lake where Blackwater stood, looking more like a carnival barker revealing his next act than a frazzled man trying to talk down disaster. “Blackwater is crawling with Pinkertons and lawmen, that money is as good as gone, dear boy, just forget it.”

“Yes, but you know it’s crawling with lawmen because you’ve gone in there!” Isaac said, excitement tinging his voice for the first time in weeks. “They don’t know who you are, and they especially don’t know Mr. Duffy and Mrs. Adler! It won’t matter that they’re all over the place because they won’t even know who to look for.”

“Well, what about you?” Trelawny retorted, turning back to Isaac. “Sure, we won’t be wanted but I heard about your little tet-a-tet at the riverside, you don’t think those fellows wouldn’t recognize you? Doesn’t that go against your premise?”

“Those two are looking for us here,” Isaac argued, wishing Trelawny would stop trying to poke holes in his plan, would stop slowing them down because without the forward momentum fear and doubt could catch up to him, could whisper those same questions in his ear, but he had to keep pushing past it. “They’re not gonna be back in Blackwater ‘cause Daddy and them are staying far away, and the other agents won’t look twice at me because I’m just a kid.”

“Precisely! You are a child you shouldn’t be worrying about all of this, let alone going on such dangerous missions-”

“I was on the ferry job,” Isaac interrupted, tired of being pushed to the side time and time again yet still being made to face the consequences. “I was already on a dangerous mission, Pinkertons were trying to shoot me too. I’ve seen lots of awful things, and none of it was stopped because I was too young to see it.” Isaac took a deep breath and looked away from their stunned expressions, talking into the fire more than anything else. “Just ‘cause everyone says I’m too young to act doesn’t mean that I’m too young to suffer, and I’m tired of it.”

“That’s how you know where the money from the ferry is,” Trelawny said, his voice hushed as puzzle pieces slotted together. “You hid it.”

Isaac nodded and plucked at a loose thread on his pants. “I was under the pier, and when they brought the ferry back Uncle Dutch threw the money off the side and I tucked it away. We were supposed to come back for it the next day but…”

Quiet followed Isaac’s confession, as if everyone was holding their breath, like invoking the catalyst of so much trouble would only invite more. Sadie’s expression had fallen into furrows of anger, the flames throwing flickering shadows across her glower, but Kieran across from her looked determined.

Trelawny sighed and scrubbed his face roughly, unknowingly mussing his mustache, “How’re we even supposed to sneak out of here with you, my boy? Tensions are running high and I can’t imagine that’d go well with your father.”

“We’ll wait until Daddy’s better enough to remember that I’m gone and then you just tell Grandpa that you want to take me along with you to get a new wagon, say that you want to give me a break from everything that's been happening. That’ll be easy to believe.”

“And are you sure there isn’t a shred of truth in that, Isaac? This seems like drastic measures to take, measures which could very well get you hurt,” Trelawny took a deep breath before facing Isaac head-on, waiting until he looked up to continue talking. “How about the three of us go, enact your mad plan, and retrieve the money, and you stay here safe. This will ensure at least that we are not torn to shreds by dear King Arthur once he’s up on his feet.”

“No!” Isaac rushed to stand, jabbing at Trelawny’s satin vest as he spoke. “If I’m not going then I ain’t tellin’ you where it’s hidden. I ain’t dumb. Either I go or this ain’t happening!”

“Well then it’s not happening, Isaac-”

“I’ll go,” Kieran suddenly interjected, drawing Trelawny’s baleful scowl and an eyebrow raised in cruel amusement from Sadie. “You’re right, Mr. Trelawny, it’ll be dangerous, but Isaac’s right too, that money would do a whole lot of good for everyone. And anyways…” Kieran deflated a little as Trelawny’s glare didn’t abate, shrinking back into his tall frame. “Ain’t it better he came and got help? He could’ve just left and gotten killed all on his own.”

Bella off grazing beside them huffed and flicked her tail as if emphasizing Isaac’s ability to abscond.

“I'll do it, I’ll come along for the ride, if I know that you can handle it, Isaac.” She leaned in close and fixed him with an appraising stare, making him straighten up in his seat under her scrutiny. “We might be shot at, we might get hurt, God forbid some of us might get captured or even die, you might get hurt or worse. Do you understand? Are you ready for that?”

Isaac remembered running through the streets of Blackwater with Uncle Davey at his back urging him forward, he remembered the sound of bullets whizzing past them, and the way Uncle Davey jolted behind him when he’d gotten shot himself. The smell of the dusty roads and lake air, tainted by fired gunpowder, the feeling of his heart beating so hard he could feel it in his skull. All of it crystalized in a moment of pure panic.

But if he was right, if they could get that money, then none of them would have to face that again. All he had to do was be brave, be fearless and strong like Daddy for one day, and everything would be better.

“Yeah,” He replied softly. “I’m ready.”

“Then I’ll go,” She said as she leaned back, releasing the tension of the staredown between the two of them with a slow curling smile. “I think Arthur would feel better knowing someone who could actually hold their own in a fight was coming anyway.”

Her mocking, needling words only proved to make Kieran cower further into his dusty overcoat and Trelawny puffed up in indignation at the truthful insult.

“I could tell Hosea,” Trelawny finally said after a long contemplative pause. “He’d put a stop to this.”

Isaac felt his breath freeze in his throat at the idea. Grandpa would have a conniption if he’d heard what Isaac was planning, he’d make sure that Isaac didn’t leave camp until he was old and gray himself. Not to mention the thought of the crushing guilt at seeing how horribly worried Grandpa would be at the mere idea of any of this.

“But instead I shall submit myself to the depths of reckless stupidity that you all seem to be swimming in,” Trelawny sighed. “I suppose the young O’Driscoll is right and I should be only grateful that you didn’t go off alone as it will take a fair few more helping hands than your own, to come out of this rich and unscathed.”

“Really?” Isaac gasped, he could scarcely believe it, once Trelawny had started poking holes in the situation and lamenting over his safety he’d been convinced that the best he could hope for would be for the man to stay quiet about all this, and even that had seemed a far stretch, but he felt much more secure in his endeavor with all three of them willing to help.

“Yes, I’ve gone just as mad as you all it seems.” Trelawny clasped his hands and leaned forward, catching the gazes of Kieran and Sadie before turning to Isaac, worry still lining his face like an old tree, but determined nonetheless. “So, what’s the plan, my boy?”

* * *

Hushed conversations and secreted words were the domain of the night, shepherded in by the dim light of stars, fires, and the moon should he choose to show. It was on a night much abandoned by the moon when Micah approached Dutch at the water’s edge. His approach as quiet as the exhale of cigar smoke.

“Good evening, eh, Dutch?”

“Y’know I always think I’ll find a moment to myself when more sensible folks are sleeping, yet as always here you are Mr, Bell.” Dutch turned with an amenable smile, disguising his strained weariness behind decades of charm. “I trust you’ve been well?”

“I got as much time on my hands as a damn king lately, Dutch, I’m right as rain.”

“I apologize for your boredom, Micah, but I’m sure you understand, we must maintain a low profile while Arthur recovers.”

“Course, can’t do nothing without the ol’ cowboy can we?” Micah said, dripping with sarcasm.

“He’d do the same for you, Mr. Bell.”

“Oh, I’m sure he would.” Micah hooked his thumbs through his belt loops and came to stand beside Dutch, looking out over the lake as if he didn’t have a care in the world. “Y’know I don’t believe Arthur’s dear son has had the courtesy to apologize to me for his little tantrum the other day.”

“Give the boy some time, Micah, last I heard from Hosea he’s still upset,” Dutch’s troubled expression was highlighted by the glowing embers coming off the end of his cigar as he inhaled deeply, the tiny sparks dancing away on the wind with his heavy sigh. “I hope you can forgive him, Mr. Bell, he’s not in his best mind lately.”

“Why, of course, Dutch, can’t blame the little hellion, as you say it’s been hard on everyone, and what’s a tussle between family,” Micah grinned, leaning on Dutch’s view of the gang with a heavy hand. “And you know I came over here to talk ‘cause another thing families do is yap, and boy can these folks yap.”

“Is that so?”

“I may have heard one or two folks saying they might try and find greener pastures, talking about how this whole thing with the O’Driscolls is more fuss than it’s worth.”

Any air of calm or ease in Dutch was gone in that instance, hard lines of tension and stress taking their place all too soon. “I wouldn’t name any of them as turncoats, Micah, and we’ve been through more trouble before and come out better for it. Don’t know why this would be the final straw.”

Unlike his usual candor, Dutch’s words were not quite so bolstered with confidence, instead made softer with doubt.

“I know I ain’t heard the half of it, I’m just saying you better keep a sharp eye out, Dutch, you never know who’s gonna pull the rug out from under you. Could be anyone.”

“Speculating never did anyone a lick of good, Mr. Bell,” Dutch replied tersely.

“Well, I don’t know about you but I’d say old man Hosea’s lost his taste for the jobs hasn’t he? Too busy playin’ nursemaid to focus on real work.”

“There’s more to our life than just shooting and robbing, Micah,” Dutch snapped. “Now if you’re going to keep on bein’ disrespectful why don’t you just leave me be.”

“Sure, sure,” Micah ambled back towards camp, his hands up in calm placation, but his grin still sharp as knives under the brim of his hat. “I just thought you’d want to hear about the money as well.”

“What money?” Hook, line, and sinker.

“Money changing hands, money gettin’ hidden away. The ol’ cowpoke taking more than his fair share.” Micah schooled his expression into something more pensive as Dutch glared over his shoulder. “Maybe I’m crazy, but I swear I've seen Arthur handing Isaac money before, and I couldn’t tell you if it ever made it to the box. Suspicious is all.”

“We’ve been over this, Micah,” Dutch gritted out, growing more and more irritated. “Isaac helps me with the ledger and yes I trust the boy with the money, now get on, I’m growing tired of this.”

“I couldn’t recall us ever keeping camp funds in Isaac Morgan’s journal, Dutch, but as I said, maybe I’m just crazy.”

Micah swaggered back to camp, as pleased as could be, leaving Dutch standing motionless on the shore, the cigar crumbling to ash between his fingers.

“He’s just telling tales,” Dutch murmured out loud as if evoking it would make it any more true. Surely, Micah was just upset about Isaac not apologizing and antsy about not being sent out in quite a while. He was just trying to stir the pot, Dutch trusted the man but he’d known men like him for a long time, whose mouths could make a whole lot more enemies than friends.

But no matter how long he stood staring at the lapping waves and running around in circles in his head trying to convince himself he greeted dawn all the same, with a seed of doubt firmly planted.

* * *

Waiting was a painful game Isaac and them were made to play before they could go to Blackwater, made only worse by the anticipation of the shared secret of their plan. But until Daddy could recall what was happening around him and sleep through the night without freaking out Isaac didn’t feel secure leaving. So Isaac spent each long, tension-filled day trying to think of every variable, every circumstance they might come across to guarantee their success.

It all helped to chase out the doubts that he harbored over whether this was truly the right thing to do if he was being brash and stupid if he was chasing money to avoid facing Daddy’s poor condition.

If he was being just like Uncle Dutch.

The blank pages of his journal mocked him when he tried to sort out his feelings like unorderly sheep instead of the writhing viper’s nest his brain felt like of late. He didn’t want to admit that he was avoiding Daddy, that he felt guilty over not spending every waking hour besides Daddy’s bedside, that he had spent so much of his life preparing for the day when Daddy would die, and now that they stood on a thin tight rope between possibilities he still felt caught unaware.

But then again he shouldn’t be surprised, everyone in camp, since his little incident with Micah the other day, seemed to treat him like an unlit fuse, always wary of what might be the thing to set him off.

Maybe he was dangerous and volatile, maybe his brain was supposed to be wild and disorderly, but this plan, this responsibility he’d taken on, helped him feel more in control, more like himself, more like he had a purpose.

He was interrupted from his familiar spiral of chaotic thoughts by the sounds of conversation roving close to the back of Grandpa’s tent, instinctively shoving his journal beneath his pillow as if they’d barge into the tent and immediately figure out his plan through a glance at his cramped, charcoal smeared writing.

“...Now why on earth would you need to leave?” Uncle Dutch said, sounding stressed and irritated. “Making such a damn big fuss about us staying under the radar and you want to go off to Saint Denis?”

“It wouldn’t be for long, Dutch, I have to go pay the doctor a visit, get some medicine for Arthur,” Grandpa replied, trailing close behind Uncle Dutch as he tried to convince him. “I wouldn’t be going for a few days yet, gotta wait for John to come back then we’ll go.”

Any relief he might have felt about knowing he wasn’t in danger of discovery was wiped out once he comprehended what they were saying, and a painful band tightened around him at the idea, making it harder to breathe, squeezing out any thought except ones of fear. Whatever his tumultuous moods over the past few weeks and his new focus on their plan, he was still taking refuge in the fact that if Daddy was out of commission at least Grandpa was still there, at least he wasn’t facing this all on his own. But the thought of him leaving, even temporarily, made Isaac feel like he was standing at the edge of a precipice and looking far, far below himself.

“We can send someone else, Old Girl, there’s no need for you to go.”

“I had Bill make a run for me the other day and he brought back the wrong damn thing, I’d rather not waste anymore of my patience or money so I’m just going myself.”

“Haven’t we been doing fine on our own? Whatever you’ve been whipping up seems to have done the trick so far, why now?”

“It’s been keeping him alive but he isn’t getting better,” Grandpa hissed, making Isaac’s heart leap to his throat. “We have to try something, I don’t want him suffering unnecessarily.”

“I mean I believe you, Hosea,” Uncle Dutch’s voice came to him louder and quieter as he paced back and forth, his strange discontent with the situation filling him with nervous energy. “I just don’t want you taking unnecessary risks.”

“I’ll be fine, you nag,” Grandpa waved off the concerns with an amused laugh. “I was just letting you know, didn’t want you panicking when I popped out for an errand.”

From outside there was a scuffle as, to Isaac’s best estimation, Grandpa had tried to walk away and Uncle Dutch pulled him back. “You’ll be back right, Hosea?” Dutch’s voice was tremulous and uncertain, weaker than Isaac had ever heard it before. “You ain’t leaving me?”

“Achilles,” Grandpa said, a slight panic in his voice, Dutch’s sudden desperation catching him off guard. “It’ll just be for a day, I ain’t goin’ anywhere else.”

“Don’t lie to me now, Patrocles,” Dutch said with a steely grit.

“You’re getting the better of yourself.” Grandpa soothed, always calming Uncle Dutch’s harsh, jagged edges, voicing reason, giving the other argument, the two of them fitting together into a synchronized unit.

Whatever remained of the conversation was spoken in hushed words that Isaac couldn’t hear through the confines of the tent, though he was too busy trying to get his tangled, childish fear under control before Grandpa returned to worry about what else they were saying. And it wasn’t until he heard them separate and the crunch of rocks beneath Grandpa’s boots as he rounded to the front of the tent that Isaac realized that maybe he shouldn’t have been listening in.

Isaac scrambled to throw the quilt over his head and lay as still as he could, hoping he could feign sleep and ignorance all in one. Though he knew if Grandpa could peek at how he was feeling he’d be found out, as well as scolded to an inch of his life, his eyelids heavy and itchy with his lack of sleep, his head pounding with his thoughts bouncing and crashing into one another, his heart hammering with the fear of Grandpa leaving him alone still lingering.

Isaac didn’t have much time to contemplate or perfect his acting as Grandpa pushed back into the tent, revealing the faded sunlight of dawn, letting him know that he’d been awake all night, just thinking; and especially wouldn’t be getting any sleep after this revelatory conversation he’d overheard.

Whatever attempt at pretending he’d made was shot down immediately as Grandpa took one look at him and sighed, “Lord, Isaac, you couldn’t lie to save your life.”

“How’d you know?” Isaac asked, no small amount of petulance.

“I’m a professional, and I know you. You don’t sleep all stiff with the blanket up over your head, gotta try a little harder to pull one over on me.” Grandpa sat down heavily on his cot, pulling off his boots with a grunt. “Now, please tell me you slept last night.”

Isaac didn’t even try to lie this time, just stayed silent and picked at the scabbing bed of his nail where he’d been scratching for days.

“You’re a growing boy, you need to sleep, can’t have you keeling over.”

“Are you really leaving?” Isaac asked, ignoring the familiar needling barbs as he stared at the tiny beads of blood welling up on his finger instead of Grandpa, trying to keep his voice level and immediately forgetting that he’d meant to hide his accidental eavesdropping.

“You’re gonna get in trouble if you go around listening in on private conversations,” Grandpa said sharply, and even without looking up Isaac could feel his pinning glare.

“I didn’t mean to, y’all were right behind the tent!” Isaac angrily gestured to the now silent canvas wall.

“You were supposed to be sleeping,” Grandpa grumbled, pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation. “But yes, John and I will go to Saint Denis in a few days. I need to get some medicine for Arthur, it won’t be for long, promise.”

“O-ok,” Isaac stuttered, his hands twitching at his side where he wanted to grab Grandpa’s coat and not let go. “But what if…Daddy said that the swamp was dangerous, are you gonna be alright?”

“Real faith you have in me and John I see,” Grandpa clapped him on the back, his eyes lighting up as he teased him with an easy confidence that helped relieve the fear drawing Isaac’s body into a tense knot. “We’ve been around for a while, it’s nothing that we can’t handle.”

“You really need to get this medicine?” The words lept unbidden from the scared, childlike impulse to keep all his family as close and within eyesight as he could. He stuck his ragged nail into his mouth under the auspice of cleaning off the blood that had gathered instead of just stopping himself from saying anything so cloying and unhelpful again.

“You sound like Dutch,” Grandpa said with a wry laugh. “I wouldn’t go if it wasn’t necessary. It’ll help Arthur, Isaac, no two ways about it.”

“That’s good,” Isaac mumbled, nodding absentmindedly and staring at the motes of light that filtered through the canvas walls around them, speaking further of the oncoming day. Those tight bands around his lungs not abating as much as he wanted them to, worry and anxiety laying upon him as heavily as they always did. “‘M sorry.”

“Y’know,” Grandpa said with a groan as he stood back up. “You are so much like your father sometimes, the good and the bad.”

Before Isaac could comment Grandpa had met him on the ground, insistently making room for himself on Isaac’s cot and finally flopping down with a relieved sigh. “We’ve both been up all night, apparently, so we’re gonna lay back and take a nap.”

“I don’t need-”

“No arguing!”

“But won’t it be bad for your back?” Isaac continued.

“Hush up, I’m old, not an invalid,” Grandpa grumbled as he made himself more comfortable. “Now stop thinking so hard and lay down, you’re gonna hurt yourself.”

Isaac hesitated, keeping all of himself in a tight ball. No matter how enticing it was and how itchy and heavy his eyes were, it felt like with how difficult he’d been lately, with how he’d been lying to his family that he didn’t deserve it.

Whatever expression he had made Grandpa melt into fond exasperation, he reached up to squeeze Isaac’s shoulder, watching him like Isaac saw him watch Daddy sometimes, “You’re just tired, everything will be better once you sleep.”

Reluctantly Isaac eased himself down beside Grandpa, allowing himself to be tucked under the quilt and against Grandpa’s side. Whatever hesitance he’d had melted away under the familiar comfort of his rasping breaths and the smell of herbs, surrounded by the warmth of Mama’s quilt and Grandpa bundling him up, scratching softly at his scalp in a way that set his worries to the side in favor of slipping into a much-needed dreamless sleep.

* * *

The brief moment of restful peace with Grandpa had been just that: brief. His stress and the looming task he’d set before himself could not be so easily misplaced, and with how busy Grandpa was he wasn’t always there to bully Isaac to sleep. So by the time Grandpa’s trip to Saint Denis was upon them Isaac was just as high-strung and exhausted as he’d been when Grandpa first forced him to sleep.

The days had not been the kindest to Grandpa either, based on his late-night complaining, Uncle Dutch had been driving him up a wall trying to convince him to stay, and Isaac was trying his best not to agree.

In the days following their argument, Daddy had started to improve, and Dutch was convinced that meant that Grandpa could stay put and didn’t need to ‘risk’ anything. Isaac was halfway convinced himself, Daddy had been cognizant during the day, and he’d only panicked about Isaac and risked his injuries once in the four days, better than before at least. But according to Grandpa no matter how well Daddy seemed he was still feverish and his wound was still oozing pus and radiating sickly heat. Daddy might’ve been coming around but his body very much was not.

Isaac would have expected the improvement to have calmed him, or at least given him some peace in his current anxiety-ridden state, but Trelawny and the other folks on the Blackwater mission could attest that it very much did not.

Once Daddy had gone three days without calling for him they had decided to move out at dawn, after Hosea returned, and just before Arthur would get well enough to keep track of him better. Knowing their window to make their move was rapidly closing only pressed every doubt and worry closer to the surface and it felt like every hour Isaac made a different decision on whether or not they should go, whether or not the trouble they could potentially call down on everyone was worth it.

Kieran was being a good sport about it, ready to listen to whatever thought was waging war on Isaac, even if he’d heard it all before, but Sadie was starting to glare at him when he tried to approach and Trelawny was only too eager to try to convince him to stay.

So when Grandpa found him on the morning of his departure, crammed in amongst the ammo in the wagon next to Daddy, Isaac was ruthlessly scratching his wrists to try and calm his racing mind.

“Hey, now!” Grandpa barked, startling Isaac so badly that he tumbled off the crate he’d been sitting on. “Stop that, c’mere.”

Isaac sheepishly crawled to the front, not even bothering to hide the evidence as it was far too late. Grandpa tsked and grabbed up his wrists, pulling bandages out of his coat pocket and the same herbal poultice he’d been rubbing on Daddy’s wounds.

“You look like you fought a cactus and lost, son, can’t leave you alone for two seconds,” Grandpa mumbled as he went to work, but his grumpy rambling was undercut by the gentle way he sealed up the bandages and firmly rubbed Isaac’s wrists when he was done. “Are you upset that John and I are leaving? Could always take you with us.”

Isaac considered it, it was tempting, the last time he’d spoken to Uncle John had been after attacking Micah and he felt like he owed him an apology, but that inconsequential familial grievance paled in comparison to the weight of their Blackwater mission on his mind. In the end, the mission was most important, and he couldn’t risk throwing them off schedule, if they got held up on the way back and delayed the departure to Blackwater it could risk everything.

“Nah,” Isaac shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “I understand you need to go…I’m just anxious in general.” Decent enough lie, considering it was true.

Grandpa nodded in weary understanding and groaned as he coaxed his joints to sit on the edge of the wagon.

“I understand that, but your father’s gonna be fine while we’re away, he’s stable enough, you could even go sit with him instead of skulking around like a coyote.”

“I-I know,” Isaac stammered, his face heating up in shame. “I know I can. I was just…journaling. Needed some space.”

Grandpa fixed him with a hard look before rifling in his satchel and pulling out Isaac’s worn journal, “I was coming to bring this back to you, found it at Pearson’s wagon. Now what’s the real reason.”

Isaac gulped and gripped his journal tightly to his chest, trying to ground himself with the feel of heavy, uneven pages against his fingers and leather under his nails, caught in a lie; no wonder Grandpa thought he was so bad at this.

“It’s scary seeing Daddy so hurt,” Isaac finally whispered after a long silence, hoping that he was quiet enough that even if Daddy was awake he wouldn’t hear him through the canvas and over the pleasant everyday buzz of camp life.

“I know it is,” Grandpa said with a pained grimace. “I don’t like it any more than you do, but it’ll help him, knowing you’re there.”

As many times as he’d heard that over the past couple weeks, it didn’t stop sounding patronizing, yes Daddy wanted to know that he was alright, pretty desperately sometimes, but he knew there was more he could do, and he knew their placations were just empty words to distract him from the very present fear that gripped him every time he saw Daddy laying, half-covered in bandages, and delirious. He knew it was just what you said to children in scary situations, he knew they had nothing better to offer him than pretty words, but it didn’t stop him from resenting the sentiment all the same.

He sat quietly fuming for a while, taking some small refuge in the fact that he had found an actual way to help when he caught Grandpa staring at him, watching him closely like he was trying to figure out a riddle.

“Y’know, Trelawny and I were just talking,” Grandpa said slowly, still watching Isaac’s expression, which he did his very best to school into something neutral despite the way his heart beat painfully hard against his ribs. “He said he wants to take you with him to get a new wagon. He talk to you about this?”

Isaac swallowed hard against his tremulous nerves, this was it, now their plan had become all too real, the first move had been made.

“Yeah, we talked a bit, he said it might be nice if I had a break from….” Isaac waved his hands around to indicate what had happened the past few weeks, his nail-bitten arms, his fight with Micah, and Daddy lying just feet away. “Everything.”

“If you need time away so badly why not come with John and me?”

“W-well I didn’t want to leave Daddy alone.”

“We’ve got plenty of folks that can sit with him, and you don’t seem too keen on doing it yourself.” Grandpa gently pulled Isaac’s hands away where he’d started viciously picking at his nails in his anxiety trying to think his way through the conversation. “Listen, I don’t mind you going with him, I just wanted to know why, see if something was wrong.”

“Nothing’s wrong!” Isaac blurted out, affirming the opposite he feared. “I just- It’s nothing, I’ll sit with Daddy today while y’all are gone.”

“Really?” Grandpa raised a brow in surprise. Trying to catch Isaac’s gaze and giving up with a sigh. “I’m worried about you…is there something you want to tell me?”

Isaac tensed up even further, which he didn’t think was possible. There was a small part of him that wanted to admit everything to Grandpa, take the burden of responsibility away as he’d surely be barred from going, but he knew that it was a cowardly instinct, one he did his best to stifle. At the same time, he felt foolish trying to lie to Grandpa, a master at falsehoods with a sharp eye for bullshit, and Isaac could barely string a sentence together when he was anxious. If he wanted to throw Grandpa off his trail and be able to make it to Blackwater with the others he’d have to throw an uncomfortable truth down.

“Everyone’s been acting so strange around me since I…attacked Micah, they all think I’m gonna break down any minute now because of Daddy. It’s just- it’s a lot of pressure.” Isaac winced his way through his words, furiously tapping his foot in an effort to resist tearing his hands up further.

“And John and I ain’t helping…” Grandpa said slowly, looking away from Isaac at his steepled fingers, guilt weighing him down. “You’re a tough kid, guess we rely on that too much.”

“I-I’m sorry,” Isaac immediately piped up, feeling worse at seeing how guilt-ridden and tired Grandpa looked, no matter the level of truth or efficiency in freeing him from scrutiny he still hated burdening Grandpa in any way.

“No, no, don’t be.” Grandpa reached back and squeezed his knee comfortingly. “I’m glad to hear what’s on your mind. Like I said you can go with Trelawny, take whatever breather you need.” Grandpa stood and cracked his back with a groan. “But maybe bring someone else along who could actually protect you two, I want you coming back in one piece, you hear?”

“I hear,” Isaac parroted back with a weak chuckle. “But you and Uncle John too, you gotta come back.”

He knew this ride out to Saint Denis was just a simple run, but with the ever-impending outset of their mission to Blackwater, he could not help but fear that every change was something more monumental.

“You just gotta trust us, my boy, we’ve made it this far haven’t we?”

Grandpa hugged him so tight when he left, like when Daddy hugged him like he was going to press every misshapen, sharp, vulnerable part of him together so hard that it’d create a diamond. It left him feeling stronger, more willing to face his upcoming trials, and more able than he actually felt to go sit with Daddy, his bluff coming to catch him in the end.

He held on tight to that feeling as he watched Grandpa and Uncle John ride off, held it tightly between his white-knuckled fingers when he visited Daddy, and took up the post he’d been so fearful of. Perched on the wobbly wooden chair he took in the unusual pale, gaunt face of Daddy from so long recovering and being hidden away from the sun. He traced the bandages that covered up half his chest and sought to find the black stitches he knew were under it, he tried to see in Daddy’s stillness what his pain and sickness could be doing to him inside and take heart that Daddy still lived despite it all.

In the end, all there was was quiet. With Daddy still sleeping the watchpost was not the dire dramatic thing he’d been fearing this whole time. Each minute that ticked by filled only with Daddy’s snores lessened the fear in him that he’d be forced to watch Daddy die, the mundanity of his recovery overpowering his latent anxiety.

So Isaac took a bolstering breath and picked up the worn copy of Don Quixote that Grandpa had been reading to Daddy at his bedside and picked up where they’d left off, filling the tent with his quiet narration and hoping Daddy could hear him and take comfort from it.

* * *

He’d been reading for a couple of hours now, only breaking to get cool cups of water and shift out of the sunbeams that seemed to chase him around the tent. Daddy had woken a few times, drinking the water that Isaac provided and even eating half a plate of stew at Isaac’s urging. And each time he woke up and was just as glad to see Isaac as he was the time before Isaac felt a little twist of guilt at avoiding him for so long. But he did his best to push it away to enjoy Daddy’s more lucid company, no frantic mumbling or mentions of Mama, just his sleep-scratchy voice asking Isaac about how the camp was running and what on earth he was reading to him.

Isaac entertained Daddy with the wild escapades and fantasies of Sir Don Quixote and his chivalrous ideals until he couldn’t keep his eyes open anymore, and once Daddy fell asleep, halfway through a sentence, Isaac set the book aside and pressed his hand up against Daddy’ forehead, testing for fever just like Grandpa taught him. He didn’t seem any warmer than he usually was so Isaac was able to breathe a sigh of relief, another fear of his in sitting by Daddy’s side was being unable to tend to him properly if he took a turn for the worse, but by some luck, he hadn’t had to face that yet.

He sat back and nervously rubbed his palms on his pants, his thoughts ready and able to return in the lull of conversation.

What would Daddy think if he knew what Isaac was planning? How much trouble would he be in if he was discovered? Would it all be worth it in the end?

The day seemed to pass by much slower in his contemplation, the book laying open and loose in his palms as he lost himself in potential consequences. Seeing Daddy recovering and coming around made him timid in the face of their imminent departure, and made him wonder if Trelawney was right and he was just being rash.

His doubting thoughts were interrupted by the sound of an argument coming closer, a familiar enough sound as one of the men was Uncle Dutch, but when he heard Micah he sat up straight, immediately on alert.

“Listen, Dutch, if you don’t believe me go check it yourself,” The slimy outlaw said, his affectation of nonchalance ruined as Isaac saw him following eagerly after Dutch between tents.

“I have too much on my plate to be chasing rumors, Mr. Bell,” Dutch growled out as he stomped past, Isaac shrunk back into the shadows of the tent and watched the two of them congregate before Uncle Dutch’s tent, Micah still poking and prodding at Dutch for something, and Dutch only growing more and more irritated.

“Hey, if I’m wrong, then I’m wrong and there ain’t a problem,” Micah stepped back, his hands up in appeasement. “I just know how important money is right now, don’t want something amiss if I can help it.”

Isaac watched as Uncle Dutch stood tense and silent for a long while, glaring up at the sky instead of even acknowledging Micah, and jumped when he turned suddenly and started looking around sternly. Isaac had to resist the urge to further retreat into the darkness of the tent, or even back into the ammo wagon, uncomfortable with the manic energy coming from Uncle Dutch’s gaze.

Yet he was still frozen where he’d shrunk down into his chair when Dutch stopped on him, his energy focusing in like concentrated beams of sun.

“Isaac, come over here, entertain an old man,” Dutch called out, his tone leaving no room for argument as much as he tried to seem calm and collected. “Let me see your journal.”

“W-why, sir?” Isaac replied, peeling his fingers off from where he was clutching the chair. “I’m sittin’ with Daddy, don’t want to leave him alone.”

“You’ll just be over here, come on, quick now,” Dutch snapped, his patience clearly beyond testing.

Isaac cast a lingering look back at Daddy’s sleeping form before slowly approaching, hunching his shoulders in, curling over his journal where he clutched it to his chest. “What’s the matter, Uncle Dutch?”

“I didn’t mean to scare you, son,” Dutch said cordially, friendly, warmly even, gripping Isaac’s shoulder in a comforting way. “Micah heard a nasty little rumor and I’m just working to assuage it, my boy, can you help me?”

Isaac flicked his gaze over to Micah who stood just behind Dutch, watching like a beady-eyed dog, eager for scraps from the table. Isaac shifted uncomfortably where he stood. “What rumor?” He asked tremulously, trying to ignore the gnawing pit of dread that had opened in his gut.

“Why Micah has a suspicion, surely a falsehood, that you and Arthur have been hiding money away in that journal of yours. You got any notion of that?”

Maybe if Isaac was a better liar things would have been different.

He balked, he could feel his face paling and knew his grip on the journal had turned rigor-mortis-like as he stuttered out, “N-no I ain’t- I don’t know what he means.”

A pause. The world fell silent as Dutch’s calm demeanor slowly melted away to some mad, gnarled thing, hurt and betrayal as vivid as the green in the leaves around them. Before Isaac could stop him that comforting hand was ripping the journal from him, with a furious strength he didn't have a hope to compete against.

Then, to his horror, Dutch unsheathed his knife and tore away the leather binding of the journal, revealing the hidden folds of cash safely tucked away.

“Grandad! Wait-” Isaac cried out, his eyes growing hot with tears, the dissection of his journal too horrible to watch. “What are you doing?”

Dutch didn’t answer him, instead staring blankly at the stacks of money that floated down from the now exposed inner lining of the journal, until Micah leaned over, flipping through one of the bill folds, and said, “I told you so.”

Dutch was a whirlwind of movement, crumpling the hefty collection of money in one hand and stomping over to Arthur’s tent, carelessly kicking the remains of the journal aside.

Isaac’s shaking hands reached for his destroyed journal, still not quite processing what had happened when Micah’s sharp-toed boot stomped on the stack of loosely collected pages, grinding it down into the dirt with a sneer. “Oops.”

“What the hell is this, Arthur?!” Dutch bellowed and Isaac decided Micah and his journal were the least of his worries right now.

He ran to watch as Dutch yelled in Arthur’s face, holding him up by his shirt from where he’d roughly awoken him. Daddy was confused and belligerent, thrust from sleeping into the scolding he was getting, and Isaac could see him shape the words to bark back at Dutch when he finally saw Isaac, pale and trembling, and the fistful of cash that Dutch brandished like a weapon.

“Oh lord, Dutch, It ain’t what it looks like-”

“Really? Cause I’ll tell you exactly what it looks like!” Dutch growled, hauling Arthur out of bed and into the center of camp, the center of everyone's attention, putting the man’s sins on display for their judgment. “It looks like you’ve been squirreling money away, hiding it from us, keeping us from attaining our goals and using your son to do it.”

“I ain’t using it! It’s for Isaac, make sure he’s taken care of if something happens to me,” Arthur pleaded, looking paler by the minute as the weight of Dutch’s anger beat down on him. “It ain’t ever that much, just a little, saving it away.”

“Well this looks like a lot of goddamn money, Arthur,” Dutch’s voice grew pitched, swinging wildly from high warbling damnation and the deep, murderous baritone. Dutch threw the bills onto the table revealing to everyone the full extent of Arthur’s crimes, the shocked gasps and grumbles of irritations that rippled through like whips on Arthur’s back for how hard he flinched. “How long you ain’t trust me to take care of you two? How long have you been lying to me, son? How long have you been planning to turn tail and run?!”

Isaac desperately wished Grandpa was here to calm Dutch down, or that Charles was back from hunting or John hadn’t left with Grandpa so any one of them could step in and save Daddy, but they were all gone from camp, and all that remained were those too scared or loyal to Dutch to intervene.

“We weren't ever gonna run!” Isaac piped up, finding some hidden fortitude to speak, and nearly losing it when Dutch whirled around on him. The look on his face so fearsome it made Isaac break out in goosebumps. Not from any threat, but from how Dutch seemed to look right through him, right back to Arthur, like he wasn’t anything more than an extension of his Pa. No more consequential than his horse or guns.

“Well, then that makes this all the worse, son,” Dutch bellowed at Arthur, no longer concerned with Isaac, he dragged him away from the table, grabbing the money as he went, over to the donation box. “Stealing money from us without even having the courtesy of a plan, but no worries. That is a crime easily rectified.”

Dutch flipped open the lid and shoved the crumbled, guilty bills into the box, closing it with a loud clang. “Take heart, everyone, a sizable donation from the Morgan family has entered the coffers.”

With that final decree, and the shattered remains of Arthur and Isaac’s heart and pride, Dutch stomped away, leaving Arthur shaking where he stood leaning against the barrel, staring at the donation box.

The whole camp remained silent as Dutch got up on The Count and rode out, too incensed to look at either of them for one second longer, and as Isaac came over and took some of Daddy’s weight, helping him get back to their tent and the cot, there was nothing but whispers and averted gazes. He pulled the flaps down behind them to block them all out, and to shield them from Micah’s sharp-toothed smirk.

With his ears ringing aggressively in the aftermath and how hard he was concentrating on supporting Daddy’s weight Isaac almost didn’t hear as he started talking, almost missing Daddy’s pained, choked words.

“I failed you,” Daddy’s voice was so soft he could have mistaken it for the gentle lapping of waves or the rustle of leaf litter. “I was supposed to keep you safe, to get you out of all this, now you’re trapped.”

“We’ll figure it out, Daddy,” Isaac said, his voice shaking like a leaf, easing him down with a grunt of effort back onto the cot and despairing when he saw Daddy crumple in on himself, gripping his greasy hair in a painful grasp. “We’ll get the money back. I-It’s alright.”

“No, no,” Daddy despaired. “He ain’t never gonna trust me again. I had one chance to take care of you proper and I wasted it.”

“Let’s just get you to sleep, it’ll be better when-” Isaac tried his best to comfort Daddy like Grandpa would, tried his best to stay calm, but couldn’t keep his hands still or swallow down the welling panic and tears that clogged in his throat. “Everything will be ok…right?”

“God dammit,” Daddy said, seemingly unhearing of Isaac. “Go and get myself chewed up by the O’Driscolls just to come back and lose the goddamn money.” He was growling to himself, slamming his fist against his thigh in frustration. “And if I go and die today where the hell does that leave you?”

Isaac choked on a gasp, digging his nails into his hand to keep himself grounded, trying to push past the overwhelming wave of anxiety as Daddy kept talking. His next words came out broken and weak, the weight of the situation pressing down on him like a mountain toppled over. “I’m so sorry…I…it’s my fault, I shouldn’t’ve let him take it.”

“What’re you supposed to do against him?” Daddy said, gesturing angrily towards the camp that lay beyond the canvas curtain. “Ain’t a one of us men can do a thing against him, I couldn’t do nothin’. It ain’t your fault son, it’s mine, I should’ve been better prepared, or just plain smarter, dumber than a bag of rocks over here I just….” Daddy collapsed into his hands, shaking his head as he muttered to himself. “What the hell am I gonna do?”

Eventually, Isaac was able to convince Daddy to lie down, pushing all of his concerns onto him instead of paying any mind to the encroaching numbness that was taking him over. The chill in his extremities despite the intense heat around them, the cavernous, gaping, pit of dread in his stomach as Daddy kept murmuring hopeless things.

Long after Daddy had fallen asleep Isaac remained, rigid and hunched at his bedside, his mind a screaming void. He had never seen Uncle Dutch so angry at Daddy, had never seen him that violent and belligerent in camp, had never been so afraid of him.

On top of it all was the money. As always everything in their lives boiled down to money. Even though Isaac had resented the nest egg he’d been entrusted with stashing away he wasn’t so naive as to believe that it was unwarranted or unneeded, his insurance as Daddy would call it. And now that it was gone he truly had no other choice but to get the rest of the money in Blackwater and get everyone out for good.

No other choice unless he wanted to follow in Daddy’s footsteps and meet his end one day on Dutch’s orders.

Later, when Dutch came back from his temper-abating ride he’d just stood at the mouth of the tent staring at Daddy and him for long, uninterrupted moments, his shadow casting a dark pall over the two of them. And Isaac, so afraid of further inciting his rage, had just sat there, looking away from him, hoping that if he stayed quiet and still, as still as he could be with how hard he was shaking, Dutch would just leave them alone.

“I’m protecting this family, Isaac, I hope you understand,” He’d finally spoken, low and dangerous. “Everything I do, can’t hold that against me.”

And Isaac had nodded, still looking away, because he knew that in Uncle Dutch’s way he believed he was telling the truth, that his greater good absolved him of his lesser evils. Isaac did not plan on meting out absolution anytime soon, especially with as pale and stunned Daddy had looked since the incident. So even though Isaac understood, Dutch’s words fell on deaf ears nonetheless.

Yet he still nodded and pretended to forgive, because he hoped to be forgiven himself for what he was going to do under the same reasoning.

It had been hours since Dutch had left them, hours since he’d shamed Daddy in front of camp and stolen years of wealth from them both, hours since Isaac had moved from his stalwart post when Mrs. Adler ducked into the tent, her appraising gaze as oppressive as the heat outside.

“How’s he gettin’ on?”

No response.

“That bad, huh?”

“What do you want?” Isaac responded dully, “We’re not leavin’ until the morning just-” He hiccuped, sobs and screams and howls of frustration swelling in his chest like a balloon, all of it loosed in a heavy sigh. “Just leave us alone until then.”

“Are you sure we should still be goin’?” Sadie asked, her tone as gentle as a carving blade, cutting through his hazy fog to the pulsing heart of purpose and determination that was currently sustaining him. “It might be wise to wait a bit, that was quite a stink-”

“No,” Isaac sharply interrupted. “We’ll leave tonight, before Grandpa and Uncle John get back. It won’t be easy hidin’ nothing from him once he finds out what happened.”

“It ain’t too late to back out, nothing’s been set in stone yet,” She rasped gently, still standing apart from them both, not daring to intrude on the intimacy of the sickbed anymore than she had.

“I have to do this, Sadie,” Isaac whispered, staring at Daddy’s sickly pallor. “We don’t have another choice.”

After a beat of silence, Sadie sighed and kicked her boots against the ground, “Alright, I hear you, I’ll go let the fellas know.” She hesitated before reaching over and gently patting him on the shoulder. “You rest up, we’ll be on the move soon.”

Anticipation churned in his stomach as she left him alone to silence. By this time tomorrow, they’d hopefully be riding out of Blackwater with the money in tow. He only prayed that the world dealt in equals because for all the bad that had rained down on them in the last couple of months, he had to hope that there was good luck awaiting them sometime soon.

* * *

In the small hours of the night, with a half-smile of a moon in the sky among coy sprays of stars the four congregated on the fringes of the camp. Nerves and worries thrummed through them all but no words, there was nothing left to say, not until tomorrow.

Isaac had left his words behind in Daddy’s tent, pulling him awake just long enough to tell him he’d be going, that Auntie Tilly would be there to watch him, that everything was going to be just fine, that he loved him.

The half-awake words of returned love kept him warmer than the coat he was wearing and gave him just enough confidence to smoothly redirect Auntie Tilly from fretting over him to turn her attention to Daddy. As she and half the people in camp were worried to death about his lack of sleep and the bruised eyes that came from it she was more than happy to accept any promise of rest from him.

He was just praying that once the money was back in their hands that he wouldn’t have to lie to his family anymore.

Together the four mounted up, sticking to the shadowed parts of the woods that surrounded the camp, guiding the horses as long as they could to avoid making any further noise. The only other folks awake were the lookouts on the opposite ends of camp and Tilly knitting by Daddy’s side, as far as they could tell, and anything they could do to avoid arousing their attention they did and more.

Once they reached the road Kieran and Trelawny at the front of their miniature posse took out lanterns and lit them, guiding the four of them westwards in the warm bubble of light.

By the time the sun had risen they were deep in the Heartlands, riding the waves of hills and prairie grass that sheltered the wandering herds of animals, and standing on that tallest crest, they could see out across the lake, to the glittering jewel of Blackwater.

The city that had started all of this, which led to this moment and all these other misfortunes, would soon lead to their freedom.

What they didn’t see, as they continued along those yellowed plains, in the tangled nerves of a quickly executed plan and a trail of shoddily crafted lies, was the lone rider on a dark horse following far behind them, traveling that same snaking trail all the way to Blackwater.

Chapter Text

There was a certain elegance to Saint Denis that appealed to Hosea. Sure, it was surrounded by filthy, dangerous swamps and the predators within the city were just as bad as the gators that lurked around it, and it was so choked with people and refuse and noise that it felt like the whole world was coming down around you, but at the same time, what light, what joy, what unrestrained celebration of human innovation and gaiety! The main streets lit up like avenues of stars, the warm glows of the secretive alleys, the music leaking from the pores of the city, each corner a different pocket of life, a different subset of the human experience. It reminded him of the stories he’d read about Paris, of what little of New York he could actually stand. He knew John was none too pleased to be there, as penned in by cattle-like crowds as could be, and that Arthur and Isaac would be much the same, but this shining jewel called to him. Both the slick conman, looking out over guileless rubes, and the heartsore poet, tracing the casual elegance of each building and fixture, each pocket of greenery and peek of the blue waters surrounding it in every direction. But any dirty dealings or cons to run weren’t as important as their mission to get Arthur the medicine he needed from the good doctor, so no matter how much Hosea might have wanted to stay and while away the night amidst the tittering crowds and theater goers he dutifully kept on task and soon enough they could leave victorious with the brown glass bottle safely tucked into his coat.

The journey to Saint Denis had been uneventful, they weren’t quite so far and during the day the swamps were almost peaceful, but as the doctor had been attending to victims of a gruesome attack for most of the morning they weren’t able to set off until much later then they would have liked.

The warmth and light of the city disappeared frighteningly fast as they headed into the swamp, the moss and strange, crooked trees around them seeming to drain it from the air, leaving them adrift in the hot, musty night.

He hadn’t been terribly worried about whatever swamp men lived out here, Arthur had warned them plenty once they’d first come to Lemoyne, don’t follow any crying women, don’t go to hanged men, stay on the path with your eyes averted. Don’t blame him if you didn’t listen.

It felt like fae rules, like children's tales from long ago made to keep them safe from the teeth-filled wilds, but there was nothing so comforting as a bedtime story that awaited them if they strayed from Arthur’s advice.

What truly was a danger to them were the loglike gators, waiting in the still waters and resting their bellies along the paths, waiting for a too-slow traveler or a foolish horse to become dinner. Hosea and John knew they were out there, but unlike Arthur, they didn’t have quite so much experience spotting them.

John had led Old Boy a little too far off the path, trying to see where the trail diverged up ahead of them, checking for swinging bodies that only spelled danger. Old Boy’s hoof grazed the cattails brushing the brackish waters and soon teeth were lunging up and snapping at John.

Old Boy startled and tried to run, kicking out at the maw fast closing around his rider, and did a good job in dissuading the overgrown lizard and throwing John off its back.

As fast as the gator might have snapped John up, joining in the grim cabal of animals that seemed set on ripping the poor boy to shreds, Hosea was there, gun in hand like a strike from the heavens, and the beast’s skull was torn open under the barrage of bullets.

“What the hell!” John rasped, clutching his chest where his heart beat like a train. “Damn thing snuck up on me.”

“Nearly got you, son,” Hosea let out his held breath, grasping John’s shoulder tightly. “Give an old man a heart attack, why don’t you.”

“Can’t see a damn thing out here,” John continued complaining, half-heartedly kicking at the corpse still laid in mid lunge, before turning to search for his horse. “Knowin’ my luck Old’ Boy went and ran straight into another’s mouth.”

“Your horse ain’t half as thick as you, John, I’m sure it’s fine,” Hosea said as he hopped back up on Silver Dollar. “We’ll find ‘im.”

“Y’know I thought I was supposed to come out here to keep you safe out here,” John grumbled, shaking the mud off his boots. “Not go toe to toe with prehistoric lizards.”

“You’re doing a great job either way,” Hosea snickered, gently kicking at John’s shoulder as he passed by. “Now come on, let’s go save the damn beast.”

As confident as Hosea might have appeared, and as quickly as he wanted to return, it took them nearly an hour to find Old Boy through the thick underbrush of the swamp, avoiding more close encounters and still trying not to summon the attention of the lurking swamp folks that surely surrounded them.

Each passing minute as the moon only climbed higher in the sky just served to make Hosea more and more antsy. He’d spent this whole last week assuring Dutch and Isaac that he’d be back promptly and without incident, and though he could fend off Dutch’s overactive imagination he was dreading what state he’d find the boy in after so long left alone. By the time they finally found Old Boy Hosea was itching to get going, and based on how furtive John was checking over his shoulder it seemed the sentiment was shared.

There was nowhere in Lemoyne that Hosea would call refreshing, the dense humidity laid over them all like a thick blanket, but emerging from the swamp into the surrounding meadows was about as close as they could get. And as they continued on Hosea lamented just how late it had gotten, just how quiet the world around them was except for the nocturnal critters watching them as they ambled along.

It didn’t take them long, passing by broken-down battlefields full of nothing but rust and ghosts, and carefully skirting the Braithwaite manor so the damned harpy and her mouth-breathing sons didn’t see them, only to find that they weren’t the most unsettling thing they’d find tonight.

Instead of riding into camp and finding the pleasant, familiar atmosphere, they found tension-choked silence. There were whispers but hardly anyone looked at them, even Javier on watch avoided their gaze after confirming who they were, suddenly finding his boots of more interest than their late-night return.

“What’s their problem?” John muttered to him as he dismounted, looking around the small huddles of folk with a mean glare.

“Whatever it is I imagine it’s about to become ours,” Hosea said with a sigh, rolling his shoulders as his anticipation drew them into a tight knot. “You go talk with Abby, I’m gonna relieve Isaac, give ol’ Arthur his medicine.”

John nodded with a tight-lipped grimace and did as told, legging it over to his tent, and Hosea did the same, trying to wipe the worry off his face as he rounded into the impromptu sick room they’d made. He was surprised when, instead of Isaac sitting up as he’d anticipated, he found Tilly, appearing as calm and collected as she usually was, but the frantic tapping of her foot told him otherwise.

“Hey there, Sweetpea, how’re they doing?” Hosea asked gently, trying to make enough noise to catch her attention as he stepped in and wincing as she still jumped in alarm.

“Oh, lord, ‘Sea. scared me half to death.” Tilly put a fluttering hand to her chest, taking a deep breath to steady herself, yet the incessant tapping of her foot continued and she could barely lift her gaze from the edge of Arthur’s cot. “He’s been better.”

“What…” Hosea trailed off as he approached Arthur’s bedside and saw he was indeed worse than he’d been in the last couple days, his pallor was drawn and sickly and he was sweating and shivering despite the heat. Hosea quickly took out the glass bottle, clutching it a little too tightly. “We weren’t gone that long, how did this happen? Where’s Isaac, is he alright?”

“Isaac just said you two had talked about it and he said he was gonna lay down before heading out, I didn’t-” Tilly bit the side of her nail, anxiety flowing freely in her, “I didn’t know what he was talking about but…after today I wasn’t going to say no to him.”

“Tilly, what happened?”

“You should talk to Dutch,” She finally said after a long pause, taking the medicine from Hosea’s grip. “It’s his mess to explain, I’ll see if I can wake up Arthur.”

Hosea hesitated, watching Tilly try ineffectively to shake Arthur awake from where he slept deeply, it hadn’t even been a full day and yet it seemed like he was back on death’s door. How could things go so badly so quickly?

It seemed he was asking that a lot lately.

Quickly he turned on his heel and stalked through the camp, gritting his teeth every time someone else averted their gaze and pretended not to see him, guilt rising off of them all like a bad smell. Dutch’s tent was empty, even of Molly, and if it wasn’t for the Count grazing at the edge of camp Hosea would have assumed the man had gone in his agitation, but his gaze seemed to draw itself to the lake, far far down where the firelight didn’t reach.

“Dutch?” Hosea called out as he approached the tense silhouette of his oldest friend, sitting at the lakefront staring at the choppy waves.

“Patrocles,” The other man said with a gasp when Hosea got close enough to see him clearly, his pale skin made ghostly white in the moonlight like he’d been so deep in his thoughts he hadn’t heard Hosea approach in the first place. “You’re here.”

“I’m here, Achilles, I’m here,” Hosea said, concerned, Dutch looked far away and wild and he’d isolated himself from the rest of the gang, he was having one of his mad moments, that seemed to come with increasing frequency lately. “Christ Dutch, what the hell happened when I was gone? Everyone’s acting like they saw a ghost and Arthur’s worse than when I left him, not to mention I can’t find Isaac anywhere-“

“I didn’t think he had it in him to leave without Arthur,” Dutch interrupted with a disbelieving chuckle, halfway to a hysterical cackle, his wild eyes growing ever wilder.

“Well, I-“ Hosead paused and looked around camp, squinting past the circles of firelight to see to the fringes of their campgrounds. “I told him he could go run an errand with Trelawny, I just didn’t expect him to leave until I returned.”

“You told him he could leave?” Dutch thundered, standing up from his fragile hunch to tower tall and furious over Hosea. “No one is leaving, I can take care of this family, Hosea!”

“It’s just an errand for chrissakes!” Hosea took a step back, hands lifted to placate his partner. “You’re acting like this is the Enid fiasco all over again-“

“You wanna know what happened today?” Dutch grabbed Hosea by the wrists and pulled him in closer, harshly, dragging and pressing hard against thin bones. “I found out that Arthur has been hiding money from us! Money that could have fixed a great deal of problems we’ve been facing! Money that he was surely planning on running away with in the middle of the night, all in the name of fatherhood.”

“What Arthur does with his money ain’t any of our business,” Hosea gritted out, futilely trying to free himself. “He contributes three times more than anyone else does, if he still has any leftover then he damn well earned it!”

“So you’re just fine with knowing he was gonna run off on us, hm?”

“Who says that’s what he was doing!” Hosea shoved against Dutch’s chest as much as he could with how he’d been restrained. “I ain’t never met a man as loyal as he is, can’t imagine him running off more than I can imagine you surrendering to the law.”

“He doesn’t think I can take care of them, they don’t believe I can provide! But I have big plans, Hosea, all this doubting and naysaying is only further putting them to the side!” Durch growled, his eyes shiny as a new nickel. “I wasn’t gonna let him keep stopping us from succeeding.”

“What the hell did you do?” Hosea whispered, chasing after Dutch as he finally let go of his wrists and stepped back towards the shore. “Dutch what happened?”

“I took back what is rightfully ours,” Dutch replied frostily, looking only at the dark lake.

“You stole from him?”

“He stole from us first, Hosea, I wasn’t about to let that stand!”

“My lord,” Hosea covered his mouth in shock, his other fist shaking in rage. “You…you’re gonna drive them out sooner acting like that!”

“What?” Dutch growled, finally looking at him again.

“You are!” Hosea yelled back. “Why on Earth would he stay if you’re gonna make a damn scene over things like this? And Isaac’s gone…I need to go get him, he’s upset.”

Before Hosea could take a step away Dutch grabbed him again, dragging him back against the pebbled beach until Dutch had an arm across his chest, trapping him against his side.

“No one is leaving! You wanted him to go off galavanting with Trelawny? Fine, let’s pray he actually comes back! But you are not leaving!”

“What has gotten into you lately? I can’t stand it!” Hosea gritted out, resisting the urge to elbow Dutch in the soft parts and push him into the lake if he wanted to act like this. Hosea was far too old for tussling and roughhousing, and certainly too old for whatever paranoid fantasy he was indulging in this time.

“Just coming to terms with the fact that everyone I have chosen to bring into this family, into this bright future, wants to toss me aside once they're done with me. Well, I ain’t having it!” Dutch was only growing more incensed, more frantic as Hosea continued thrashing in his grip.

“Dutch, you’re talkin’ nonsense!”

“Arthur had a lot of money stashed away, Hosea, that don’t seem like the actions of someone committed. And now look!” In an instant Dutch turned Hosea around to roughly grip his shoulders, shaking him as he continued talking like he might be able to shake his sense of panic and urgency into Hosea through force. “Isaac’s gone just like that and I’m sure Arthur won’t be too far behind. They’re just bidin’ their time before they set off for good, I told you-”

“I’ll go find him, bring him back, I’m sure he’s just cooling off.” Hosea tried to stay calm and tried not to give in to the reactive anger that was building up. Nothing good ever happened when he sunk down to Dutch’s level in moments like these. “Please, he could be hurt, he could be in danger, just let me go look for him.”

Dutch hesitated, his grasp falling slack when he found Hosea wasn’t fighting him any longer, his hands sliding down to hold Hosea’s instead, shaking like the Reverend’s after a long withdrawal. “I don’t think I could take it, schatje, with what I’ve been hearing, with this money situation, I can’t handle you goin’ off again.”

“Who’s been in your head? What’ve you been hearin’?” Hosea asked, suppressing a growl as he felt he already knew the answer. “You just trust me, alright? I’ll go get Isaac and I’ll come right back.”

Once more he found himself on the back foot with Dutch, the wrong words dripping with his usual infallible charisma as Dutch’s face crumpled into a dark glower.

“I trusted Arthur too, old girl, I will not be made a fool again.” Dutch gripped Hosea’s hand so tightly in his larger, ringed palm, that he could feel bones grinding against one another. “You step foot outside this camp, if anyone leaves, I will hunt y’all down.”

“Oh, believe me, Dutch,” Hosea gritted out as he forced Dutch off of him and freed his aching hand. “Ain’t none of us need to make you look like a fool.”

They glared at each other for a while, a standoff, tension brewing between them both like a surging storm, before Dutch grabbed him by the collar and pulled him close again.

“I am doing this for us, for this family, Hosea, it’s not my fault I’m doin’ it alone.”

For the final time that night, Hosea pushed Dutch off of him, not even bothering to straighten his ruffled, disheveled appearance, suddenly feeling the exhaustion of the day pressing in on him, the sickening worry over Arthur and Isaac, his newfound fear of Dutch’s state of mind and how little he could do to ease it.

“It’s not my fault you think you’re alone, Dutch, we’re all right here, you’re just too blind to see it.”

He left Dutch standing there, could feel his piercing gaze follow him all the way back to camp, track him as he returned to Arthur’s tent, and pin him down on the stool for the rest of the night. The distance between him and Silver Dollar so short, yet so impossibly long, and the absence of Bella all too noticeable.

Permitting Isaac to leave was a regret he felt would haunt him for a long time and he had the whole long night ahead of him to think about it.

* * *

It was unsettling how little Blackwater had changed in the short time since Isaac had been away. It made sense, it hadn’t even been six months, but still with how darkly the lakeside town loomed in all of their minds Isaac had half-expected the place to be wreathed in shadows and cowering under a vicious storm. But of course that was not the case.

From where they sat up on the hill, Kieran brushed down the horses and Sadie and Isaac went about building a campfire, Blackwater looked perfectly normal, and as grand as it’d seemed the first time they’d come to see it. A town that was so ripe for opportunity and riches that just staring at its silhouette, watching folks pour in and out like swarms of ants, made you feel like you were on the cusp of something great.

The only swarm that remained at this point was the Pinkertons. Fresh-faced young men and gruff older gentlemen all pressed into the same starched suits, the same sour expressions, and the same twitching anticipation to find one of their quarries and put them down like cattle ready for slaughter.

Isaac shivered, it was just barely dawn, they’d ridden all night long to get to Blackwater, and though Lemoyne was just a few miles east on this very same lake the early morning breeze across the lake felt much colder, uninviting almost. Though it could be said that it was his feet that were growing cold, and not the wind at all.

He tossed the thought aside and pulled his jacket tighter, going back to where the others were gathered around the fire, warming their hands on the flames.

“It’s lookin’ pretty busy down there, is it always like that?” Isaac asked as he crouched down to pick through the meager supplies they’d picked up in Valentine, just a few cans, and a precious box of crackers that Isaac quickly snatched up.

“From what I’ve seen there’s more of them out in the morning and at night, I think that’s when they expect us ruffians to return for the money,” Trelawny replied, morosely swishing around the tar-like cup of coffee he’d been handed.

“So it’ll be safer if we go during the day?”

“Safer but not safe, I must still act the voice of reason.” Trelawny leaned forward to catch his gaze, he was doing that a lot lately. Isaac hated it. He didn’t like eye contact very much normally, it was too intense, too much pressure to look correct while he spoke, but this was scrutiny, Trelawny trying to look deep into his mind and pick out what he wasn’t saying, what he was hiding. “None of this is going to be safe, Isaac and all of us will be in a great deal of trouble once we return.”

Isaac stood, pretending he was looking back over at the distant, hulking form of the city. “We can worry about that once we actually get back with the money.”

“Speaking of,” Kieran braved the brewing argument and piped up, hunched so far into his shoulders it looked like he was hiding in his coat. “Do we really have to rob an old lady?”

“It ain’t Mrs. Daughtry’s money so we ain’t stealing nothing, she was just holding it for us without knowing, that’s how Uncle Dutch explained it.”

Mrs. Daughtry was perhaps Uncle Dutch’s best-kept secret about Blackwater. An older, well-off woman who lived at the edge of town, half-blind and going mad with loneliness, her husband dead and all her sons gone and left, scattered across the country, puttering around in her big house with just the maid for company.

Dutch had come across her when they’d first come to Blackwater, ambling about the neighborhood, peering over the gate around the church with its copse of bone-white tombstones, looking for unkempt, forgotten corners of the civilization they found themselves in; looking for somewhere where they could safely hide their latest stash. She had been coming to pay respects to her departed husband, looked past the gate, and saw her son.

In recounting this story to Isaac Dutch emphasized how he’d tried to convince her that he wasn’t her son, that it was a misunderstanding, but she’d been so emotional, so overwhelmed at the sight of them that before he’d known what was happening she was dragging him back to her house, a teacup in his hand and the poor woman fussing and fretting over him.

He explained to Isaac how strange it’d been, sitting in one of the nicest homes in town under a pretense that he hadn’t established, with a woman he wasn’t planning to rob, operating under a lie she was telling herself. But as strange as it was, it was just as fortuitous.

Her home was out on the fringes of town, distant, which only further isolated the poor woman, but inspired in him a plan. The home was grand enough, and large, large enough for a gated yard with tall hedges and trees providing intimate privacy.

It wasn’t unkempt, but based on how eager Mrs. Daughtry had been to entertain her “son” she’d definitely been forgotten. It wouldn’t be hard to take advantage of the seclusion she’d found herself in, borrow it for their own needs.

That was how Isaac had found himself with the task of scaling Mrs. Daughtry’s yard walls every couple of days, tight bundles of money tucked into his coat and pockets, to drop down amidst the shrubbery and green and bury the money under the cover of night. Sometimes Uncle Dutch would be there, distracting her and the maid so they wouldn’t catch Isaac out in the yard, playing the part of the dutiful son, sometimes it would just be Isaac, his heart beating fast against his ribs as he unburied the tin box lit only by the moon, praying the maid wouldn’t look out the window and find him.

The system had worked for a while, and even if the law could have traced the gang back to their camp outside of town it would have been impossible for them to pin down where they hid their roughly-earned money. Under the roots of an old, old tree, on an unsuspecting widow's property. The unconventional nature of the hiding spot made it easy to keep it safe, but when they were running from the Pinkertons and the bloody disaster that was the ferry job it made it impossible to return and collect.

Until today that is.

“It’s not gonna be hard, Trelawny’s gonna distract them inside and you’re gonna dig up the stash, ok?” Isaac repeated the established plan, biting his lip as his thoughts raced ahead of him. “But…you can’t hurt her, she’s a nice lady, she doesn’t deserve any trouble.”

“We wouldn’t dream of it my boy,” Trelawny said, lifting his cup in a mock cheers. “You know I’m more effective with my words than the brute strength of our compatriots.”

Isaac’s gaze slid over to stare at Kieran, he’d been warned away from the man plenty when he’d first been let loose, to not trust the O’Driscoll unless he wanted to meet a world of hurt. It’d been a lesson learned many times over for the gang that as bad as they might be the O’Driscolls were always worse. But he wouldn’t have brought Kieran along if he believed him to still be an O’Driscoll, he wouldn’t have trusted him with these secrets or this money if he thought he was still dangerous. So he didn’t push the subject, didn’t see a reason when the man was already tying himself up in anxious knots.

“We’ve got them covered, kid, but what about you?” Sadie finally spoke up, putting away the grinding stone she’d been using to sharpen her knife. “You gonna be able to handle this? It’s been a while since you were here right? Can you go through with it?”

“I…I have to,” Isaac shrugged for lack of a better response. When he’d told Sadie he had no other choice he wasn’t lying. This was his plan, this was the way forward, and he had no option but to make it work. “It’s just swimming, that’s all it is, I do that every day.”

“And if we get the law on our tail? Or we run into trouble? I need you to keep your head on your shoulders.”

“I’ll be fine!” Isaac snapped, digging his nails into his palm to stifle the urge to scratch.

“I saw you after those Raiders attacked us, if you have another episode like that we’re not getting out of here in one piece.” Sadie pushed and pushed, like leaning on a crowbar to break into a safe, uncaring if something broke. “I’m here to keep you safe, Isaac, I just need to know what I’m in for.”

Isaac bit his lip, bit back the snark and harsh words he wanted to yell back at Sadie, she was nice, she was here doing something monumental for him, he needed to try to be polite, and on top of it all she was right. Not only was she here just to protect him but she’d caught a glimpse of him at his worst, crying and hyperventilating as he ran into the woods because those men were trying to shoot them, just because he was embarrassed didn’t mean she was wrong.

“I was able to keep it together during the actual firefight,” Isaac said slowly, shoving his hands in his pockets to hide their minute shaking. “Same during the ferry fiasco, we were being chased and shot at but Uncle Davey and I got out of the city before I started panicking. I can handle it”

He did not mention that with the Raiders he had been safely ensconced in the back of the wagon, or that he had trusted Uncle Davey so much that he hadn’t even thought to be scared until the man got shot.

Really with his nerves as frayed as they were over this plan and the run-in with Uncle Dutch he was just hoping that they weren’t going to run into anyone at all and they’d get the money without incident.

“I want to believe you, kid. You’re strong, got a good head on your shoulders.” She smiled warmly and patted his knee. “You gotta meet me halfway, alright? You gotta listen to me while we’re out there. Trust that I know what I’m doin’ and I’ll trust you.”

Isaac nodded, taking her words to heart, even as they plucked a heartsore, melancholic tune. He could hear Uncle Davey in her words, sounding like when they were preparing the night before the ferry job. He’d taken him aside and lectured Isaac about what to expect when they were out there, how he had to heed him if he ever wanted to come out on a job again.

“You’re gonna listen good to me while we’re out there, no backtalk, no givin’ me the runaround. I ain’t John, alright? And no playin’ jokes on ol’ stupid Uncle Davey, you hear? This is serious business.” He’d leaned down to stand at Isaac’s level, to look him in the eyes and point at him emphatically. “We’re gonna do a great job out there and make that Daddy of yours look stupid for worrying so much, alright?”

“Yes, sir,” Isaac saluted like he’d seen Uncle Mac and Davey do when they were making fun of Bill or Pearson, and it got the desired laugh out of the gruff man, breaking the all too-serious atmosphere that had come down over them as Davey had been lecturing him.

Then Uncle Davey grabbed Isaac around the waist and hauled him up on to his shoulder making him giggle and shriek. “If I’m gonna be on babysittin' duty I’ll be the best damn babysitter you’ve ever seen, you hear that Tilly Jackson!”

“I hear a lot of nonsense, Davey Callander- Put him down, good Lord!”

He could look up from where they were sitting and see their former campsite, now a scorched patch in the plains from knocked-over lanterns and overeager Pinkertons, could see that low squatting tree that he’d used as his perch to be a menace, could almost see the outlines of the tents that Uncle Davey had ran in circles around, hauling Isaac along as he’d tried to evade a furious Auntie Tilly. The little chase had gotten lots of people cheering, urging Tilly on even as she was breathless and flushed with laughter, and when Uncle Davey had inevitably tripped, sending both of them sprawling to the ground everyone had had a great big laugh over it.

It had ended the tension-filled night on a bright cheery note and had been a poor herald for the violence that was to come down on them the following day, months even.

Isaac missed those days, before the ferry, and more than anything he missed Uncle Mac and Davey, as brash and awful as they could be, they were still his Uncles, but now they were gone, scattered to the wind and cold, bled out like a pig in the street.

He was getting this money to give his family a better future, but he also needed to get it to make sure they didn’t die in vain.

The shaking in his hands stopped and he felt like he could take a deep breath again, determined as he was to succeed, and when he spoke again there were no tremulous words, no anxious stuttering, as strong and confident as Daddy was.

“I trust you, Sadie, I trust all y’all, we’re gonna pull through, I guarantee it.”

They smirked and grinned at him, entertained by the little boy pretending to be a leader, but he could see them breathe a little easier, could see their shoulders ease up from the tense knot they’d been tied into.

Dawn came and went, ushering morning, watching the four of them sitting and waiting, planning and plotting, staring out over the grand city, wondering what awaited them within her gilded streets, and when noon hit, the normal bustle of the city returning incrementally despite the Pinkerton presence, they changed into their disguises and headed down in split directions to the town, hoping that the next time they saw one another they would be far, far richer.

* * *

For the past couple of weeks waking up had been a confusing, laborious process for Arthur, sifting through his fevered delusions and dreams to reach reality. Trying not to strangle the folks watching over him, their silhouettes in his hazy half-awake state sending him into a panicked fight or flight, unable to discern friend from foe or recall that he’d been rescued from the O’Driscoll’s at all for a few tense moments. To make it worse, every time he awoke without seeing Isaac only sent him further spiraling, to the detriment of everyone around him.

Today would have been another one of those days, waking up to the weak morning sunlight, what little managed to reach his sickbed through the surrounding tree and the tents covering him, to find Charles at his bedside post reading one of the books that Hosea had left behind. Isaac’s corner of the tent long since packed up and the boy nowhere to be seen. The only thing that kept him from calling out for his son was a nagging feeling, a half-remembered conversation doing its best to filter through his sickly haze.

That and the full body weariness he was struck with upon waking, everything protesting any minute movement he made, even his uninjured limbs felt raw and sore. Not to mention his pounding headache and the overheated, feverish waves of pain coming from his injuries, more intense and excruciating than they’d felt in weeks.

“C-Charles,” Arthur croaked out, his throat as hoarse and painful as if he’d been screaming and yelling all the night before.

“Arthur!” Charles jumped at the noise, quickly grabbing a cup of water and helping Arthur sit up to drink it. “How are you feeling?”

Arthur shrugged and rolled his neck, waiting for the painful stiffness to drain away, wincing because he knew it wouldn’t. “Where’d Isaac go?”

Charles watched him carefully, poised at the ready to pin him to the bed or call for Hosea, worried about Arthur putting up a fight like he’d done in the past couple of weeks. He recalled those incidents only through the hazy fog of stories told to him, and the soreness of his muscles remembering the feeling of trying to crawl out of the cot all on his own.

“He’s not in camp right now.”

“I know that,” Arthur grumbled. “He told me, but where’d he go?”

“You know?” Charles’ minute expressions crumpled into confusion as he considered Arthur. “You’re getting better.” Charles grabbed a damp rag to wipe off the tacky sweat clinging to his face and before Arthur could complain about the man avoiding the question he kept talking. “He’s gone with Trelawny on an errand, got permission from Hosea.”

“Why was Sadie goin’?” Arthur blinked past the haze threatening to pull him back under and sleep, there was something about all of this that was bothering him, something was amiss.

“What about Mrs. Adler?”

“I heard her and Isaac talking, in here, was barely awake, but it sounded like she was going too, and Isaac sounded…upset.”

Arthur inhaled sharply as yesterday came back to him in fragments and broken pieces. Dutch dragging him out of the cot and into the center of camp, the money splayed and revealed for all to see, then locked away in the dented box. Isaac trembling and pale and still trying to put on a brave face. His failures cast such a dark shadow over them that he wouldn’t be surprised if the skies opened up in rain at any moment.

“God, of course, he was upset…” Arthur gripped his face hard, curling into himself as shame boiled in his gut. “I-I ruined everything, it’s all gone to shit, I…I can’t-”

“I heard what happened,” Charles said quietly after a long, uncomfortable silence. “You didn’t deserve that.”

Arthur laughed cruelly, not daring to lift his gaze to meet Charles’, “I was hiding money, course I did, I had just hoped it stayed hidden.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong-”

“Yes I did,” Arthur hissed back, gathering what little strength he had to foster the anger gathering in his chest, setting fire to his extremities, crawling up his throat like a poisonous vine. “I hid money, Charles! Been doin’ it for years! I’m just the kind of snake that-”

Arthur’s furious yelling was cut off with a pained groan as his shoulder twinged with a hot, sharp pain like a fire poker slowly sinking into his abused flesh. Charles was there in a moment, easing him back down onto the cot and he warred with the desire to shove the man back away from him or grip his hand and never let him leave.

Despite the self-hating, vitriolic words he’d spit, Charles barely reacted, seemed unaffected as a whole. It incensed him, he wanted to shake sense into the man, reveal just how awful and wretched he really was. But the impassive reaction was comforting in a way as if his sin was no more consequential than anything else he’d done.

“You were providing for your son, Dutch shouldn’t fault you for that, you’ve got more than just his ambitions to worry about,” Charles said quietly, as he rifled around the collected poultices, herbs, and jars that had accumulated on his bedside table for a brown glass bottle, doling out a spoonful of the heavy, molasses-like liquid and deftly feeding it to Arthur who didn’t even think to protest.

He swallowed down the bitter liquid and turned away from Charles, from the burning shame he felt at the calm acceptance, turned to see the portrait of him and Eliza, little baby Isaac between them both. The frame had been replaced many times over the years, and the photo was yellow and creased inside, yet Eliza’s gaze remained, youthful and warm and happy, filled with hope for her son and his future, the future he just squandered.

“I can’t even do that, can’t even take care of him,” Arthur groaned. “He was miserable, knows he’s stuck here now.

“Isaac might be upset, but not with you.”

Arthur gulped harshly, recalling Isaac’s senseless, tearful apology. Isaac was like him in all the worst ways sometimes, taking on everyone's woes for himself. He couldn’t even properly bear the burden for his son, the boy all too eager to take on the sins of the father.

Even in this way, he was a failure.

“He should be, he should…” Arthur whispered. “I’ve ruined it…and after all Dutch and Hosea have done for me, what kind of-”

“Son, if you keep talkin’ I’m gonna sock you,” Hosea suddenly spoke up, standing at the end of Arthur’s cot, startling both Charles and him, neither of whom had heard the old man approach. “What have we done? Gotten you into a whole lot of mess. That doesn’t warrant all of this.” He gestured to Arthur sick with grief and guilt.

“I just…I owe you both my life.”

“You have a child, Arthur, that’s who you should be living for, not us.” Hosea sat down on the chair Charles quickly vacated with an irritated sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose as he gathered his thoughts. “I ain’t mad about the money. I wish you would’ve told me, but that’s what you needed to do to take care of that boy. ”

“I’m sure that ain’t the consensus,” Arthur said with a bitter laugh, no matter what Hosea and Charles said his real jury was the rest of the gang, and the judge and executioner had already made his opinion well known.

“They’re just upset,” Hosea said, waving off the sentiment. “They’ve been cooped up for a while, they’ll get over it as soon as they’re given something to do.” Hosea looked back over his shoulder across the camp where Arthur couldn’t see, a concerned furrow in his brow. “And John understands…I think he’s just hurt.”

Arthur swallowed the painful sentiment down, felt dizzy at the prospect of facing everyone that lay outside this shadowed, private space. Couldn’t even muster enough anger at John’s lack of sympathy, couldn’t feel himself worth it in the end.

The temptation to roll over and sleep away the day, sleep away the whole situation, and just hope he didn’t wake up was strong but the thought of the rest of the gang brought his wandering attention back to his earlier question, that emotional, whispered conversation between Isaac and Sadie, talking like they had a plan.

“‘Sea, where’s Mrs. Adler?”

“What?” Hosea blinked at him in surprise, his hand twitching at his side like he wanted to check Arthur for a fever, his strained mumbling nothing but a side effect.

“She and Isaac were talkin’, you said he could go- Where is she?” Arthur fought to sit up, his earlier suspicion coming back in full force, fighting its way through his regret, shaking sense into him. “When’d he leave?”

“Last night,” Hosea replied. “That’s what Tilly said.”

“You didn’t see him leave?” Arthur barked, his hackles raised even further. “Who even knows where he is then?”

“He and Trelawny said they were going together to get a new wagon and they’re both gone, don’t work yourself up over nothing,” Hosea replied sharply.

“He say he was taking Sadie along too?”

“No-” Hosea ran a hand through his hair in agitation. “I’m sure it’s nothing, Arthur, he’ll be back soon just lay back and rest.”

“I haven’t seen her all day,” Charles said, still watching Arthur carefully, ready to catch him if his body suddenly gave out like it tended to do these days.

Arthur dug around in his satchel pulling out a dented silver watch and flicking it open aggressively, scowling at its face, “If they were going to Emerald Ranch for the wagon then they should’ve been back by now, it’s past noon already. He wouldn’t do this…something ain’t right.”

“He’s been out of sorts lately, Arthur,” Hosea sighed, looking much older than he had any right to. “If I can get him to talk to me I consider it a good day, he might just need a longer break from camp than he’s willing to let on.”

“No, that ain’t it.” He couldn’t say what it was that was bugging him, couldn’t put his finger on what was amiss, but the longer Isaac remained absent from camp the more dread he felt. This wasn’t his usual paranoia either, wasn’t the delirious ravings from his half-awake mind, this was real, an almost tangible feeling in his gut. “If Trelawny don’t have him back soon I’m gonna string him up.”

“I could go looking for them,” Charles supplied. “Shouldn’t be too hard to find them.”

Before Arthur could eagerly take him up on his offer Hosea was intervening, holding a hand up between Charles and Arthur as if to stop them from getting too far ahead of themselves.

“Let’s give them a few hours before we start acting foolish.” Hosea gently pushed Arthur to lay back down, nodding at Charles to pull the cover of the tent down. “You’re doing better than you were last night son, but you still need your rest, you go to sleep and I’ll talk to Mr. Smith here, alright?”

Arthur scanned Hosea’s face, saw the tense line of his mouth, his furrowed brow, the way his hands lingered on Arthur’s shoulder as he encouraged him to rest.

“What happened?” He finally said, staying firm, not saying a thing or budging his glare from where it stuck on Hosea’s expression, waiting until the old man finally cracked.

“No one’s going to look for Isaac, least not today.” Hosea avoided Arthur’s gaze as he continued to speak. “Dutch just about pulled his gun on me when I suggested it, he ain’t in his right mind right now, we just gotta give him time.”

As Hosea spoke his voice grew softer and softer, until Arthur and Charles had to lean in to hear him.

“What if he’s hurt?” Arthur hissed, grabbing Hosea’s arm to pull him closer. “What if he needs help, Hosea?”

“We give him the day, and then Charles or John or I will go find him,” Hosea placated, prying Arthur’s usual iron grip off easily. “But let's not push Dutch farther than necessary.”

Arthur winced, recalling the way Dutch yanked and pulled him out of the tent, hearing his judgment meted out with such unbridled fury, being left standing in front of that damn box, no, he couldn’t handle Dutch’s reaction right now, his body still sluggishly pumping pain like water circling a drain, his head feeling cracked open and bared to the elements.

“Ain’t a one of us men can do a thing against him,” Arthur whispered to himself, remembering the conversation with Isaac following the incident. “Can’t even…can’t even protect him…”

Whatever else he might have said drifted away as sleep caught up with him, pulling him under like the tide, leaving Charles staring out at the surrounding woods, as if planning his best route to track down Isaac, and Hosea glaring at his own trembling hands, no words left between them, just the gnawing absence of the boy and the ever-present awareness that Dutch was just one tent over, always watching.

* * *

The sun landed in puddles throughout the city, muscling its way past awnings and the tall, majestic buildings, through the crowds of people to land on Isaac’s shoulders. He was focusing on that warmth, on the dirt kicked up by everyone around them, on every movement of his body instead of their destination.

Left foot, right foot, don’t walk too fast, don’t look like you’re going anywhere. Pretend like the empty carpet bags are heavy as if you’re going on a trip with your mother, like you both are going to wait for the ferry. Be mindful of Sadie, stand on the outside of the sidewalk, heed her when she tells you to slow down, be a good son.

It had been easier when he’d walked this same route with Uncle Davey, when he’d just been filled with the eager anticipation of wanting to do well, of not wanting to disappoint Daddy and Uncle Dutch. Now his eagerness was long chased away, fear and dread nipping at its heels, and cemented with the iron resolve that there was no turning back now.

The streets were busy, though he noticed not as busy as when they were last here, the shootout after the ferry job seemed to have left a lingering shadow on the city, waiting for the next violent outburst with held breath.

Though Isaac tried not to look around too much the bittersweet temptation kept pulling his gaze around, the hotel where he and Daddy would stay sometimes, the bakery, familiar alleys and fountains and benches where Grandpa would find unsuspecting rubes to talk to, convincing them of the solid investment deal he was offering up. So many memories, fond and unassuming all the same flooded him as they kept walking, reminding him of those better days that only seemed to come around to taunt him lately.

So he walked with his eyes on the ground, tried not to see it, tried only to think of what was to come, as much as he was dreading it all the same.

Sooner than he would have liked the familiar awning of the pier came into view, people scrambling around the dock trying to wrangle horses or load up on the stagecoach, all of them pouring out of a ferry, sitting at the pier cheerily and unsuspecting, Isaac’s gut sinking in anxiety at the sight of it.

Silently both Isaac and Sadie slowed down, moving to stand in the shade of the nearest building, watching as the departing ferry riders slowly trickled away from the pier.

Isaac was so focused on the crowd, waiting for when the ferry would pull away that he was startled badly when Sadie suddenly moved in front of him and started adjusting his clothes.

“My Lord, it’s like you were raised in a barn, look at you!” She said loudly, her accent growing stronger as she tried to act nonchalant. When she leaned in to start fussing over his hair next her loud, nagging twang dropped down to an authoritative whisper. “Pinkertons across the street from us, act natural.”

“What are they doing?” Isaac said, trying to catch a glance over Sadie’s shoulder before she firmly pushed his cheek to keep him facing forward. “They can’t know anything yet, that's impossible!”

“Shh, I think they’re just keeping an eye on the docks,” She took his hat off to run her fingers through his hair, trying in vain to brush down the wild swirl. “If they don’t move soon we can go further down the shore and you can swim to the pier, alright? Everything’s fine.”

She was speaking to him very firmly, and still moving his head to look at her if he tried to sneak a peek, so if he had to guess he’d say that he looked as horribly stressed as he felt.

The longer he was made to stay still and wait on something he wasn’t even allowed to see the more his fingers tingled with the desire to smack her hands away, the consistent fussing and touching only further agitating him, pulling his shoulders up by his ears as he uncomfortably hunched into himself, trying futilely to avoid the itching sensation.

Just at the moment when the itching became overwhelming, Sadie stepped away as suddenly as she’d crowded him in the first place, revealing two men in smart suits with the familiar bulge of a gun on their hip, heading further into the city.

Isaac breathed out a tense sigh and leaned back against the wall, accepting his hat back from Sadie before brushing the burning spots on his face and shoulders where she’d touched, his anticipation only making his aversion to touch worse; but he wouldn’t begrudge her for doing what they’d planned. “Good thinking back there.”

“Well, I gotta do my part when I can,” She said, adjusting her skirt and shawl, even though it’d only been a month or two of her wearing pants and working with the men it was still strange seeing her in her old clothes. He was so used to the confidence she’d gained since her change of wardrobe that in the skirt, pretending to be an unassuming mother it felt like she’d shrunk right in front of him. She disrupted his thoughts by bumping her carpet bag against his, drawing his attention back to her. “After all, you’re the one doing the heavy liftin’, can’t be lettin’ down the side.”

Soon enough what little conversation they’d had petered off into nothing, instead staying locked into the pier and the slowly thinning crowd.

It felt like an eternity had passed by the time the ferry started chugging again, even longer until it actually pulled away from the dock and headed back to Saint Denis on its route, leaving the docks mostly empty.

Slowly they made their way over to that familiar awning, Isaac holding the carpetbags so tightly so as not to drop them with his shaking. It was just a swim, that’s all it was.

They came to the edge and pretended to be observing the calm lake, or the retreating ferry, anything to look normal as they gathered their bags together at their feet, steeling themselves for action.

As planned Sadie pretended to stumble over the bags, catching herself on a pole but “accidentally” kicking all the bags into the water.

With no witnesses around them, they luckily didn’t have to stretch their acting muscles any further, instead allowing Isaac to shed his coat and hat and climb down the ladder without intervention, plunging into the crisp waters of the shore with a gasp.

As quickly as he could Isaac grabbed all the bags and dragged them underwater with him, following the freezing, shadowy water beneath the dock until he reached the wooden wall at the base, the loud ruckus of the main road growing louder the closer he swam.

He took a deep breath as he rose to the surface, trying to get his bearings, remembering that moment all those months ago when he’d treaded water in this very spot and watched the heavy bundle of gold bars and cash plummet off the side of the ferry to the silty ground below.

He dove down to the ground just as he’d done back then, floating in the churning waters until he could see a bit better in its murky depths until he could find the familiar if unassuming pile of rocks at the base of one of the pylons, hiding treasure like an X on a map.

It took him a few minutes to push and kick all the rocks away, having to take breaks and swim to the surface to catch his breath periodically, until he could dig his fingers into the cold mud and grab the canvas sack he’d buried and pull it out.

As he cradled the hefty prize in his lap he wondered how different their lives would be now if he had been doing this the day after the ferry job as they’d planned, if they’d had the money this whole time and not weeks after the fact, if it was Daddy and Grandpa waiting for him on the dock instead of Mrs. Adler. Where would they be now?

He forcefully shook the thoughts from his head and swam for the surface once more, barely able to take a full breath as all the soaked carpet bags and the gold threatened to pull him down to the bottom. He worked quickly, balancing the canvas bag in his lap where he wrapped his legs around the pylon as best as he could and began divvying up the impressive number of cold bars and wet, stuck-together rolls of cash into the different carpetbags, further hiding the treasure behind the frumpy, travel-beaten visage of the bags. Making sure that no one bag was heavier than the others, keeping it even, like a split after a job.

And soon it was done. The money, the source of all their most recent woes, the reason why Uncle Mac and Davey and dear Jenny had to die, was finally reclaimed.

He had expected elation, he’d expected relief, but finally having the money in his possession, having accomplished his goal, only left him feeling more anxious than ever, the weight of his family's future now a tangible thing threatening to pull him under.

Slowly he swam back over to Sadie, taking deep breaths whenever he could as the waves battered at his face and the carpetbags, soaked and weighted down with treasure yanked and pulled him towards the ground like a magnet.

Voices above startled him and he finally let the gold swiftly drag him to the floor as it craved to do, hiding under the cover of the waves, worried that any second now someone would be coming to take it from him. He knew he needed to climb back up that ladder and start handing the bags to Sadie, he knew they needed to get out of Blackwater as fast as they could to meet up with Kieran and Trelawny, but the Pinkertons that Sadie had spotted earlier and whoever was on the dock now was paralyzing him, freezing him at the bottom of the lake, where there were no lawmen, no shootouts, no pressure of escaping, just him and the water.

He probably would have stayed under there until he was blue in the face, so terrified of everything going wrong after they’d come so far to make it right but there was a moment, peering up through the water, when the sunlight was strong enough to penetrate the murk that he could see out to the little bank across the way. And maybe it was a trick of the light, or memories hounding him, but he could swear, standing on that slim shore, just as he had when they'd been waiting for the ferry to come in, was Uncle Davey.

Watching him, keeping him safe. Refracted and broken up by the agitated waves, but in the clearest, stillest waters Isaac could see him.

He watched him light a cigarette by striking a match off the bottom of his boot, a trick that used to endlessly entertain Isaac, taking a long drag before locking eyes, even under the water. Isaac stilled, watching every minute movement of Uncle Davey, waiting for the moment when the mirage would disappear.

The spector mouthed something, grinning sharply, sunlight glinting off his silver canine, and Isaac swore he could hear Davey saying, “Your lady friend’s waiting for you.”

Immediately Isaac rolled his eyes, the teasing always expected from Uncle Mac and Davey, but it calmed him for just a moment, reminded him of something normal and inconsequential when he needed it the most. He pushed himself off the ground, pulling the carpet bags along with all his strength and breached the water with a gasp, quickly devolving into coughing, his lungs aching from how long he’d pushed them underwater.

“Isaac, honey,” Sadie called out, her loud, accented voice telling him that they weren’t alone, just as he feared. “Are you alright down there? These nice men were worried.”

He gulped and clutched the ladder tighter, still scared to face what came next, but with a glance over his shoulder at that empty spit of shore, he just had to remember who this was all for, and who he’d be disappointing if he failed now.

“Yes, Mother! I’m just fine!” He called back with a grunt of effort as he shoved two of the bags into the rungs of the ladder, unable to carry more than two at a time and not topple off.

When he did finally reach the top of the ladder, grunting and straining in the effort to carry the two gold-laden bags, he was met with Sadie’s dirt-scuffed boots under her skirt, and two pairs of polished black loafers, owned by the pair of Pinkertons they’d seen earlier, apparently having circled back from whatever business they were attending to just to watch in amusement as Isaac tried to haul himself onto the pier.

“Looks like you got yourself in quite a pickle, son,” The younger looking one said as he grabbed Isaac to pull him up the rest of the way, reading Isaac’s shaking as a lingering chill from the water, and not fear rattling his bones. “Your mother was saying you were a fine swimmer but you should have gotten help for your luggage.”

“I’m sorry, s-sir,” Isaac stuttered, moving closer to Sadie’s side. “Suppose I should’ve, didn’t want it to get lost…”

“Is that all of them, Isaac?” Sadie asked, pulling the sopping wet bags as close to her as she could, without outright clutching them to her chest, eying the Pinkertons as she held onto Isaac and the bag’s handles.

“There’s two more, m-mother, just below, won’t be a moment.” Isaac eagerly took the excuse to dart over to the ladder, not waiting long enough for the agents to interject or offer their services before scurrying down to where he’d left the bags.

“Got a eager young boy there, Mrs. Kilgore,” The other one spoke up for the first time. “He must be excited for your trip, is that right?”

“Yes sir.” Sadie replied stiffly, trying hard to cover her displeasure with their presence.

As Isaac hauled up the last two bags, panting in exertion as the momentary respite on the pier had reminded him just how much swimming and heavy lifting he’d been doing, the agent's questions turned pointed.

“And what’s got you two coming out to Blackwater? Brave of a mother and child alone considering what’s been happening.”

“Oh, really? I ain’t heard much news out this way,” Sadie said, feigning ignorance, her voice going just a few octaves higher, not quite as good a liar as she was a gunslinger. Isaac could only pray that the Pinkerton agents were as stupid as Uncle Dutch claimed they were. “My husband called for us, got us a nice little place in Saint Denis, we’re just waiting for the ferry.”

“There was a massacre, ma’am,” The younger one said seriously, barely even sparing Isaac a glance as the boy leveraged himself onto the dock, leaving Sadie to come to his aid, dragging the bags along with him in a white-knuckled grip. “No good outlaws came in and tried to rob this fair city, right here on the pier. Lot of good men died that day, and too many of those bastards got off scot-free.”

Isaac bit his lip, locked his angry words away. It didn’t help them right now to try to prove the Pinkertons wrong, no matter how much their words burned him.

“That sounds just terrible, officers,” Sadie said, her facsimile of empathy a poor substitute for the real thing, distracted as she was by securing Isaac against her side once more. “Well, we’ll just have to pray it don’t happen again don’t we?”

With all carpetbags loaded and in tow Sadie made a valiant attempt to pull Isaac, past the Pinkertons, and down the street to where their horses were tied up, just a few yards away from freedom, the edge of the city taunting them like a mirage. They’d only made it a few feet down the docks before the agents were stopping them, one hand on Isaac’s shoulder to pull him to a stop and the other agent intercepting Sadie with a hand raised to slow her.

“You know, son, those men supposedly hid the money from the ferry they robbed underneath this very pier.” It was the older agent, gruff and serious under his mustache and mutton chops, and not nearly as amused as his counterpart was. “You wouldn’t have happened to see anything while you were down there did you?”

Isaac tried in vain to shake off the agent and shivered when the man’s grip only tightened.

“I-it was awful dark down there, sir, couldn’t see much of anything,” Isaac tried his best to keep his voice level, pretending that his shifty gaze and sweaty palms were normal nerves and not evidence of wrongdoing.

“So you wouldn’t mind if we took a look at those bags would you?” The agent said, striking out like a viper and grabbing the handle of one of the bags Isaac was holding, anchoring him to the spot as much as the dread brewing in his gut did. “That money is federal property, boy, just have to make sure it’s not getting misplaced.”

Isaac’s first instinct was to kick the man in the shins as hard as he could and make a run for it, maybe even dive back into the water, just anything to get away. The little voice in his head that sounded like Uncle Mac and Davey was in exuberant support of making a break for it. Luckily, before he could do anything rash, Sadie stepped in, her calm demeanor shed to reveal the snarling, unstoppable force he had grown accustomed to.

“You best keep your hands to yourself, officer,” She snarled, tearing Isaac away from the man and shoving him behind her. “It’s bad enough everything we own got dipped in the lake but on top of that my poor boy is gonna catch his death of cold and you want to interrogate us?”

“We’re just doing our job, ma’am-”

“How about you go do your job somewhere else?”

“If he happened to accidently pick up some of that money it’s going to get you both in a lot of trouble.” The older agent huffed, glaring down his nose at Sadie who was giving it right back, the younger agent stood between the two of them, hands up as if ready to intervene if things got violent.

“Are you threatening us now?”

Isaac felt bad for ever doubting Sadie’s acting abilities, her performance as an anxious, overprotective mother was inspired.

“Of course not, Mrs. Kilgore,” The young man interceded, keeping a hand on his partner’s chest as the man growled in irritation. “We’re just being cautious, but if the boy swears he didn’t see anything we can let you go. I’m sure he’d appreciate a nice, hot bath before you two set off.”

“That is not for you to decide-”

“You want to cause a scene, sir? I don’t think it’s worth it to push.”

The two agents looked seconds away from coming to blows and Isaac knew that Sadie had won.

“We really appreciate your understanding, officers,” Sadie said graciously, her feral bobcat demeanor tucked away behind a warm smile as she took the momentary lapse in the Pinkerton’s cooperation to link her arm through Isaac’s and stroll down the dock, taking long strides towards the main road. “Y’all have yourselves a good day now.”

“Ma’am wait-”

“Bye bye now! Really must be going!”

Isaac could barely breathe as they sped away, their forced stroll just seconds away from outright running but they restrained themselves as best they could. They didn’t dare slow down or look back for fear that the Pinkertons would be right on their tails. They kept up the frantic, barely disguised pace even as they made it one road over and disappeared into a midday crowd. They might have gotten away but until they met up with Trelawny and Kieran and were on the road back to Lemoyne they were still in danger, any lapse in caution could spell their demise.

So they turned down alleyways, stuck to the shadows, avoided other men in shiny loafers and badges, scurrying their way through the city until they found where they’d left Bella and Bob, tied up near a house at the edge of town, hidden under the shade of a swaying willow tree.

Isaac’s hands shook terribly as they mounted up and loaded the sopping wet, heavy bags of gold and money on the saddles. Adrenaline pumping so thickly in his veins it felt like it had replaced all of his blood, the memory of being chased through the streets by bullets, a physical presence at the back of his neck, the same feeling that spelt out lawmen fast on their tail.

The two of them could not find the courage to break the tension as they rode out, pushing the horses just a hair faster then a mother and son on a midday walk would be going, but the specter of the Pinkertons left behind hounded them on, urged them to go even faster, until they had escaped the main bustling knot of the city and made it out to the surrounding plains.

“Did we…” Isaac panted, clutching his chest as they moved off the well beaten path and over the rolling hills of dry grass. “Did we really do it?”

“I think we might’ve,” Sadie said, with a breathless laugh. “Least until those Pinkertons show their ugly mugs again I’d go so far as to say this was a job well done.”

Isaac urged Bella forward, absentmindedly petting her neck as he matched pace with Sadie and came side by side, gently kicking Sadie’s boots. “You did a real good job, I don’t know if I could’ve gotten away without you thinkin’ so quick.”

“Oh, please, you sound like your father.” Sadie rolled her eyes but leaned over and kicked at his boots in return. “You weren’t too bad yourself, and hey, none of us would’ve been here without you. We only got this money because of you. You did good kid, Arthur’ll be proud.”

Isaac didn’t have long to bask in Sadie’s praise as they crested the hill to their temporary shelter and noise erupted like dynamite going off.

Where he had expected the quiet scene of the partially torn down camp they’d left this morning, or even Kieran and Trelawney celebrating a job well done, they were instead met by a familiar face, furious yelling, and the deafening firing of a gun.

“You little shit!” Micah yelled as he shoved Kieran off of him, the poor man was bloody and bruised, and tied up, but apparently he’d gotten enough leverage to slam into Micah’s side and disrupt the shots he’d fired.

Though the damage had already been done.

Sadie cried out in surprise and pain as one of the bullets ripped through her shoulder, turning the warm yellow cotton of her shirt into a bloody mess. Below her, Bob let out a similar cry of distress as the other bullet dug into his golden dappled chest, the horrible sound of a dying horse tearing through the clearing as the stud collapsed, pinning Sadie to the ground with another pained scream.

Isaac was desperately trying to stay on Bella, trying to urge her back down the hill and away from the camp, trying to run. But he had forgotten that poor Bella hadn’t been around guns or the violence they’d grown so accustomed to enough to be immune to the sound and implicit danger of shots fired. As Bob fell dead to the ground, Bella, her eyes rolling around in panic, finally bucked Isaac off, throwing him to the ground and rattling him as his head bounced on impact and what little breath he’d had quickly left him, leaving him gasping like a fish on land, forced to watch, helplessly, as she ran as fast as she could down the hill, getting lost in the surrounding plains.

Before he could get his feet under him, or take a single breath more, he heard Micah whip Kieran round the head with his revolver and stalk over to him on the ground. Isaac’s vision suddenly filled by Micah’s scheming smirk.

“Y’know, Isaac, I should really thank you,” Micah said as he hauled him over his shoulder, knocking away what little oxygen he’d gained with a hoarse grunt. “Goin’ and doin’ the hard work of gettin’ that money. Dutch is right, you are useful to have around.”

“Let…me…go,” Isaac wheezed, weakly kicking at Micah as the man carried him away.

“Oh, not a chance,” The bastard laughed, shaking Isaac and making him nauseous. “You’re gonna get me one last payday, and a whole lot more, just you wait and see.”

“Bastard, motherfucker,” Sadie screeched, still pinned under her dead mount. “Just wait until I get my hands on you, you no good-”

“Woah now,” Micah said, his voice colored by vicious teasing, as he came around just in time to kick the gun out of Sadie’s pain-weakened hands. “Little lady like you shouldn’t have such a foul mouth, not unless she’s intending on putting it to good use.”

Behind him Isaac could hear Sadie spit at Micah, he could only hope she was a good enough aim to hit him right in his treacherous face.

Micah growled and grinded her hand into the dirt with the heel of his boot before crouching down, leaning on her hand, and still holding Isaac captive, “Y’know Sadie, I usually like a bitch with a little fire, but you might just be more trouble then you’re worth.”

Isaac heard the cock of a hammer and his mind whited out in panic.

“Wait! Wait-” He coughed, straining against his agonized lungs to push out desperate words. “D-don’t hurt her! I’ll go with you no trouble, just leave her alone!”

“Isaac, no!” Sadie screamed and Kieran groaned in miserable union.

“Really?” Micah sneered, disbelieving. “So long as I don’t kill Sadie here you’ll do what I say? ‘Cause if you’re lyin’ I’ll just shoot her right here.”

Isaac shivered, trying to shove away the memories of the many bodies that he’d stood before helpless, desperately praying that Sadie wasn’t going to be another one.

“I-I promise I’m not lying,” Isaac gasped, it felt like if he didn’t speak fast enough Micah’s patience would run out and it’d be too late. “I’ll come with and I won’t make trouble, just don’t hurt anyone else!”

Micah hummed in contemplation, idly grinding his boot harder into Sadie’s palm, dredging up a pained moan from her, before he stepped away and dumped Isaac in the dirt.

“Go on then, get the money.”

Isaac coughed hard when he landed, wincing as his palms and knees stung from scraping against rocks, his body still sore from falling off of Bella, but he stood, he got up and he moved over to Bob because he was not going to let someone else die for this stupid money.

“Isaac, just go, get outta here,” Sadie gritted out through clenched teeth, her efforts to kick off Bob growing weaker and weaker as her suntanned skin grew paler with each second she lay there bleeding into the dirt. “Leave us…just run…”

“N-no, everything’s fine, I’m gonna fix this,” Isaac whispered, quickly taking off his vest and balling it up to shove under Sadie’s shoulder and stifle the bleeding as best as he could. “I’ll be ok-”

“Keep it moving, boy,” Micah said, jabbing him with the muzzle of his gun.

Isaac jerked nervously, his hands shaking so much he could barely untie the carpet bags from the saddle and carry them without dropping them. As Micah pushed him over to where Baylock was waiting it felt like the bags weighed twice as much, like he was back underwater and it was trying to drown him again.

“O’Driscoll get up, we’re movin’ out,” Micah growled, pulling Kieran up to stand by the ropes tied tight around him. “Put the bags on the saddle with the rest, boy.”

“Wait, what’re you doing?!”

“I’m not keepin’ him around for fun, kid,” Micah snickered, shoving Kieran towards the horse rough enough to send him sprawling.

“But-”

“I just said I wouldn’t hurt Sadie, kid, I said nothing about the little moron, or about you so watch yourself.” Micah turned and grabbed the bags from him, shoving him forward before stowing the bags on the back along with a mud-covered, dented tin box: the stash.

The same box that Isaac had dutifully filled for three months, his first big responsibility for the gang, and look where it was now. Uncle Dutch’s trust in him strapped on the back of Micah Bell's horse. All this planning, all this stress and heartache and lying and it was just dashed away, ruined in an instant by Micah.

Sadie was right, this was all because of him, all of them here, all of this work to find the money, all of it gone to waste because of him.

So distracted by his world crumbling around his ears, by guilt threatening him with hot tears and dropping in his gut like stones that Isaac didn’t see Micah approaching, didn’t hear Kieran’s muffled warnings.

“Y’know, you spend so much time with the old man, who knows if I can trust you not to lie to me, hm?” Micah said with a wide, malicious grin as he grabbed him by his collar. “And I’ve been waiting for a long time for this.”

Quick as a flash Micah pulled out his gun, and before he could fight or try to run, he smacked him upside the head with it, sending him crumpling to the ground instantly, held up only by Micah’s grip on the front of his shirt.

“Aren’t you glad Daddy ain’t here to see this?” Micah hissed in ear as he threw him on top of Baylock. “Wouldn’t he just be so disappointed?”

For a moment there was nothing but furious yelling and pain, nothing but his guilt weighing him down like an anchor, nothing but loathing for just how stupid he’d been. Then it was all gone, faded to blackness as he gave into the pain and slipped into unconsciousness, unaware of just where he’d end up when he woke.

Chapter Text

The world existed at an angle to Isaac.

The sun was below, the dirt trail was up, and for every cloud in the sky there was a bright, lancing streak of pain lighting up his view, blinding him, despite the shadows they passed through, the surrounding trees tall and overreaching, closing in on them like a snapping jaw.

He faded in and out, threatening to hurl each time as the sensation of the horse moving underneath him and the horrific pain in his head grew too much.

Behind him, walking on the muddy trail was Kieran, his hands tied before him, yanked along by a rope held by the rider, he was limping, his wrists rubbed raw by the rope, his head and shoulders bowed in defeat. Each step of the horse or dip in the road pulled a pained groan from him, sounding more like a dying animal than a man.

Isaac reached out, hoping he could untie Kieran or help him somehow, when he was stopped by his own ropes lashed tight around his hands. He pulled against them, confused why they were there in the first place. Who was riding the horse, and why was he thrown across the back like one of Daddy’s bounties? Where were they and where was everyone else?

Every moment he stayed awake and fought against his scratchy confinements, the fog laying heavy over his mind lifted bit by bit, until clarity struck him just as painfully as waking had. He gasped and jerked around harder, not even caring about the danger of falling off the tall back of Baylock, he might have managed to wriggle off and run into the woods, find some lone cabin, and get help, if it weren’t for Micah reaching back to pin him down, one gun-calloused hand on the back of his neck.

“Well, good morning, sunshine,” He grunted, exerting himself to keep Isaac pinned, the horse steady, and Kieran in hand. “Was startin’ to think I’d killed you back there.”

“You bastard! You traitor!” Isaac gasped out, losing his breath where his lungs were pinned flat against Baylock’s flank, breathing in the scent of horse with the tinny undertones of dried blood.

“Now is that any way to speak to your elders?”

“You just wait! When Dutch finds out-”

“I distinctly remember-” He emphasized by pressing down harder on Isaac’s neck, turning his vision black for just a moment as he choked. “That you were sayin’ you were gonna come along peacefully so long as I don’t hurt Adler back there, should I be swinging around? Go back and finish her off?”

“What’s it matter what I say?” Isaac coughed, trying to roll out from under Micah’s bruising grip, catching a glimpse of Kieran’s aghast, guilt-ridden expression, and it made it only worse that this pitiful scrap with Micah had a witness. “You’re just gonna do whatever you want! Why not just kill us and get it over with, why drag us to God knows where?”

“Unfortunately for us both,” Micah hissed as he leaned down as much as he could, pressing, pressing, pressing on Isaac’s throat until his world turned gray. “You’re worth more to me alive than dead.”

Isaac wanted to fight back, say something cruel and clever and win the argument, but any words he might have had gurgled in his throat as he choked, died as he passed out, and were forgotten as he drifted away, a hand-shaped bruise blossoming on the back of his neck.

* * *

“Mrs. Adler? Mrs. Adler!”

Someone was shouting. Far too loud and far too close.

The crushing weight on her lower half swayed and moved like she was on a boat, being tossed amidst waves and currents.

She’d only been on a boat once when she and Jake were invited by their very distant neighbor to go fishing on his boat. It’d just been Lake Victoria in the rare part of the year when it wasn’t frozen, a body of water she was more familiar with as ice, more comfortable with viewing the white and blue expanse and finding the solid parts to stand on. Jake had been excited, but the moment they’d pushed off she’d grown so nauseous and dizzy she had to lay down for fear of falling off the side.

She was lying down, she must be on the boat, Jake was there rowing them back and teasing her, he was there, he was there.

The cold filling her body like ice water must just be from the mountain air seeping through the slats of the boat and digging under her skin. The wetness on her chest water splashed over the lip of the boat.

He was there, Jake was gonna help her out of the boat and they’d go back home, she’d be home soon, be with Jake soon. He was there.

“Sadie, my god what happened?”

The rocking sensation started up again, the pressure on her lungs lifting and falling until it felt like she wasn’t even breathing for herself.

“Can’t move this damn thing- who shot you?! Lord, just stay awake, please.”

Shot her? Was there an accident? If Jake saw he’d panic, she loved that man but he was about as level-headed as a fish on land in a crisis.

Suddenly that rocking sensation, that pressure holding her down was agonizingly ripped away, as she was pulled out from under it, someone gripping her under the arms and yanking her back along the painful gravel, but not more painful than the agony coursing through her body, heat radiating from her shoulder, leaving her gasping and howling.

“Sorry, Mrs. Adler, deepest apologies, just hold on, please.” Whoever was doing this to her sounded awful panicked himself, and he better be because she was gonna rip him to pieces for this. “Can’t move the horse, can’t move you without hurting you, and I don’t see any sign of Kieran and Isaac, a fine situation we find ourselves in.”

Isaac and Kieran. Getting shot, Bob dying below her. Isaac fishing out the money looking burdened and pained, Micah knocking the poor boy out. Micah taking them away.

Sadie gasped and tried to sit up, immediately crumbling and falling back into an unsteady Trelawny and knocking them both over as the pain shocked her.

“They- They got taken away, Trelawny we need-” Sadie choked and grabbed her shoulder, panting as she felt her heart beat an unsteady rhythm under her palm. “Micah got’em, he was waitin’ for us-”

“Micah? How the hell-”

“It don’t matter, we gotta find them, they’re hurt, Trelawny, and he’s got the money…”

“Your horse is dead, Sadie, I’m sorry, and you’re not too far behind. We need to get you patched up before we go anywhere.”

“Make it quick, magic man,” Sadie panted, her fingers twitching as she prayed the cold filling them up would go away. “We’ve gotta…gotta find ‘em.”

Sadie did her best to stay awake as Trelawny got to work treating her wound, even when it hurt, especially when it hurt, even when he had to remove her shirt and they had to avoid eye contact. She refused the whiskey he offered her and she stared at the corpse of her departed mount, she forced herself to stay in the moment, no matter how ugly and dire and painful it was.

Anything to keep her from slipping back up the mountain, back to the familiar snow-covered landscapes, and a time when Jake was still with her.

She had to keep pushing forward, keep up momentum, focus on the people that needed saving, on their mission, she had no other choice.

That brief moment when her world had been one in which he still lived, one in which their lives had not been torn apart, was more painful than any wound, and she simply couldn’t bear it again.

“How’d you two get separated anyway?” Sadie murmured, hissing in pain as Trelawney haphazardly cleaned the wound, double-checking for shrapnel before he wrapped it up. “Kieran doesn’t seem the type.”

“No, no it was me- well, both of us I suppose,” Trelawny sighed. “I was carrying on well enough with Mrs. Daughtry, distracting her as was my task, but the maid, she looked outside and must have seen Kieran. I suspect the tree in the yard provides better cover when you are a child.”

“What happened?” Sadie grabbed onto Trelawny’s recounting with both hands, looking away as he brought a needle to her gaping wound.

“She screamed, made a grand old fuss, and wanted to get the police,” Trelawny said, speaking quieter as he focused harder on sewing Sadie up. “I ran out and pretended to chase Kieran off then told her I’d go retrieve the lawman myself. I headed off into the city to make sure she couldn’t connect the two of us together…and Kieran went back to camp.”

“Don’t blame yourself for him gettin’ caught up with Micah, we couldn’t’ve known.”

Silence, the tug of a needle pulled through skin.

“Do you blame yourself for Isaac being taken? Even though we couldn’t have known?”

Silence. Bitter and hard to swallow.

“As I suspected.”

Minutes crawled by like ants, dutifully carrying seconds along, until Trelawny finally pulled away from her with a tired sigh and a hand mopped across his sweaty brow.

“It’s not pretty, but it will keep your blood where it belongs, my dear,” Trelawny drawled as he eased Sadie up to a sitting position. “Now we must move to the unfortunate task of finding our missing soldiers.”

“They went north, we took too long, we gotta go,” Sadie grunted, strenuously pulling herself up to stand, almost sending Trelawny sprawling as she leaned on him.

“You really should be resting Mrs. Adler, I’m sure I could find them myself and then go get help-”

“No,” Sadie growled, “I said I’d protect the kid, and I’ve already failed, I’m not gonna sit around when he could be goin’ through hell.”

“All of you are impossible,” Trelawny huffed, pinching the bridge of his nose in irritation before clicking his tongue and calling Gwydion over closer. “Well, hop up, let’s go find them.”

Sadie blinked unevenly as she stared at Trelawny’s little pony, her thoughts coming sluggishly, something important she was forgetting. Her gaze unwillingly slid over to the cold body of Bob, the poor horse, but it reminded her, like a thorn stuck in her back, pricking her when she least expected.

With a gasp, Sadie limped away from a confused Trelawny and looked over the grassy expanse that surrounded them, and with one deep breath, painful as it might be, she brought her fingers to her mouth and whistled loud enough to startle birds nearby.

“Mrs. Adler?”

“Isaac’s horse got away, Bella got scared and ran, and she’s got money on her saddle,” Sadie scanned their surroundings, limping along the hill, Trelawny following her anxiously. “We can’t just leave her behind!”

Sadie had expected the endeavor to end fruitlessly, to have Trelawny drag her away and onto Gwydion so they didn’t waste any more time in rescuing Isaac and Kieran, unfortunately leaving Isaac’s precious horse behind, and what little money Micah hadn’t stolen away. But to her surprise, after only a few minutes Bella’s soft silver shape could be seen, trotting primly away from the city limits, and soon joining them on the hill.

She was covered in brambles and dirt, her eyes still frantic and scared, and she trotted around them both, restless, looking for her rider long gone, but she still had the bags on her saddle and when Sadie held a hand up to the mare’s snout she quickly leaned into it, impatiently pushing at Sadie until, with much effort and assistance, she finally mounted up.

“Guess she’s as eager to find them as we are,” Trelawny said with a disbelieving chuckle as the horse continued to circle, pacing anxiously, even with Sadie on her back.

“Let’s not let her down then,” Sadie declared, ignoring the jolts of pain flashing through her at each step and instead focused on the dirt path snaking through the landscape that led to that dividing river, and over and away from them; that would lead them to Isaac and Kieran. That would lead to Micah’s inevitable grisly death if she had anything to say about it.

And they marched on towards it.

And they left that bloodstained hill.

And they prayed for a happy ending.

* * *

Isaac jolted awake, the fighting around him made for a violent wake-up call.

He couldn’t see him very well, but there was another man, ahead of them on the trail, yelling for the law, hollering about a kidnapped child. Isaac gasped, worried that Jack had somehow been stolen away, for a moment forgetting his restraints until he tried to move.

Micah was trying to calm the other man, trying to give some excuse, that same irritating tone of voice, the hint of laughter like he just found this all funny, and the dark threat lurking under every word as Isaac watched him reach for his gun.

He didn’t have a chance to try and warn the random bystander who had decided to risk their life and intervene as two things happened very quickly.

The yelling was silenced. The sound of a gun going off deafeningly loud, as well as the unmistakable thump of a body hitting the ground.

And he was suddenly yanked off the back of the horse.

He turned as best he could to find Kieran, frantically tugging him down from his confined position, doing his best despite his own wrists tied skin-breakingly tight.

“Run!” The weary man hissed, dropping Isaac to his feet with a grunt.

Isaac didn’t wait for another second, attempting to dart off despite his numb, aching legs, his gaze locked on the darkened treeline they’d stopped beside. He knew if he could just make it there he could lose Micah, that the man would never be able to find him after he immersed himself in the shadows that awaited him.

But just as suddenly as he’d been taken off the horse he was pulled back, slamming hard against the ground with a grunt. He looked in dismay at how his hands were held up, like clasped, begging hands, suspended by the rope threaded through his restraints and tied tightly to Baylock’s saddle, where Micah watched him gasp for air on the ground with a devious smirk.

“Y’know, kid, I really ain’t as dumb as I look, but it looks like he might be.” Micah lashed out and kicked Kieran in the face, blood spurting from his nose and clumping in the dirt.

“Just leave him alone, Micah, he’s just a kid!” Kieran yelled, still clutching his nose, his ropes slowly turning red as the gushing blood pooled in his hands and dripped down.

“Oh ho, that’s where you’re wrong, shit for brains,” Micah laughed, kicking Kieran again before hopping off the saddle and striding over to Isaac, grabbing him up and throwing him over his shoulder before he could take one full breath. “Little Morgan here is just what we’ve been waiting for.”

Isaac groaned in pain, trying to push away from Micah despite his restraints.

“And you know, I really thought it’d be harder to get you, kid, high expectations I suppose,” Micah commented, his victorious grin coloring his words. “But we also thought the same about Arthur and that was easy as anything, wasn’t it?”

“What’re you talkin’ ‘bout?” Isaac slurred.

“Thought you’d be smarter too.” Micah laughed, before turning to show Isaac the trail ahead of them, their destination. “Make sense now?”

Past the still-bleeding corpse of the good Samaritan, which only turned Isaac’s stomach with nausea as much as dread, was a large dilapidated-looking ranch, abandoned but for the seeming swarm of vermin that had taken it up as residence. Flys, rats, and greasy men in long dark cloaks, with unmistakable accents of green.

“You didn’t…” Isaac whispered, though the reality before him was too much to be reasoned away. His comment of betrayal earlier was more applicable than he’d ever known.

“I think you’re familiar with the O’Driscolls, ain’t that right?”

Isaac fought, of course, he fought, kicking and screaming and thrashing like a stuck pig, Micah didn’t even entertain throwing him back on the horse for how fiercely he was resisting. But no matter how hard he hit or tried to holler for someone to find them, Micah and his browbeaten prisoners were met at the gate leading into the ranch.

“What you got there, Bell?” One of the men on guard called out, only amused by the show of force and cruelty, no sympathy to be found.

“Got a deal for Colm, go on and get ‘im will ya?” Micah replied, strolling as easily into the den of liars and thieves that Isaac had been taught to fear as easily as he would walk through the Van Der Linde camp.

From where Isaac was slung over Micah’s shoulder like a sack of flour he could clearly see Kieran’s panic-stricken face as he was dragged further into the O’Driscoll’s compound, could see him tense up into a little ball as they passed the guards at the front. It turned Isaac’s stomach in sympathetic fear.

He could hear Kieran’s breathing race like he’d been running for days, watched as he tugged futility on his ropes, causing Baylock to huff and toss his head in irritation.

“Micah, let me go,” Kieran hissed, pulling even harder, nearly sliding down into the dirt in his effort to turn the horse out of there. “Let me go! I’ll do whatever you want, please! They’re gonna kill me!”

“A man can dream,” Micah said with a laugh as he stepped back to kick Kieran’s feet out from under him, allowing Baylock to pull him along with no resistance, dragging him through the dirt, leaving a trail of blood as Kieran’s nose began bleeding again on impact, and his wrists, rubbed raw from the ropes joined in with every moment Kieran yanked on them.

“You're a monster!” Isaac screeched, fear making his heart beat a painful rhythm, fear making his legs twitch with the desire to run, fear making him bold despite it all. “We should’ve just let you hang!”

“But then what would good ol’ Dutch do without me, hm?” Micah jostled Isaac, bruising him with his bony shoulder. “Surrounded by all you naysayers, he needed support! Needed someone to lead from behind so to speak. I mean who knows where y’all would’ve been without my help.”

Fear was a powerful motivator, but so was anger, and with everything he had he boiled. Furious at how they’d been tricked in the end by Dutch’s most contentious inclusion to the gang, at how maybe Micah was to blame for his family not already being safe and away from all this, so he did the only thing he could do.

From his position, trapped on Micah’s shoulder he turned and sunk his teeth into his ear.

Blood spurted and coated the side of Micah’s face, staining his greasy hair and Isaac’s clothes red. Micah screamed and thumped Isaac, doing his best to dislodge him without losing the ear in the process, Isaac only growled and bit down harder, yanking back to do his best to permanently scar Micah, do even a fraction of the damage to him that the man had done to Isaac’s family.

It was only when someone fired their gun behind them that Isaac was startled enough to release Micah, who immediately dropped him in the dirt, screaming and stomping around, holding his still bleeding ear as if it might fix the bloody gash on the side of his face.

“Mr. Bell, what the hell is this?” A rough, authoritative voice called out from the big house, spurs jangling on the wooden steps as the shooter approached them. “Seems like all I get from you is noise and smoke.”

Isaac looked up and his blood froze in his veins to see Colm O’Driscoll coming towards them, holstering his gun with an annoyed look on his face.

He looked just the same as the day he kidnapped Aunt Annabelle, right down to those sharp-toed boots that had bruised Isaac’s chest when he’d been kicked away. It was like Colm still lived, thrived even, in that moment of ensuring violence, of fracturing the gang bit by bit; of taking something precious from Dutch.

“Son of a bitch kid,” Micah growled, kicking Isaac in the ribs with punishing force before continuing on to where Kieran was trying to scramble away.

“I don’t know what kind of operation you think I’m runnin’ here Mr. Bell-”

“Just hold on,” Micah bit out, still holding one hand to his ear. “It’ll be worth the trouble, though it’s a whole helluva lot of it.” Micah planted a boot on Kieran’s back to stop his squirming before grabbing his knife from his boot and cutting him loose from the rope tied to Baylock, pulling him to his feet with one hand. “This is your traitor,” Micah said with a slimy grin. “He’s been playin’ stableboy for us for the last few months, gave us that helpful little tip.”

Colm narrowed his eyes in disdain at Kieran’s trembling form, “The idiot from the mountains? Well, I’ll be, we’d just assumed he’d died.”

“I-I ain’t afraid of you no more,” Kieran shot back, barely able to stand on his own, his voice as weak and wavering as a flag flapping in the breeze; but still he met Colm’s disdain head-on, didn’t look away for a moment.

“Y’know, boy,” Colm sneered, leaning in to grab him by the collar. “I have a feeling that just ain’t true.”

With a sharp whistle, Colm summoned two of his men over, ordering them to take Kieran and drag him away, to be dealt with later.

“Micah! Micah, you leave him out of this! Show some decency for once in your life!” Kieran yelled over his shoulder as he thrashed against the two enforcers taking him away. “Isaac run, you get out of here!”

As Kieran was dragged further into the compound Colm turned to give Isaac his full attention, pinning him to the ground with the weight of his gaze.

“Now, who do we have here?”

“Oh, you don’t know?” Micah said with fake surprise as he hauled Isaac up by his collar, shaking him as he liked, holding it a little too tight, constricting Isaac’s breathing; a little revenge for his now mangled ear. “I’d’ve thought you would’ve been well acquainted by now.”

“I ain’t a fan of riddles, Micah, just come one out with it.”

“This here…” Micah said, shoving Isaac towards Colm. “Is Isaac Morgan.”

It felt like the whole world went silent with the divulgence.

“Morgan…as in?” Colm watched him like a thin, starving wolf, his sharp grin pulling up in pleasant surprise.

“Arthur Morgan himself, got his son here, probably be better bait than his old man, don’t you think?”

“Who would’ve thought, the ol’ cowboy himself, a father? I can barely imagine Arthur looking at a woman, let alone having a kid.” Colm grabbed Isaac by the chin and moved him around to take in the details of his face, looking for traces of Arthur, landing on his eyes with an even bigger grin. “And to think after all these years I had no idea, they were hiding you pretty good, weren’t they?”

Isaac couldn’t even nod with how Colm was holding his face, but he hoped his glare was sufficient to say that they’d hidden him for good reason. And enough of a distraction to hide how he was rubbing his wrists back and forth, wincing as the ropes caught and tore at his skin, for lack of the ability to scratch.

“How long you been with them? How old are you?”

Isaac stayed silent, trying to hide his overwhelming fear, trying to put off a confident, unflappable appearance, like Daddy was so good at, like Sadie and Grandpa keeping their cool even under such dangerous circumstances.

His heart ached as he thought of all of them, and a dark, suffocating fear made him wonder if he’d ever seen them again.

His silence was offensive to Micah who lashed out and kicked him in the back, almost sending him sprawling if it weren’t for Colm’s grip on him, “Talk you little moron.”

Isaac grunted but shouldered the blow, staying silent. He’d decided, with how much it irritated Micah, that he wasn’t going to say a word, wasn’t going to make this easy.

“Just an hour ago and I couldn’t shut him up,” Micah growled as he touched his ear, still oozing and tender. “Wish he could’ve learned to keep his mouth shut sooner.”

“Well, we know he’s no fan of yours, Bell,” Colm laughed, nodding to the bloody mess Isaac had left. “Maybe it’s your fault.” As he spoke he moved his tight grip from Isaac’s jaw to clasp his shoulder, his hand tensing every time Isaac shifted or squirmed. “I’m sure the two of us will become fast friends.”

With everything that Colm did and said it made it clear that he was captured and he wasn’t going to be released easily.

He could barely comprehend such a thing, could hardly manage an emotion more than fear, couldn’t focus on anything more than appearing unaffected. He felt like when Daddy was at his worst, as if there were two Isaacs now, the physical one who was tired and in pain and held tightly captive, and the emotional one, who’d decided to run away instead of comprehending what was happening.

‘Maybe,’ he thought. ‘I can fly all the way home and be with Daddy.’

“And I’m sure you could muster a little appreciation for the introduction, right, Colm?” Micah eagerly rubbed his fingers together, as if he was already counting money. Money for Isaac, for Kieran, selling them to the O’Driscolls for whatever price they’d offer.

“You’ve got a lot of nerve, Bell,” Colm drawled. “As far as I’m concerned that was just a matter of missing property.”

“Of course, I wouldn’t dream of it,” Micah said with a sneer, irritation clear despite his efforts. “But the boy?”

“He doesn’t need more money!” Isaac broke, speaking up before Colm could, unable to watch Micah get even richer off of him being weak and unprepared. “He just stole all the money we had from Blackwater, it’s on his horse, he’s probably richer than you right now!”

The two men stood stunned, staring at Isaac in shock.

“Oh, he really don’t like you, huh, Micah?” Colm finally said, with a low, relishing chuckle. “I never would’ve believed it, Arthur’s kid handing money over to me just to keep it away from you.”

“Wh- that ain’t part of the deal, Colm,” Micah growled, glaring murder at Isaac who was suddenly grateful to be in Colm’s appreciative clutches instead of at Micah’s mercy. “I came to hand you these little morons, my money had nothing to do with it.”

“Well, as partners I’m sure you understand the importance of a fair split, eh?” Colm nodded to one of his men standing behind Micah, motioning towards Baylock grazing nearby. “As a show of appreciation, we’ll only take some though, leave you with a horde all your own; how’s that for a reward?”

Isaac watched as the O’Driscoll rifled through the carpet bags before finally unhooking one and tossing it to Colm's feet. The Blackwater money, the ferry money, everything that he’d gone through, only for it to land in Colm O’Driscoll’s hands. But as he looked over and saw Micah turning red with rage, he decided this was a loss he was more than happy to take.

“You look smug now, you little fucker,” Micah hissed, roughly slamming into his shoulder as he passed Isaac. “But how smug will you be when Arthur and all them are snatched up by the Pinkertons?”

“Guess you’ll never get to see, 'cause as soon as Daddy finds out what you did you ain’t living to see another day.” Isaac knew this with every fiber of his being. So even though he was terrified of what was to come, and the overt threat of a trap for his family back home, he could stand tall and glare Micah down as he left the O’Driscoll ranch knowing he’d never have to see him again.

* * *

“Mrs. Adler, look! Mr. Bell is leaving,” Trelawny whispered, the two of them hidden under the shade of a tree in the wide, picturesque plains across from the decrepit ranch that they’d watched Micah drag Kieran and Isaac into. Baylock’s dark silhouette was unmistakable as it walked the path away from the ranch. “And it appears he’s alone.”

They had managed to find Micah’s trail, using their panic to send them even faster forward than expected, Bella eagerly leading them, as if she could sense where her rider was. As they had wandered farther away from civilization, they had been surprised as well to find sugar cubes scattered along the trail, sometimes the victims of ants or pecked at by birds, but the ones that remained were an obvious trail for them to follow.

The fact that Kieran must have been dropping the treats he kept on hand for the horses for someone to find them by was a conclusion they both reached, but neither voiced, the reality too painful to discuss.

The body they had found attracting flies and bleeding into the dirt had been alarming, but cresting a hill and seeing Micah down the way with Isaac over his shoulder and Kieran dragged along like a sick dog was almost too much to bear.

It had taken everything Trelawny had to stop Sadie from hauling off after him and gunning him down, she was barely able to ride the horse with her injuries, and any risk of getting Isaac hurt was not one Trelawny had been willing to take.

So they had to watch as he dragged his two prisoners to the ranch swarming with suspicious-looking men and waited in anticipation to find out just what he might be planning so they could discover how to interfere.

From their distance and everything between them and Micah it had been difficult to see what was happening, but once they got a clear look Trelawny had severely regretted not letting Sadie attack him earlier. The thugs with their distinctive green vests and ties were clearly O’Driscoll’s and the thin, dangerous-looking man that came out to speak to Micah was none other than Colm O’Driscoll.

Things were worse than they ever could have possibly imagined, and they were far, far too unprepared to handle it.

“You need to follow him, Josiah,” Sadie grunted, pulling herself up straighter, trying desperately to keep her mind off the pain pulsing through her body. “If he’s gonna hide the money you gotta find it, or get ahead of him and warn the gang.”

“Why does this sound like you would not be accompanying me, Mrs. Adler?” Trelawny asked, looking pale as the situation settled in around them.

“Someone gotta keep an eye on the boys.”

“But you can’t do anything in your position-”

“I’ll rest when I can, you old nag,” She replied, waving off his concerns. “But if things take a turn for the worst, or they switch locations, then someone's gotta be here!”

“Are we not already at the worst it can be?”

“Things can always be worse,” Sadie replied somberly, pushing Trelawny to his horse. “Best we can do is try and get ahead of it.”

“Mrs. Adler, I sincerely fear that if I return without Isaac in tow Hosea will kill me before I even have a chance to speak, are you certain this is our best course of action?” Trelawny said, trying and failing to cover up his panic at the hypothetical.

“They’ll forgive you once we save the kid, just go!” Sadie hissed, giving one last shove until he bounced off Gwydion’s flank. “You can’t lose track of Micah, and don’t get spotted!”

“Madam, though I may be a coward, I can promise you I am a master of remaining unseen,” Trelawny said with a laugh as he mounted up.

“Don’t die, Josiah.” It was all Sadie could think to say, it was all she could think of, how to survive, how to protect, and all she could hope was that somehow, somehow, things would turn out better than seemed possible.

“You as well, Sadie. Please be cautious.”

Sadie stood under their shady refuge until she could no longer see Trelawny, before creeping out of the plains and into the woods surrounding the ranch, finding a spot to bunker down and remain unseen yet allow her to spy into the everyday lives of those scum O’Driscoll, and wait for her chance to intervene.

* * *

“You gonna run if I cut you loose?”

The inside of the big house was just as broken down and inhospitable as the rest of the ranch, splinters and broken shards of glass and porcelain littered the ground, nearly every piece of furniture was broken or damaged in a way, and the floor was stained in scattered spots from spilled alcohol, tobacco-stained spit, or where blood was spilled.

Isaac could see that the windows were boarded up, the other doors were barricaded, and the heavy footsteps of men upstairs and on the porch seemed to rattle the whole house to its foundation; he was trapped, plain and simple.

“Where would I run?” Isaac replied sullenly, as Colm pushed him further into the room.

“Smart boy!” Colm snickered, unsheathing his knife with a flourish and cutting through Isaac’s blood-matted, itchy ropes with a flourish. “Guess you take more after your mother, huh?”

Isaac avoided Colm’s searching gaze, nervously massaging feeling back into his wrists. He didn’t want to talk about mama here, or Daddy, or anyone, it felt like if he spoke their names then they’d appear only to be similarly captured by Colm. He didn’t want his good memories tainted by bringing them here.

“You really don’t wanna talk, hm? Not when Micah ain’t here to spite?” Colm sat down heavily in the armchair in the corner, rescuing a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his pocket and lighting one, the small fire throwing his face in stark shadows as he observed Isaac. “Not that I don’t respect it, and I do, but I’m just looking for a little conversation here kid, last thing I wanna have to do is make you talk, alright?”

As if on cue; somewhere deep on the O’Driscolls’ stolen property Kieran screamed. More followed like one bird taking off with the whole flock, though none were as bone-chilling as the first. Pain and anguish hand in hand, a voice that had been tortured before and believed himself free of it until now.

“All you have to do is speak your mind, wouldn’t want somethin’ unfortunate to happen.” Colm grinned nefariously and Isaac couldn’t say for certain if he was bluffing or not.

“I’ll tell you whatever you want if you promise to stop hurting Kieran.” It was stupid to think that he could do anything to change Colm’s mind, stupider still to run the same gambit that had gone so poorly with Micah, but every pained scream that reached them only further pushed him to desperation.

“Now Isaac, you were real honest out there, real helpful too, so I’ll repay that and be honest with you,” Colm leaned forward, flicking his cigarette and sending little embers floating around the room, before taking a drag, smoke curling from his mouth as he spoke again. “There ain’t nothing on heaven or earth that's gonna stop that scum gettin’ what he deserves.”

“I don’t think he deserves that, I don’t think anyone does.” Daddy’s broken and bruised skin flashed in his mind, the gunshot wound that had been so red and angry when he’d first returned, his long nights of restless sleep and delirium. No, no one deserved that.

Colm scrutinized him closely, “Well I know ol’ Dutch ain’t a fan of turncoats, so I’m sure if you asked he’d agree. Much as he wants to pretend he’s better than me, we're all just men down inside.”

Isaac stilled, he wondered if his little mission to Blackwater would count as traitorous deeds to Uncle Dutch. If he would be punished even in the unlikely case that he was rescued.

“Why's it so important how old I am?” Isaac growled, trying to will away frustrated tears as Kieran's screaming reached a higher, desperate pitch. The ever-increasing futility of the situation closed in on him, and it was harder and harder to keep calm. Harder to forget the dark collage of bruises and injuries that the O’Driscolls had painted on Daddy last time they’d had him. “What do you want? What’re you going to do to me?”

“Just lookin’ to confirm a theory,” Colm said with an impenetrable smirk, his thoughts safely locked away. “Because I’ve been thinkin’, we met before ain’t that right?”

Isaac stiffened and looked away, rubbing roughly over the rope burns and scrapes that criss-crossed up his forearms.

“You were that little whelp crying after Annabelle weren’t you?” Colm stood and crossed the room to stand in front of Isaac, grabbing his jaw and wrenching his face up to look at him again. “I don’t often forget a face, ‘specially not one as funny as someone crying for her.”

“She was better than you,” Isaac chewed on his long-aged hate and fear and anger from that day and spit it out at Colm’s feet, wishing he could do more. “We loved her, everyone loved her and now she’s dead just because of your stupid rivalry!”

“Well, I sorely regret it now, boy, ‘cause if I'd known you were Arthur’s kid-” Colm chuckled darkly and wrenched Isaac’s arm up, baring the history of anxiety, and the abuse from the ropes for all the broken furniture around them to see, before he took his cigarette, and brought it closer and closer, the glowing cherry at the end streaking towards him like a falling star, promising heat and pain. “I wouldn’t’ve gone for Dutch’s whore I tell you what.”

Chapter Text

“Mr. Morgan, Mr. Matthews!” A familiar voice panicked and harried as it was, cut through camp, and Trelawny came galloping past Bill on guard duty. He pulled back on his horse hard enough to make her rear before scrambling to dismount and pushing past the concerned folk milling about camp, heading straight for Arthur’s tent. “It’s an emergency, we must-”

His next words were lost as Arthur stood and picked Trelawny up by the collar, shaking the man as he rumbled, his face as dark as a storm. “Where is my son, Trelawny?”

“That is precisely what I’ve come to discuss,” Trelawny spoke up quickly, with what little breath he had, turning progressively paler as he faced Arthur’s rage.

“Let the man speak,” Hosea intervened, tugging on Arthur’s arm until he reluctantly dropped Josiah in a crumpled heap on the ground.

“This better be damn good, Trelawny.”

“It certainly isn’t, but I only ask you to hold your temper until the end, dear boy,” Trelawny choked out, massaging his throat as he stood.

Arthur said nothing, just crossed his arms and glared.

Even with the weeks of bedrest and fending off illnesses during his recovery he was still a formidable sight, and an angry one at that. Coupled with the other men who had gathered to hear him speak, it was a miracle Trelawny was able to gather his composure enough to string his words together.

Starting with the claim that Isaac had instigated a venture out to Blackwater did not bring the conversation to a lighter place, and the mood only grew darker as he continued to speak.

Sneaking out under false pretenses.

Skulking about Blackwater, skirting Pinkertons, allowing Isaac to enter the city at all, Isaac risking his life to get their bloodstained money.

And then, Micah.

“What the hell do you mean Micah was there?” John squawked, his face red in boiling fury. Arthur was no better, tirelessly pacing, agitation, frustration, any number of hopeless, desperate feelings fueling him to action like electricity thrumming in his veins.

“I only know what Mrs. Adler told me, and she barely survived the encounter,” Trelawny wrung his hands together, doing his best to squeeze out the next words he needed to say. “And then…with Sadie taken care of…he stole away with the money as well as Kieran and Isaac.”

Silence prevailed, as horrified and disbelieving as it was, the darkness coalescing into a shadow of murderous rage.

“And so what now?” Arthur barked, breaking his carefully measured pace to grab Trelawny up by the collar again. “You just come back here to give me a heart attack or do you know where my goddamn son is?”

“He brought them to the O’Driscolls.”

Where Arthur’s grip had been as terrifying and unyielding as usual, the intonation of that name, the dawning reality of the situation, made Arthur so weak with dread that he dropped Trelawny unceremoniously into the dirt, those strong, dangerous hands now the shaking, tremulous hands of a terrified parent.

“Colm? Colm has him?” Arthur whispered. “No…he’s- he’s supposed to be safe.”

Hosea grasped Arthur’s shoulder, looking significantly paler, but with the fortitude of the experienced, the grandfather eagerly swooping in to support his family again and again.

“Where’re they holed up now, Josiah?” Charles asked, looking ready to set off immediately.

“Is Micah still there?” John sneered, his hand hovering around his gun. “‘Cause I got some choice words for him.”

“No, they’re north of Strawberry, but Micah left shortly after…after the transaction was complete, and he’s headed this way.” Trelawny wanted to collapse in exhaustion at the thought of how hard he had been forced to ride to beat Micah, to give this warning. “I think he’s coming to claim praise for retrieving the money.”

“Hell if he’ll get anything more than a bullet between the eyes,” Arthur fumed, twitching where he stood to mount up and fix all of this, yet the energetic fury drained out as another voice interrupted their tight clump of anxieties.

“Those are some hefty accusations you’re throwin’ around, Trelawny,” Dutch spoke up, emerging from his tent, just three feet away from their high-pressure conversation, with all the power and disdain of a king recently betrayed. “Do you have any proof, or is this another tall tale to cover your own guilt?”

“Dutch, they’re in danger! We can’t let Micah win, can’t let Colm win! We don’t want them coming back like Arthur-”

Trelawny’s plea was cut off with a sharp slap, all the more painful for Dutch’s rings, thick bruises blossoming in their wake.

“You best learn to hold your tongue, Josiah, ‘fore you lose it,” Dutch growled, glaring at the men surrounded, his gaze carefully skirting over Arthur. “I will not tolerate traitors- we will not tolerate baseless accusations. Micah has proved himself to be a more trustworthy ally, more so than flighty magicians taking off with our women and children in the night!” Dutch caught Hosea’s wounded, desperate expression and his glower only deepened. “We will wait, and allow Micah an opportunity to defend himself before we run off and make ourselves even weaker. If I see any one of you leave before then you best not return.”

Trelawny felt hope leave him like blood from a wound, recalling only Sadie’s pale, pained expression as she pushed him away, or the thin body of Isaac on Micah’s shoulder, carried off into the belly of the beast, and he wondered just how much time they could afford to waste before it was too late.

* * *

Isaac sat huddled on the couch, clutching his newly burned arm close to his chest, trying to make himself as small as possible, to ignore the itching pain of his skin healing over the sizzling wound as he kept his gaze firmly pinned to Colm, who sat in the big armchair, watching him in return.

They’d been sitting like this for hours, wiling away the rest of the daytime, Colm’s men coming in and out to talk to him, kicking the couch Isaac sat on as they passed him or patting his back too hard in a pretend show of camaraderie, laughing and mocking him as they passed.

The ones with fresh blood on their hands and screams petering out just moments before they entered, made Isaac sick as he could only assume they’d just taken their turns making Kieran miserable and had come by to poke fun at the other captive.

Throughout it all Isaac stayed silent, looked away, counted the whorls in the wood or the bullet holes in the wall, just trying to keep his cool, trying not to show even more vulnerabilities even as his gaze kept drawing back to Colm, never dulling his hatred as much as he hid his fears.

And through it all Colm looked nothing but amused. Each time his men left he’d lean forward to take a closer look at Isaac or get up to refill his whiskey, always with a smirk and a teasing, prodding question.

“When am I gonna hear some stories about dear ol’ dad, hm?”

“Hosea still around? I always figured he’d bite the dust before I saw him again.”

“Quite the glare you got there, boy, you gonna back it up?”

“Does Dutch still keep all those fine young girls around? He always was a ladies man.”

Poking and jabbing at Isaac, looking for the cracks, waiting for him to break.

“Y’know it surprises me,” Colm started languidly, as the door slammed in place behind yet another one of his gunners. “How your Pa managed to survive our little…conversation.”

“Why wouldn’t he?” Isaac croaked, finding all the worn-through places in the couches where the springs indented the fabric or had ripped through the rotted upholstery instead of looking at Colm. “He’s stronger than all you put together, that wasn’t anything.”

Lies slipped through his teeth like tricky minnows.

“Well, look who’s decided to join the party.” Colm swirled his whiskey around, as Isaac curled further into himself. “That touched a nerve, huh?”

“He’s gonna come save me, then you’ll all be sorry.”

“That’s just what I’m hopin’ for.”

Isaac mindlessly rubbed a circle around the raw, red burn on his forearm, resisting the powerful urge to scratch at it, to pull and tear at the shape of Colm’s cigarette burned into him and turn it into something else, something worse, something his once more. Each second he needled at it, and Colm’s threat lay in the air like a trap ready to spring Isaac could feel his fears mounting ever higher until he could no longer keep silent.

“What? You gonna try and catch him again?” Isaac hissed, turning further into the couch and away from where Colm was looming over him.

Colm zealously leaned in, following him where he tried to escape, holding up two fingers as he continued to talk, forcing Isaac to listen. “The way I see it, there’re two ways this will all shake out: either Dutch rallies the troops and they all come running headfirst into my good friends, the Pinkertons-”

Isaac’s breath caught in his throat, the frigid, numbing fear in his veins turning boiling hot at the idea of everyone getting captured because of him.

Colm grinned ever wider at the sight of Isaac’s distress, “Or Dutch doesn’t do anything, and leaves you behind like he left Arthur.”

“D-Daddy wouldn’t leave me,” Isaac stuttered, desperately holding on to the hope that Daddy would come rescue him, that somehow despite his injuries he would still ride in ever fearless and unstoppable.

“Oh, too right, give the boy a prize!” Colm gestured to the room like he was on stage. “But I ain’t lettin’ Daddy get a chance!” Suddenly he threw the glass against the wall behind Isaac, just to scare him, just for fun, the deafening sound of shattering glass making Isaac jump and clutch himself tighter, shaking so much as to fall apart if he let go of himself for a moment. “I like Arthur, but I ain’t lookin’ to be on the wrong side of him in a fight, he’ll have the Pinkertons to get through first, all of them will.”

“Why not just hand me over to the Pinkertons now?” Isaac huffed, roughly scrubbing tears from his face and hoping Colm didn’t see. “If you’re gonna sell us out to them then what's the point in keeping me around?”

As much as the thought terrified him it was better if he knew what Colm was planning, how he thought; and luckily - just like Uncle Dutch - he loved to talk.

Colm’s voice dropped to a deadly serious tone, even as his grin remained. “‘Cause once Dutch and his boys are rounded up and I’m given immunity then we’re outta here…and I’ll get my very own Morgan out of the deal.”

“You’re c-crazy,” Isaac spit out, shivering all over in fear.

“Oh, am I?” Colm leaned in, his whiskey-scented breath fanning over Isaac’s face. “Then tell me, what do you think will happen?”

Isaac was saved the indignity of having to respond by the front door bursting open, shuddering in the frame as one of the guards came rushing in, checking all the windows were sufficiently covered as he strode across the room.

“Where’s the fire, Tom?” Colm said with false cheer as he finally leaned away from Isaac, one hand grasping Isaac’s shoulder tightly as if the boy would think to run. “Can’t you see I’m talkin’ with our new friend here?”

“The Pinkertons sent a runner, they want you to meet them near Strawberry to talk,” Tom spoke quickly in his urgency. “How long you think they know we’ve been up here, boss? They could’ve come and raided us-”

“But they didn't, did they?” Colm said, his tone making no room for rebuttal. “If we spend all day worryin’ about what they could have done, that’s only gonna make us unprepared for what’s ahead.”

“What’re you gonna do then?”

“Ain’t it enough for them to just wait nearby and catch Dutch when he comes to get the kid?” Colm sighed and cracked his neck as he considered his options. “I don’t much like talkin’ to those agents, think they’re better than me.”

“They’d probably be easier to work with if we actually told ‘em we got the boy.”

Colm laughed, a bitter, unamused laugh. “If they know what leverage we got then what’s to stop them from comin’ and takin’ it themselves? No, I’ll go chat with them, may as well keep ‘em entertained.”

Isaac yelped in surprise as he was forcefully pulled off the couch to his feet and shoved towards Tom, making him feel twice as vulnerable as before without his own body curled around his soft spots.

“Put him up in the attic, keep him under watch, I’ll be back in a couple hours and there better not be any trouble while I’m gone,” Colm’s serious expression spread into a malicious smile as he fixed his gaze on Isaac. “You understand, kid? You act up and I ain’t responsible for my actions.”

Isaac gulped, shaking where he stood between two violent, angry O’Driscolls, the direness of his situation only growing worse by the minute, before nodding down at his shoes; wondering if he could possibly find the strength to disobey before it was too late.

* * *

The sun had just kissed the horizon by the time Baylock’s formidable silhouette could be seen trotting down the path under the shadows of the trees, he and his rider greeted by tense silence as everyone in camp sat waiting and watching for the explosive conclusion of Trelawny’s earlier accusation.

It was taking every bit of Arthur’s patience, and Hosea’s watchful eye, not to strangle Micah as he approached the clump of men. Hell, he didn’t have much patience left, expending it like a fast-burning candle as he’d resisted the urge to ride out and find Isaac during their wait, bound to camp like a dog on a leash, Dutch’s threat hanging over him.

“Like the prodigal son, I have returned,” Micah said with a smirk, as he hopped down from Baylock, dented tin box in hand, his voice even oilier and slicker than his hair. “And like the prodigal son, I have provided.”

For as long as they all had waited in anticipation for Micah to appear to face his trial his grand entrance was even more irritating.

“Mr. Bell, care to share where you’ve gone off to?” Dutch finally answered after a tense silence that no one else was willing to break. “I’m sure I was clear after Isaac and them took off that no one else was to leave.”

“Well, I-” Micah stopped short as he found Trelawny standing amongst the crowd, watching him with obvious disdain. “I see I ain’t the only one come crawling back,”

“Seems like you had some trouble, Mr. Bell,” Trelawny spoke up with an apathetic chill that Arthur had never heard from the ostentatious man before, gesturing to the red, irritated wound on his ear, sluggishly bleeding as he stood there. “That looks quite painful.”

Arthur watched Micah fail to hide his rage towards Trelawny, one hand hovering over the nasty looking wound, and the other dancing over his gun, his face twisted into an ugly, spiteful expression. The face of a man whose plan was at risk.

The desire to shoot him and go running for Isaac only grew stronger.

“I’m hopin’ you’ve got a good story, Mr. Bell,” Dutch continued on, his inviting, gregarious tone hiding the suspicion in his eyes. “‘Cause we’ve heard quite the tale.”

“Not to worry, Dutch,” Micah gritted, his knuckles growing white where he gripped the tin box before loudly slamming it down on the table, the unmistakable sound of coins crashing around inside got the rest of the camp murmuring frantically. “I think you’ll be well pleased with what I’ve recovered.”

For the first time since Micah had arrived back in camp, Dutch looked away from the man, tucking his careful scrutiny away in favor of shock as he finally looked at the dirt-crusted box sitting innocently on the table.

“Is that-”

“The Blackwater stash? You best believe it, compadre!” Micah boomed, reveling in the surprise like praise. “I told you, Dutch, I’d do anything for this gang here. I’m a team player, and a touch more useful than ol’ sourpuss, eh?”

Arthur growled when Micah went to grab his shoulder in an over-familiar way, glaring daggers at him until he finally stepped back, hands up in annoying surrender like Arthur was the crazy one, but Micah was the stupid one for trying to approach him. Arthur wasn’t even trying to hide his rage at this point, too incensed at the thought of Trelawny’s accusations; and how the dirty, coin-filled box only further confirmed it.

Dutch stood still, frozen at the sight of the tin box, like the waters in the swamp when the gators swam just below the surface, the peacefulness only belying further danger.

“Mr. Bell,” Dutch spoke finally, acrid poison in his words, the rest of the camp drawing closer to witness. “Would you be so kind as to explain how you found the stash? Seeing as you never saw it in the first place?”

Micah’s calculating gaze slid across the gathered crowd, over Hosea and Arthur, to rest on Dutch’s unreadable expression. “No need to get so testy, boss. I did some investigatin’, snuck in when the Pinkertons weren’t looking, and snatched it before they even knew I was there. I’m tellin’ you, Dutch, I’m a good friend to have-”

“Where’d you find it?” Hosea spoke up, his tone much more even and jovial despite his thunderous expression.

The moment Hosea spoke up Micah’s groveling smirk evaporated, his eyes darting over to the older man, and just for a moment Arthur could see a true flash of hatred before it was gone again under that same simpering smile. “Found it in town, boss, sure you remember where it was, ‘less your memories failin’ ya in your old age.”

“Oh, I can assure you, Micah, my mind’s as sharp as ever.” Hosea let his hands rest on his guns. “I remember very clearly. The only folks who knew where we was hidin’ the money was Dutch, myself, and Isaac.”

Were Trelawny’s accusatory words hanging in the air amongst everyone Hosea’s claim would have been much more startling, instead the whispering around them only grew sharper, and Dutch’s calm exterior cracked.

“I hope you’ve got a good explanation, Mr. Bell, I’d hate to be made a liar.”

“Well, it’s like I said-” Micah continued, scanning the crowd around them, full of suspicious glares and unsympathetic faces, an impenetrable wall surrounded him on all sides. “I did my research, found it all on my own, it was worth the trouble, right? Considerin’ how difficult things have been lately.” Micah unabashedly jabbed his thumb in Arthur’s direction, in a poor attempt to redirect the bad attitude of the camp.

“What about this then?” Charles suddenly spoke up from where he’d broken from the crowd, holding a dirty carpetbag up that he’d pulled off of Baylock’s saddle.

“Get away from my horse, you damn-” Micah whirled around, vitriol dripping from his words, louder than the panic that was clear in his eyes.

“What d’you got there?” Dutch interrupted, pushing past Micah to meet Charles halfway, ignoring the man's stuttered excuses. “I thought I was pretty clear, Micah, I don’t like bein’ made a fool of…”

“Let me explain-”

“Dutch?” Hosea stepped forward, watching the intense shake in Dutch’s hands as the man looked into the carpetbag, Charles standing stoically beside him.

“I didn’t want to believe it when Trelawny came back, tellin’ all these stories, Micah, didn’t want to think that someone could do such a thing after our hospitality, but-” Dutch said coldly, as he reached the table in two long strides and dumped the contents of the bag onto the table, gold bars clattering like a crashing train, sending the camp into absolute silence. “This is pretty damning wouldn’t you say?”

Micah glanced between the gold and Dutch’s burning expression, the impenetrable wall of the gang around them, and very quickly made a break for it.

Maybe if this had happened a few weeks ago he would have gotten away, when Arthur was still healing and invalid, when the mood around camp was more cagey and short-tempered, but instead Arthur, strong enough to stand and move, and furious and anxious enough to ignore what pains his body did have, was more than enough to tackle Micah down to the red dirt before the other man could even touch his horse.

“Nice try,” Arthur said with a poisonous sarcasm. “You ain’t gettin’ outta this that easy.”

“You get off me, you goddamn moron!” Micah spit and hollered, thrashing like a stuck pig. “This is all a big misunderstanding!”

“I think we understand perfectly,” Arthur growled, hauling Micah up and dragging him back over to the table, and the center of everyone's attention, none too gently, before slamming his face into the weather-beaten wood. “Now what the hell have you done to my son”?”

“You sure he ain’t just run away?” Micah managed to sneer, looking calculating and cruel despite his position, his eyes burning in disdain. “Maybe he just got sick of dealin’ with your little pity party, I know I did.”

No one stopped Arthur from whipping Micah round the head with the butt of his pistol the first time, but Dutch grabbed him by the wrist when he threatened to bring it down again.

“Let me have a word with our friend here, Arthur.” Dutch gripped one of the gold bars that he’d dumped on the table, running his thumb over the obvious name imprinted in the bar, marking it the property of the Saint-Denis bank, and thus a spoil from their ill-fated ferry job. “I’ve got some questions of my own.”

Arthur panted, his anger getting the better of him, narrowing his vision until all he could see was the man who had taken his son, until all he could think was that surely beating him senseless and bloody would solve everything, and that any word wasted on him was another moment they weren’t searching for Isaac, but with all the patience and trust he could muster he took a deep breath and stepped to the side, still holding Micah down, but letting Dutch and Hosea take the center stage of the brutal scene.

“I am going to ask you one more question, kindly, Mr. Bell, ‘fore I start getting mean,” Dutch announced, in the same way that he did when he was talking his way out of the law’s cold grasp or threatening one of their many enemies, playing with folks too dumb to understand that they’d already lost. “How long you been workin’ against us? Workin’ against me, hm?”

“I only did what needed to be done, Dutch.” Micah wheezed out as Arthur leaned on his collarbones, turning every breath into a challenge. “You got all these parasites, all these people leeching off of you, I’m just tryin’ to protect ya.”

“I don’t like bein’ made a fool, Mr. Bell,” Dutch continued, smoothly ignoring Micah’s pitiful pleading. “I took a gamble on you, had lots of people tellin’ me you were no good, but I ain’t one to leave a debt unpaid, you understand.”

Micah tried to sit up, tried to reply, but Dutch only spoke louder, kicking at the back of Micah’s knees to send him to the ground, held up only by Arthur’s grip on his throat.

“What I don’t understand is men who spit on the kindness they have been paid, who would stab me in the back after all I’ve done for them, who would drag a child into such senselessness?” Dutch’s voice cracked, the weight of his rage, his guilt and remorse, suddenly breaking through his unaffected facade, revealing the furious, wounded animal beneath. “How could you turn against us like this?”

The hushed, uncomfortable atmosphere of the camp spoke volumes as Dutch’s question echoed across the lake. That only he was shocked by this, that only he was seeking an answer to such an easily solved mystery.

“You shouldn’t’ve made it so easy, boss.” Micah thrashed against Arthur’s hold to spit in Dutch’s face, his sneer tearing through the layers of artifice that Micah wore like skin, peeling away to reveal a rat, loose in their camp. “All I had to do was agree with you and suddenly I was in the fold and your precious little family wasn’t, makes me wonder if you were just waitin’ to cut them out-”

The sharp noise of a hammer cocked silenced all noise in camp.

“I am getting tired of hearin’ you talk, Micah,” Hosea said, his voice low yet so loud in the ensuing silence. He took a step forward and leaned in close, his shiny, well-loved revolver, jabbing into Micah’s back. “Let’s cut to the chase, shall we? You’re going to tell us what Colm is plannin’, you’re gonna tell us where they’re keepin’ Isaac, and you’re going to tell us before I count to three.”

“I never liked you, old girl, too damn soft, draggin’ everyone down.” Micah scoffed, kicking out at Arthur’s leg and straining against his grip to pull himself up from kneeling, to try and wriggle away. “Should've got rid of you up in the mountains-”

“One.” Hosea shot, the revolver pointed straight down at Micah’s boot, blasting a bloody hole straight through it, and sending him crashing back down. Micah howled in pain and fought furiously against Arthur’s grip, who was unflinchingly stoic in his task.

“I’ll kill you old man!” Micah seethed, his face turning red in anger. “It don’t matter what you do! Pinkertons are gonna snatch you all up, and you’ll all hang-”

“Two.” Hosea interrupted cooly, pressing his gun to Micah’s hand, braced against the table, and shooting it and the table beneath. “So Colm’s workin’ with the Pinkertons? I guess not even he’s above that.” He continued, unphased, as he ground the muzzle of his gun into the wound, ignoring Micah’s desperate pleas and bitten-out curses.

“They’re gonna make an example of you, and all you’ve done is run,” Micah slurred, his hand and leg spasming in pain. “I never liked the kid, but hey, at least he gave it a shot. All that pain he’s goin’ through and it was just to cover up your mistakes, van Der Linde-”

Pressed against the table and cursing them all out as he was, Micah never saw Dutch’s fist raised in righteous fury, or how it glimmered like he’d captured a fallen star. He didn’t see the commanding arc of the gold bar, such a covetous thing wielded so cruelly, careening towards his skull. And he never saw the impact coming, that hideous sound as bone gave way under gold, or the dark pool of blood drained from the wound, the last mess made of a dead man.

For a moment the only sound in camp was Micah’s horrible gurgling as he died, his body rapidly chilling as his blood sluggishly dripped into the grass. Dutch straightened up, slicking his hair back with his unbloodied hand, breathing heavily, before finally dropping the stained gold bar to the ground with a heavy thud.

“I think we’ve heard enough…” He murmured, avoiding everyone’s gaze, twitching under the scrutiny. Dutch had built his life on the back of his ideals, honor among thieves, resistance to the authoritative grasp of the government, providing for those abandoned by society, but sometimes he could not resist those base instincts of man that he pretended to have abandoned. Sometimes a man needed to die, and sometimes all one could do was remember the power of his own hands.

Arthur was worried for a moment that Dutch might retreat to his tent, order folks to burn the body and forget the perilous situation they remained in until Hosea reached out and grasped Dutch’s bloodied hand, taking his handkerchief to it with gentle efficiency. Dutch did not move as he watched Hosea clean his skin and rings of the traitorous blood, did not hardly breath until Hosea stepped away with a wry smile. “Been waitin’ a long time to see that.”

“Best not waste anymore time.” Dutch smoothed his hair back again before grabbing his hat, pushing down that wild anger he had let loose, and reclaiming his authority. “Miss Grimshaw, I feel like you can agree we will be needing to leave soon.”

He pointed out into the crowd as he continued to speak, and his orders rippled through everyone, clearing the dreary mood of their dire circumstances, lifting them up to a more hopeful place if Dutch was there to lead them, and soon the camp was buzzing with activity, everyone eager to leave this place and it’s old and new blood stains.

Dutch turned away from the hubbub and grabbed Arthur’s shoulder, finally looking him in the eye, and there was so much there, so much guilt and pain and anger between the two of them, so much unresolved hurt that could not help but cling to Arthur’s ribs no matter how much he tried to stuff it down and ignore it. But in the end Arthur could not hate him, and he could not refuse the offer of peace as he nodded in return

“Let’s go bring that boy back home,” Dutch rumbled, squeezing Arthur tight like he could inject him with conviction, and turning to the gathering of Hosea, Charles, John, and Trelawny, looking paler at the sight of the rapidly cooling corpse, yet mad-eyed in vindictive relief. “Josiah, lead the way.”

* * *

Isaac held his breath as he sat up in the rafters, watching as one of the O’Driscolls searched the room, growing more and more frantic as he couldn’t find their youngest prisoner.

“Shit!” The man yelled, running downstairs to look around again before slamming the door open and declaring that the boy was gone.

He had been surprised when he was first bundled up to the attic, with its own collection of broken furniture and suspicious stains, that Tom hadn’t stayed to watch him for longer than 30 minutes, spending the whole time glaring at him and polishing his gun to sufficiently frighten Isaac, but after that, he’d stomped downstairs and grabbed the first man he saw and sent him upstairs for guard duty.

He’d only been up there for about two hours and yet he’d see as many as six men coming through to keep an eye on him, the shift seemingly changing at whim, whenever one of them got bored none of them taking the duty particularly seriously.

It was obvious in how they disregarded Isaac, how they looked at him, that they didn’t find him worth even the minimal effort Colm had asked, nor saw him as bold enough to try and escape. To them this was one of many boring tasks awaiting them on the ranch, filling their time before their next job.

To Isaac though, this was his greatest chance to break free. With Colm gone, so was the claustrophobic level of scrutiny he’d been under before, as well as the cutting gaze that seemed to almost read his mind. If he didn’t escape now, he never would with Colm around, and by then it would certainly be too late.

So as much as he could without arousing suspicion, he studied the large space, he checked the barricaded windows and the floorboards whenever one of the men stepped out, he stared out the thin slats of the windows available and watched the routines of the idling men, searching for the gap that he could take advantage of. Grandpa and Uncle Dutch didn’t like to start jobs without all the information available and he took that to heart, not wanting to be caught on the back foot.

The intent watching and cataloguing of the space around him also helped him keep his head on straight, helped distract him from the aches and pains wracking his body for all the rough treatment he’d received over the last day. Looking forward, always looking forward.

When the latest guard left the room to find a bottle of whiskey Isaac hadn’t wasted any time in climbing up the sturdiest bunk bed in the room and using it to vault up into the rafters of the room. In truth he’d barely conceptualized his ramshackle plan by the time he was climbing up, letting momentum guide him.

After the guard left and the ruckus started up outside about the missing boy Isaac dropped down as quietly as he could and scurried over to the window with the loose board that he’d found, easing the board up and off to reveal the window enough to open it, giving him a clear exit to the roof atop the attached room.

Outside the men were scrambling to find him, but all Isaac needed to do was drop down and run the 20 feet it would take him to get into the wooded area just beyond the fence. Just 30 seconds where he was undiscovered and he’d be home free.

His gut twisted in guilt and his fingers faltered for a moment where he was holding up the window, thinking of poor Kieran trapped somewhere in the ranch, experiencing all kinds of horrors because of him.

He took a few steadying breaths and gripped the sill tightly. Staying here, captured and helpless wouldn’t help anything but his own guilt, but if he could get loose then maybe he could find help, maybe he could get back to camp and warn Daddy and stop everyone from getting captured as well.

It was a lofty goal, but it was the only thing he had to cling to at this point.

As he wedged the window open he found that the debilitating panic that he’d expected to find was gone in the face of implacable calm, he had a plan, all he needed to do was execute.

Slip out the window, be just barely small enough to fit beneath the remaining boards.

Succeed.

Drop down onto the roof, pray no one hears you. Try not to break your leg as you fall to the grass, try not to make a sound despite how much everything hurts.

Succeed.

Run to the surrounding woodland unseen.

Fail.

His fingers brushed the ragged, wooden fence, his foot on the lowest rung halfway to a vault, mere moments from freedom when the deafening sound of a fired gun rang through the ranch, and a bullet sliced past his face, the force of the wind stealing his breath.

The noise, the startling proximity of the bullet, the hot blood trickling down the side of his face and staining his neck and collar red, scared him so badly his whole body went limp and he collapsed to the ground in shock, the whole world seeming to tremble and shake around the edges as his lungs refused to inflate again.

“Will one of you grab him?! For fucks sake!”

Of course, of course, Colm was back, that was just his luck that the moment he tried to escape was too late in the end.

With what little strength he had he dug his fingers into the dirt and tried to pull himself under the fence and away, gasping as he reached desperately for freedom and screamed when he was painfully pulled away.

Whoever had gotten to him first was just as cruel as his allegiances would imply and Isaac fought and kicked as the man dragged him back to the center of the ranch by his hair, his gun-calloused hand yanking violently on Isaac’s thick curls, and pulling on the sluggishly bleeding graze at the same time. Isaac screamed, cried, and scrabbling against the grip to try and break it, but regardless he was thrown at Colm’s feet who awaited him red-faced and livid.

“Can not a single one of you morons keep a goddamn boy under control?” Colm screamed at the gathering throng, his long-hidden accent growing stronger as he got angrier. “What the hell do I pay you for?”

Isaac made one last desperate attempt to break free which was quickly snuffed by Colm stomping him back into the dirt, keeping that sharp-toed boot planted in his back.

With a growl, Colm raised his gun again and shot the man who’d last been on duty to watch Isaac, who’d first declared him missing, straight through the eye. Isaac keened with his limited breath at the sight of the man dropping dead, a gaping red hole staring back at him.

“This is not the time for making mistakes,” Colm hissed to his men as he shifted to haul Isaac up by his throat, his stormy expression almost more terrifying than the lack of air at that moment. “And it ain’t the time for patience.”

Everyone was silent, the men waiting in anticipation for Colm’s next command, eager to prove themselves, eager not to be another sightless body on the ground. Isaac choked and scratched at Colm’s hand, trying to win a little air, cursing himself for being caught.

Though any regrets or further plans were eradicated with Colm’s next decree, wiped out in blinding white panic.

“Throw him in the cellar,” Colm said with a razor-sharp grin, a promise of punishment fulfilled, and shoved Isaac towards one of the men awaiting orders.

“No, no! I’ll listen! I’m sorry, please!” Isaac screeched, as soon as he could breathe again, throwing every bit of strength he had into thrashing against the man's hold, into screaming and pleading. Feeling closer to a cornered rabbit than a boy as he was easily hauled up onto his shoulder, ready to be carted off.

“Too little too late, my boy,” Colm sneered, pointing to the wooden door built into the ground beside the house with authority. “You just sit tight and think about what you’ve done, then maybe I’ll let you out.”

Isaac kicked and screamed and bit and fought as he was brought down, down, down into the dank cellar, the air thick and pungent with sweat and blood, and the dark, hardly penetrated by a weak oil lantern

“Shut up!” The man hollered, dropping Isaac roughly into the corner, banging his head and limbs against the stone walls as he went down.

Isaac immediately tried to run, tried to make a break for the stairs and the shaft of light that still shone into the hideous room, but before he could even make it to his feet the man kicked him back, knocking the air out of Isaac as he slammed into a support beam. Leaving him too weak to fight as the man took out a loop of rope to roughly tie his hands behind him and around the beam, trapping him there.

“Please, please,” Isaac sobbed, straining against the unfortunately familiar ropes. “Let me out! I don’t wanna be here, I don’t wanna be in the dark!”

Somewhere in the darkest corner of the cellar, someone, Kieran, he thought distantly - so absorbed in the task of fighting back that he could hardly muster more than the man's name - groaned like a dying man, protesting with a voice cracked like broken glass. Chains rattled as someone pulled fruitlessly against manacles, but Isaac’s newest tormentor just ignored the unsettling noises, instead turning to pick up the dim lantern with a cruel smirk.

“Don’t tell me Arthur Morgan’s kid is scared of the dark.” The man snickered as he slowly extinguished the light, as he watched panic mount in Isaac’s eyes. “Well, after what you just pulled? That’s just too bad.”

Laughing maliciously the man took the lantern with him, the last embers of light, letting the doors fall shut behind him with a grave thud, as good as burying Isaac alive in the rotten place. Leaving nothing but the smell of blood, the sound of panicked hyperventilating, and the all too familiar dark.

* * *

With some hard riding and determination, it had only taken them a few hours to get from Lemoyne to West Elizabeth, crossing three states at breakneck speed to get to where Trelawny claimed Isaac had been taken. Under the full moon, their horses shone with lathered sweat, their heavy breaths puffing out in hot, damp clouds before them. The men that rode them were no better, all of them panting and wincing from the breakneck pace, but Arthur barely spared a thought to the way his body protested the heavy activity, too busy scrutinizing the land before them, unsettled by how idyllic the meadow they’d been brought to seemed.

Long, green grass, shiny with dew and glinting like stars, a crisp blue stream with deer and rabbits drinking from it until their rough posse scared them off, birds of prey wheeling through the sky, silhouetted by the bright light of the moon.

All of it was too calm for what they were coming for, too undisturbed by the hulking wreck of a ranch lurking at the edge of the meadow, that same creaking monstrosity Trelawny pointed out as the O’Driscolls hideout, the beast which had devoured Isaac.

Arthur wanted to gallop over and raze the whole festering hideout to the ground, pluck Isaac from their grasp and ride away to get him somewhere safe, but everyone else stopped him, urging him to be cautious, to be patient, as impossible as that was. Before they made any moves they needed to collect poor Mrs. Adler, Trelawny insisted that whatever information Sadie had gained while on her post was invaluable for their survival.

Quietly and with only the light of the moon shining on their way forward Trelawny guided them through the meadow to a large shaded tree across from the ranch, trotting ahead as his anxiety got the better of him.

“Mrs. Adler?” He whispered, dismounting from Gwydion so quickly he nearly fell, racing to the roots when there was no immediate answer. “Sadie, Sadie?”

“Josiah?” Hosea asked quietly, joining him under the shadowed boughs, grabbing Trelawny’s shoulder where he was searching frantically in the nearby bushes. “What’s wrong?”

“She’s not here,” Trelawny hissed, kicking at the bushes in frustration. “This woman will be the death of me! She has a hole in her arm and one foot in the grave and what’s she done? Go on a walkabout!”

“Do you think they spotted her?” John asked, fidgeting restlessly on his horse.

“No,” Charles murmured, looking around the scuffed dirt patch around the base of the tree, before stopping in front of a large flat rock. “She went on her own.”

On top of the rock was a handful of pebbles, placed in the deliberate shape of an arrow, pointing towards the gaping maw of the decrepit ranch.

“Should’ve expected this, Trelawny,” Arthur sighed, a chuckle bubbling up in his chest, but his whole body was too tightly wound in tension to release it. “That woman is nothing but willful, I’m surprised she stayed still s’long as you say she did.”

“She’s a firecracker that one,” Dutch continued, watching their destination intently. “We need to get in there and find ‘em all ‘fore she burns them to-”

Suddenly a horde of noise and light came down the hill and over the path, silencing them all at once, and on instinct all the men retreated further into the dark spaces between trees and underbrush, watching the group ride into the meadowed valley silently.

From where they sat they could hear very little of what the men said as they pulled to a stop, only the wind crossing the valley bringing them any information at all. Hide, wait, Colm, Dutch, over.

As they watched the men split up and dispersed amongst the surrounding woodland, just one remaining behind to approach the ranch on his own.

Arthur wanted to laugh, interested in seeing some fool dead for walking straight into the O’Driscolls hideout, but as one of the men came closer to their side of the meadow they saw the glint of gold on his chest, illuminated by his uplifted lantern: Pinkertons.

“Shit,” Dutch whispered. “I was hopin’ Micah was lyin’ about that.”

“If we run in now that’s a great way for us all to get caught,” Hosea said, pushing a pale, frazzled Trelawny further back into the underbrush. “We gotta take care of them ‘fore we go and get Isaac and them.”

“And risk startin’ a firefight and gettin’ him killed?” Arthur hissed angrily, his hackles sufficiently raised at every subsequent obstacle that arose to prevent him from rescuing his son.

Behind the three of them, Charles and John spoke quietly to one another, and seemingly out of nowhere, as soon as the Pinkerton passed the great big tree in front of them and was obscured from his comrades, Charles stood and, with sickening precision, lobbed a throwing knife into the Pinkertons chest, just beside his shiny badge.

The rider choked on the sudden burst of blood and steel invading his lungs and tipped off the side of his horse, John was immediately there to catch the lantern before it could fall to the ground and draw attention, then quickly dragged the body further out of sight.

“If we’re careful-” Charles said with a grunt as he pulled his knife out of the still chest of the dead agent. “We can take out most of them before they notice we’re here. It only has to be a big fight if we let it.” He glared out at the ranch and the floating pockets of light from the other agents, slowly wiping the blood off the retrieved knife, plotting how he might carve through the hidden threats to secure their victory.

John clapped him hard on the back and pulled out his own knife. “He’s waiting for you to go save him, brother, let’s get to work.”

* * *

Isaac felt sick.

The taste of blood, so thick in the room it coated his mouth as he breathed it in.

The rats that skittered over his feet undisturbed by his frightened jerking about, turned the darkness into something physical and real that could reach out and touch him.

But mostly it was how fast his heart beat against his ribs, so powerful was his fear that it hurt him from the inside out, his own body attempting to reject the horrible reality he sat in.

He thrashed and pulled against the ropes, ignoring the pain in his shoulders and wrists as he desperately tried to free himself. He wasn’t five years old anymore, he knew that if he could just get free he could open the cellar doors and save Mama-

Escape, he could escape.

The bad men killed her. They were outside. They put him in the dark. They wanted him to be like Daddy. They wanted to put a gun in his hand and make him grateful to have it. They put him in the dark.

This wasn’t the same darkness that he’d sat in for days, waiting to be rescued, waiting to see Mama, the sun, anything but the nothingness burned into his eyes, waiting for Daddy. This darkness was worse. Tangible with the smell of death all around him, and nothing so sure as Daddy coming for his birthday awaiting him outside, except perhaps the promise of violence.

He slammed against the post, praying for either it or the ropes to suddenly give way, stopping only when he felt the thin, fragile bones of his forearms creak under the pressure of his abuse. A frantic voice in his mind that sounded suspiciously like Grandpa urged him to stop before he hurt himself further, which left him only with his panic.

And so, without his permission, he began to cry.

His heart bruising him from the inside out, his lungs refusing to inflate despite his desperate sobs, the pain neverending in his body, he just wanted it all to stop. All he wanted was for the doors to open and for Daddy to come and carve him out of this dark pit.

The sound of his gasping sobs was so loud he couldn’t hear Kieran’s broken croak until he pushed his voice to a sandpaper-rough bark, “Isaac.”

A bolt of sickening guilt struck, making him choke on his weak breath, all his struggles and he’d immediately forgotten Kieran who’d be at the mercy of the O’Driscolls longer than him. His sobbing and panicking felt useless and small at such a time.

“K-Kieran?” Isaac gasped. “Are you ok?”

“You’re…gonna make yourself s-sick,” Kieran rasped. “Just stay…calm.”

“But…it’s dark,” Isaac whispered harshly, slicing through the thick air with his shameful fear. “I can’t- I can’t breathe.”

“Close your eyes, and hold on-” Kieran broke off into sickening coughs, rattling his whole chest like it might shake apart. “You’ll be fine, so long as you keep calm.”

The directed sentiment that Isaac would be fine and not them both was not lost on him.

“I’m…I’m so sorry,” Isaac said with a gasp, heeding Kieran’s advice and squeezing his eyes tightly shut, trying to calm himself down with the darkness he could control. “This is my fault, this is all my fault. I-I’m so-”

“Just breathe, kid. It’s no use gettin’ worked up now, let’s just…focus on stayin’ alive…”

As Kieran trailed off, panic seized Isaac immediately, sure that Kieran had died at that moment. He held his breath and stayed quiet, desperate to pick out a sign of life, and only sighed in relief when he heard Kieran’s own, shuddering breath, sharp and short like he couldn’t inhale all the way, thick like there was blood in his throat. The sound of someone who’d faced great violence, but it was a sound that proved he still lived despite it.

It felt like hours passed like that of Isaac counting Kieran’s breaths, trying to calm his racing heart, panicking all over again when a rat climbed over him or the noise of the gang outside roved close enough for them to hear, and Kieran rousing to calm him again and again.

Despite Kieran’s assurances and the sound advice Isaac could not shake the dread that had sunk into his bones and the longer he sat there without the distraction of furiously trying to escape, the more the darkness closed in on him, the more he began to feel severed. Like floating in water and drifting farther and further away from solid land.

If the gang found out where he was, and actually came to rescue him, then they might all be captured by Pinkertons by now. It could be Isaac’s own foolhardy plan that brings the end to their wild and free days. And if Daddy was tied up and being carted off somewhere to be hung, then it was all Isaac’s fault. Then there would be no one left to save them.

Kieran would be killed, and it would be Isaac’s fault.

Sadie was left for dead and it was his fault.

Micah and Colm would be getting away with the money that they’d died and bled for, and it was his fault.

And if Colm came to collect him from the cellar, with plans to drag him around the country, waiting for the day that he’d break and pick up a gun and become the man that everyone expected of Daddy, then Isaac could blame no one but himself.

When the cellar doors finally creaked open Isaac froze, afraid for a moment that he was imagining it, or worse, that whoever was waiting at the top of those stairs was an O’Driscoll come to drag him off to Colm’s will. He wanted to hide, or somehow set Kieran free so that he wouldn’t be further victim to whatever act of violence the men outside were waiting to enact.

So frightened of the possibilities it took Isaac a moment to realize that it wasn’t a man at all, instead with a low lit lantern held in one hand as she shut the cellar doors gently behind her was Mrs. Sadie Adler.

“Isaac? Kieran? You still alive?” She asked, hushed despite the closed door, nerves lingering from her daring infiltration.

When she finally reached the bottom step her lamp illuminated the room enough to see her determined expression and her ragged appearance. She looked a far cry from the well-dressed, travel-weary mother she’d been playing just this morning, her left arm dark with dried blood and wrapped in the torn strips of her skirt, her hair mud-streaked and astray, the skirt itself was ruined, shoddily torn off to not get in her way, revealing her trousers underneath, but more importantly then any of that she was alive. Isaac could not stop his tears of relief, so sudden and powerful it felt as if he’d been hit by a train.

“Sadie! Sadie!”

She strode across the cramped room in two quick steps to reach him, squatting down to wipe the tears off his cheeks. “Thank the Lord, kid, you scared me half to death.” Her words came out like a gust of wind, her whole body relaxing for just a moment as she confirmed he still lived. “What were you thinkin’, huh?”

“I didn’t mean it-“ Isaac hiccuped. “I’m sorry, Sadie, ‘t’s my fault, I’m so sorry.”

“I didn’t come for apologies,” Sadie tsked, gently swatting Isaac’s shoulder, and wincing in sympathy when she followed the dark itch trail of blood down his neck to the graze above his ear. “I came to get you two outta here.”

Sadie drew the overly large bowie knife on her hip and with one sharp flick cut the ropes binding Isaac’s hands, kicking the tattered, itchy, blood-splattered material away maliciously.

“I can’t believe-” Isaac gasped, curling in on himself with arms held tight to his chest as they screamed in pain from the awkward position and his previous frantic escape attempts. “I can’t believe you’re alive, Sadie…I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t’ve- I should’ve ran…”

“Well, we can run now, come on,” Sadie said with a grunt as she pulled Isaac to his feet, hissing in pain as he stumbled and leaned against her bandaged-wrapped shoulder.

“Kieran too.” Isaac leaned against the post he’d been tied to, willing his legs to stop shaking and pointing to the half-lit corner of the cellar, where Kieran’s limp legs could be seen, and the stale, fetid patch of blood beneath him. “We can’t leave him behind, we all gotta- gotta get outta here, can’t stay, can’t let ‘em catch us.”

“Course, of course,” Sadie consoled him awkwardly, staring at all the dark, dried patches of blood on his clothes, the way his lungs heaved like he’d run a mile in the tiny room, and her fingers clenched even tighter on the hilt of her knife.

“Sadie,” Kieran’s pain-strangled voice gurgled from the back of the cellar, barely livelier than a corpse. “You gotta turn on a lamp, he’s ‘fraid of the dark, you’re scarin’ ‘im.”

Isaac and Sadie took a moment from their panic and rage to look at the half-lit oil lamp Sadie had set down at the foot of the stairs, the dim flame revealing more of the dank cell, more of Kieran’s sorry state.

“It’s already lit…” Sadie replied slowly, grabbing the lantern as she crossed the room to free Kieran and pulling to a sharp stop when she got a better look at him. “Lord…what’d they do to you?”

“Whatever they wanted,” Kieran wheezed out with a laugh, the shaking of his lungs exacerbating his collection of injuries and making him gasp sharply in pain.

“What’s wrong with his eyes, Mrs. Adler?” Isaac whispered as he crept behind Sadie, desperate to stay within the dim, flickering circle of firelight, to see what had frightened her so.

Kieran’s eyes, along with half his face, were covered in red, irritated wounds, his skin shiny from burns. He was weeping thick, viscous tears uncontrollably, unemotionally; stained white with infection. And no matter how much Sadie waived her hands around in front of him his gaze remained dull and unresponsive.

“It was hot oil, I think,” Kieran answered with a croak. “Splashed me ‘cross the face with it, I just thought it was always dark in here…”

“Oh Kieran,” Sadie replied, and it was only then that Isaac noticed that she hadn’t called him O’Driscoll or insulted him since coming down here. Evidently his own trials enough to finally rid him of the burden of her hatred. “It ain’t pretty.”

He gave another painful chuff of a laugh, and hung his head low, “Wasn’t to start.”

Sadie sighed and handed the lantern back to Isaac before getting to work on Kieran’s manacles, putting away her knife in favor of two hairpins from her belt pouch, already straightened out and scratched, having seen use as lockpicks before.

Isaac shifted anxiously back and forth, rolling his shoulders and massaging his wrists as he tried to rid his body of the painful stiffness that clung to him, watching in anticipation as Sadie tried to pick the manacles, growling in pain now and again as her left arm would spasm, making her drop the pins and start all over again.

When she finally did pick the lock it was a surprise to them all, and it was only due to Sadie’s quick thinking that Kieran didn’t fall to the floor in a broken heap. Her arms up under his and pressing him into the wall to keep him upright it almost looked like an embrace, but the pained staccato breaths from Kieran and Sadie’s face pale with pain told a different story.

“C-can you walk, Duffy?” Sadie bit out, repositioning to pull Kieran’s arm over her shoulders, supporting him with a grunt.

Kieran dug his fingers into the hard wall behind him, his few remaining fingernails a broken mess by the end as he tried to get his feet under him. “I’ll do it, I’ll make it work.”

Isaac moved to support Kieran’s other side, it’d be uneven, he was shorter than them both, but it’d be better than nothing, but before he could position himself Sadie pushed him back with a few straining fingers on his chest.

“No, you gotta open the door and keep a lookout, I can carry him on my own,” Sadie shifted again and gingerly wrapped her arm around Kieran, gritting her teeth as he gasped and leaned away from the touch, her hand fisting in sticky, bloodstained clothes. “I’ll drag him out if I need to. Trelawney went back to rally the troops, we just gotta get out of here and we'll be home free. We’re close, just keep your head on straight, kid.”

“I can’t believe it,” Kieran slurred deliriously. “Sadie Adler, bein’ nice to me.”

“Don’t get used to it, Duffy,” Sadie scoffed as she took the first step, forcing Kieran to do the same, the two of them moving in jerky, pained unison.

Isaac blinked slowly as he watched them move, still processing the earth shattering news that Sadie had just shared. Trelawny went to get help, Trelawny was alive! He would warn them about Micah, he’d bring them all here, for all Isaac knew Daddy was outside waiting for him.

His body moved on its own, filled with the urgency to meet them outside, pushing towards the stairs, leading the way for Sadie and Kieran with the faint light, moving all the way up to ease the cellar door open before he realized just how terrifying it was.

With the doors open to the outside he could hear men's voices, could hear yelling and laughing, so near to them that it made Isaac shiver in fear, all of them just a few steps away from discovering them. One more step out from the cellar and Isaac nearly dropped the lantern in shock, a man lounging in a chair just outside the doors, his gun hung lazily in his hand, a guard meant to watch them. But instead of rearing up and stuffing him back into the cold, dark hole they’d crawled out of the man stayed still, unmoving.

The faint light from the swinging lantern revealed blood, staining the man's front, and dripping from a gash in his throat, dead by the edge of Sadie’s knife.

He didn’t have long to worry or even feel ill at the sight of the dead man, Sadie and Kieran didn’t give him time as they followed quickly up the stairs, with a pained grunt from them both as they ascended.

“Head to the barn,” Sadie whispered, poking at Isaac’s back to urge him forward. “Your Bella’s in the woods back there.”

Isaac nodded slowly, his eyes skirting away from the dead man and doused the lantern, tucking it away unseen before creeping to the edge of the house, walking as quickly and quietly as he could to lead their escape.

He counted each step as they moved along, sure that the next one would be when they were caught, sure that darting between the tents and around outhouses and fires would be the exact time someone looked their way, and the tension only mounted each time he was proven wrong. The stifled grunts of pain coming from behind him, like some sort of awful, tortured Eurydice following him, was no ease to his nerves, nor was the loud hustle of the ranch.

Something was happening, he couldn’t let himself linger on any one man's thoughts or words, but they were anxious about something, tension laid thick over them all despite their attempts at normalcy.

When their backs finally met the wooden walls of the barn he could finally breathe, hidden, even if for just a moment, from the roving men, but they remained within the boundary of the fence, not yet free of the O’Driscolls grasp.

“Can y’all keep goin’?” Isaac whispered, watching nervously as Kieran and Sadie panted, leaning heavily against the old barn.

Kieran didn’t answer, too busy trying to fill his lungs despite the hesitancy of his ribs, clutching at his chest as if he could grab the sharp pain and pull it out.

“T-that big rock out there,” Sadie whispered sharply, sweat dripping down her face and neck, her face two shades too pale. “Bella’s behind there. Just gotta…gotta get there.”

“I can help carry him, I promise, Mrs. Adler, please.” Isaac didn’t wait to be rejected, instead taking the opportunity to slip under Kieran’s arm and hold him securely over his shoulders. “Just a few more yards, right?”

Sadie inhaled deeply, rolling her neck with a loud crack, before nodding determinedly and taking that first step towards the swinging gate behind the barn.

Together the three of them moved in disjointed, painful harmony, reaching the gate, feeling the splintered wood of the fence under their hands, stepping foot in the land beyond the boundary, darting out, if it could be called such, to the winter fed grass and tangle of pine needles that awaited them, tasting unfettered freedom after so long starved.

“We’re almost there,” Kieran whispered, under his breath, measuring their steps with each syllable as he repeated it. “We’re almost there.”

As sudden and terrible as any number of the things that had happened over the past day, a whistle pierced through the air, followed by a loud gunshot.

Instinctively all three of them fell to the ground, ducking from the gunfire if it came their way, Kieran and Sadie going down in a symphony of pain while Isaac reeled back to look where they’d run from. Up at the top of the watchtower, craning over the barn and trees, was a man, his hand to his mouth to whistle and his gun up in the air to shoot. Isaac watched in slow motion as he lowered his gun to aim at them, calling down to the men below. “We got a runner! On the north side!”

“Son of a bitch,” Sadie gritted out, dropping Kieran’s side to push herself up on her good arm and roughly pulling him up behind her. “Go, go!”

Isaac scurried to stand and took Kieran’s other side, pushing him and Sadie forward as fast as he could as bullets burrowed into the ground behind them and the sound of men’s yelling got louder.

“Just…leave me,” Kieran reluctantly gasped out, trying his best to walk on his own. “They’re gonna…gonna catch up.”

“Bit too late for that now,” Sadie hissed.

The distance between them and the boulder shrunk in the blink of an eye and, as if from Isaac’s wildest dreams, Bella stood on the other side, unharmed, her ears twitching against the barrage of noise, but still grazing.

“Hey there, Bella girl,” Isaac whispered, a tremor in his voice, never more relieved than now to see the little pony. “You been good for Sadie?”

Bella knickered and tossed her head, petulantly nosing at Isaac’s hand, demanding his attention after so long apart, and all Isaac wanted to do was break down and celebrate that they were reunited, but now was certainly not the time.

Without discussion Sadie and Isaac boosted Kieran onto Bella’s back, giving him instructions on where to put his foot or grab on the saddle, helping as best as they could in his sightless state. With how tall Kieran was and how frantic they were it was difficult to say the least, but with one final shove upwards from Isaac and Sadie ready in the saddle to steady him they eventually got him up and secured, his face pale and sweaty in effort.

Sadie reached out to pull Isaac on the horse with them, ready to plant him in front of her on the saddle, squished in against the horn, but he was slow to take it.

Bella hadn’t ever ridden with more than one rider, and two was already going to be a struggle, not to mention the overstuffed carpet bags tied to her saddle that he couldn’t give any thought to at this time, had no capacity to think of the implications. With three riders Bella would be too slow to break free of the encroaching threat, but with just two riders and a distraction?

“Daddy and them will be here soon, right?” Isaac whispered urgently, his fingertips grazing Sadie’s.

“I mean if Trelawny did his part right,” Sadie replied, casting worried, impatient glances over Isaac’s head past the boulder at the bobbing lights approaching them. “We ain’t got time to worry ‘bout that now, just-”

He didn’t give Sadie a chance to catch onto his thoughts, her anxious gaze already too much for him to bear with his plan forming in mind. Instead, in an instant, he let go of Bella’s bridle and gave her flank a sharp swat, sending her racing into the woods with Sadie and Kieran doing their best to stay mounted, their cries of protest reaching Isaac where he stood, terrified and determined.

“Quite the escape artist, ain’t you, Isaac?”

Isaac turned slowly, to see Colm standing in a circle of his men, their lanterns lighting up the clearing revealing their surly, vindictive expressions.

“I could’ve run, Colm,” Isaac announced, standing up straight, shoulders back, trying to imitate that look he’d seen on so many of his family's faces, that look of stubborn fearlessness. “But I ain’t afraid of you.”

“I’ve been hearin’ that an awful lot lately,” Colm drawled as he began to circle the clearing, edging ever closer to Isaac with each step he took. “Starting to hurt my feelings you know, but let me ask you this-” His boots ground in the dirt as he turned on his heel to stare Isaac down, standing close enough for Isaac to smell his whiskey and cigarette laden breath, “Are you just sayin’ that ‘cause you’re stupider than you look? Or ‘cause you think someone’s coming round to save you?” He gestured to the woods around, confidence oozing from his very being. “Cause I’ll promise you, boy, with the amount of agents we got waitin’ in the wings you’re lucky if you’re little friends there are gonna make it outta these woods alive, let alone Daddy and the gang making it to us guns blazing.”

Isaac had only a second to falter, to worry that it was all for nothing, when a heart-stoppingly familiar voice called out: “I wouldn’t be so sure of that, Colm,”

All the men in the clearing whipped around to look up the hill behind them where, half-lit and silver in the moonlight, was Dutch himself. Every line of his silhouette tense and unrelenting, his leg hiked up on a rock like all this fuss was beneath him.

Coming from behind another man moved to stand beside Dutch, his gun out and trained on Colm, no mercy and no calm, Hosea, livid and without patience.

“I just hope-” Dutch continued, as the men sat frozen in shock, commanding their attention like a king. “That none of those agents were your long lost brother, cause if so we find ourselves in another unpleasant situation.”

With a firm kick Dutch sent the rock rolling down the hill, only to reveal in the gangly, disjointed sprawl that it was the fresh body of a dead Pinkerton, cut down without remorse.

Isaac was so weak with shock and relief at the sight of Grandpa and Grandad together, united and here to put a stop to all this, that he barely even noticed the unsettling descent of the body, paid no attention to Colm when all he wanted to do was run the twenty yards or so it would take to meet them.

He moved instinctively, going to dart past Colm and up the hill, when reality struck him back down to earth. The second he stepped forward Colm whirled around to grab him up, restraining him with one arm around his neck, the other around his waist and pinning his arms to the side, securing his human shield before turning back to Hosea and Dutch,

“Well, I’d say we find ourselves in a situation all the same wouldn’t you agree?”

“Let the boy go, Colm, he ain’t a part of this!” Dutch barked coldly as Grandpa drew his other revolver, his hands visibly shaking in rage.

“Oh, I disagree, Dutch! He’d been a big part- a helpful part, even brought in a little money!” Colm laughed, wrapping his arm ever incrementally tighter around Isaac’s throat as he spoke. “That why you keep him around? Just waitin’ to get your money’s worth?”

“Is this how men like you act? Hidin’ behind children when the guns come out?” Dutch growled. “You should be ashamed of yourself.”

“And what about you?” Colm shouted back, slowly moving back towards the ranch, dragging Isaac along, holding him painfully tight despite how Isaac thrashed and kicked. “You take in these boys, treat ‘em like blood then cut ‘em loose when they ain’t worth the trouble?” Colm snickered to himself as Dutch remained stonily silent, raising his gun to Colm but not shooting for fear of hitting Isaac. “Just how is Arthur doin’ after our little chat?”

“Arthur’s just fine, Colm, he ain’t no concern of yours,” Grandpa spit, the click of the hammer on his guns loud despite it all. “Think you got more to worry about right here than him, wouldn’t you agree?”

With all his thrashing Isaac managed to free one of his arms to claw at Colm’s arm frantically, as he tightened his grip around Isaac’s throat, making the world narrow and grey around the edges.

“The boy said that too, but forgive me if I find it hard to believe, seein’ how he was half-dead last I saw him,” Colm said with a drawl, letting every awful syllable drag out, giving enough room for that image of Daddy falling off the horse more bruise and blood than man to crystallize perfectly in Isaacs mind, only making him more determined to lash out and hurt Colm as he restrained him, even with the way the lack of air was making him dizzy.

“Don’t you worry though,” Colm grunted as he kneed Isaac in the back hard, silencing his fighting and thrashing for just a moment. “There won’t be nothing half ‘bout you two.”

With a snap of his fingers the other men in the clearing all drew their guns and started to fire on Grandpa and Grandad, ducking for cover as the two fired back and steadily approached the base of the hill.

He could hear the two of them screaming and cussing at Colm, yelling for Isaac to stay strong, but he didn’t even have enough breath to yell back, or to resist as Colm dragged him back to the rickety barn, always making sure to keep Isaac between him and his enemies.

With a sickening twist Colm flung open the barn door and threw Isaac down on the ground to turn and slam the door, throwing the slat down to barricade it with a triumphant laugh, the sound of bullets and fighting just as loud as if all the doors and windows were wide open.

Isaac crawled forward, breathlessly, his legs shaking like a newborn foal’s, unable to support him, he clawed at the dirty hay that littered the ground, trying to get the strength to stand and run. He’d hardly made it 6 feet away when Colm caught up and yanked him up by his arm, pulling him to an uncoordinated stand to better drag him along.

“Why?” Isaac screamed fruitlessly scratching Colm’s hand ruthlessly to try and break his hold. “What’s the point?! Why do you need me?”

“You know one thing Dutch and I got in common?” Colm replied instead, whirling around to lift Isaac up by his collar, his feet off the ground, slamming him against one of the wooden poles between the stables, the old barn shaking and creaking at the impact. “We ain’t so good at letting things go, and I don't plan to change that now.”

“You’re just a coward! A mean, cowardly bastard!” Isaac gritted his teeth and kicked Colm in the gut as hard as he could, yelping in surprise when Colm immediately dropped him back into the filth.

Colm didn’t waste a second to strike back, kicking Isaac while he was down, looking more angry and on edge then Isaac had seen him, even more then when he’d first escaped. Because this time there was more on the line than just Isaac getting away, his Pinkerton allies were gone, his men were coming to blows with his enemies, and if he made a single mistake he’d be put down like the dog he was.

“Arthur Morgan’s son,” Colm hissed, bruising Isaac’s arms and legs where he had curled into a ball to protect himself. “Just as connivin’ and cowardly as I am and you think you’re better than me?”

The moment Colm paused, stepping back to catch his breath and see if Isaac had finally admitted defeat, Isaac surged to his feet, lunging at Colm to tackle him to the ground with a feral screech. “I am better than you! You’re nothin’-” punch “but a dirty-” punch “rotten-” punch “no good crook!”

Even as weak and in pain as he was, Isaac managed to get a few good hits in, turning Colm’s sharp, calculating gaze into something bruised, blood-smeared, and furious.

Colm rolled Isaac off of him, pinning him down to get a few punches of his own, until Isaac could buck him off and crawl away, kicking Colm in the mouth for one last strike.

It continued like that, surrounded by the cacophony of guns outside, Isaac and Colm laid into one another, insults, blood, and spit flying. Each time Isaac would manage to break away to run for the doors Colm would be right there to slam him back into the ground, and whenever Colm could stand tall and reach for his gun or look up to the gatling gun in the loft Isaac would channel all his frustration and rage into a kick or a punch, or one memorable bite.

Any strategy or outside pressure had quickly fallen away in favor of the fight, this man had torn Isaac’s family apart again and again, he’d hurt him, planned to sell them all down the river to the Pinkertons and he was just done.

So brutal and senseless was their scrap that they didn’t notice the increase in noise from the other side of the barn, or the way the gunfire from where they left had died down. They didn’t notice the shattering of glass and soft whoosh of fire catching as Colm rammed Isaac into one of the dividing walls of the stables, unseating the lantern cheerfully lighting the scene of such violence, sending it falling to the ground and breaking on impact, setting fire to the rotten hay, unbeknownst to the combatants who could see no further than their own fists, and hear no more than their assailant’s cries of pain.

The fight shifted at a moment when Isaac had the upper hand, pinning Colm to the ground as he broke the skin of his knuckles over and over again on Colm’s bruised face. The back doors began to rattle in their tracks, Hosea and Dutch yelling for Isaac on the other side, threatening Colm should they get their hands on his unfortunate hide.

Isaac immediately abandoned Colm on the ground, making a run for the doors to shove aside the slat and run to Grandpa and Grandad, but just a hand's breadth away and he was sent crashing down to the ground, his teeth clacking painfully together, viciously biting down on his own tongue and coating his mouth in blood.

Colm had managed to scramble forward and grab Isaac’s ankle, sending him tumbling, and before Isaac could kick out and free himself Colm yanked Isaac back, scraping his chin and stomach along the ground, itchy hay, splinters of wood, rocks and pebbled bits of glass from broken bottles cut and gouged at him.

Colm took the opportunity to grab Isaac by the collar again, wrenching his arm back to control him, and moved to cross the barn away from all the noise with his hostage in tow, and finally turned to witness the flickering flame turn into a sputtering fire, feeding well on the dry, broken building.

“Oh, hell,” Colm cursed, pulling Isaac along as he wheeled back, away from the plume of smoke and embers steadily billowing out from the stables, the wood crackling and snapping under the pressure of flame.

Isaac screamed, tugging desperately at Colm’s hands, his breath coming in short ineffective bursts as he watched the fire build and build.

From outside the banging on the door grew more frenzied and intense, before finally stopping all at once, the incensed voices of Dutch and Hosea trailing away and around the side of the barn to join the fight at the front of the ranch. Colm’s men sounded angry and panicked, and yet there was no sound from their enemies, whoever had come along with Dutch and Hosea deadly quiet in their focus.

Colm didn’t waste a second, moving to the barricaded door in an attempt to slip out undetected by his now distracted enemies.

Though the panic of the fire was making it hard for Isaac to think the sight of the nearing door scared him even more. With all the chaos of the shootout in the front and the fire steadily climbing in here should Colm sneak away into the woods with him Isaac worried they’d never be found and he’d be lost for good.

Relying on Colm’s white knuckled grip Isaac kicked up and braced his foot against the door, tensing with every bit of strength he had left, doing everything he could to stop Colm from slipping away.

Growling in frustration Colm threw him down to the ground, his shoulder crunching sickeningly upon impact. Isaac curled up, his breath catching at the sensation, at the ever increasing smoke in the room, and waited for the sound of the heavy doors creaking open. Fully expecting Colm to have tossed him to the side and abandoned him to the fire in the interest of his own self-preservation, but instead he peeked through his sweat-soaked hair to find Colm standing over him seething.

“You know what, kid?” Colm kicked at Isaacs knees and grabbed his shirt, one fist wheeling back to punch him, the light from the fire reflecting in Colm’s frenzied gaze. “I have had just about enough of you.”

* * *

Arthur could not die, he would not allow himself to, especially to such mindless idiots as the O’Driscolls, scurrying around like rats, searching for the darkness to skulk away in. But none of it mattered, the fight in front of him hardly mattered, he just had to win.

Duck behind the crate.

Pop up, shoot the man holding the shotgun.

You have to live, you have to find him.

Run along the side until they can’t remember where you were and where you are.

Deep breath in.

Deep breath out.

Everything he’s done, everything he’s gone through, and all you have to do is kick aside this obstacle, and bring him home.

Stand up, the repeater has seven shots, make them count.

In the blink of an eye find their rotten faces and between one beat of your heart to the next put a bullet in them.

Arthur slung the gun on his back and stretched out his shoulder tenderly, it’d been months since he’d been in the action like this, months of sitting around recovering like a child needing to be cared for, leaving his own child to try and clean up his mess. But no more, he was as close to top form as he’d been since escaping from the O’Driscolls, all he needed to do was keep his head on straight then he could finally be the man he should’ve been and protect his son. Knowing that if he’d just been stronger from the start then Isaac wouldn’t have even been able to imagine this sort of danger for himself; the thought pricking him like a thorn in his side.

From the moment they’d delved into the woods to root out the Pinkertons lying in wait it felt like the world had been moving twice as fast around him, like the night was just devolving into a blur of violence and blood, like all he could do was just push forward and find the next unsuspecting fool, and the next and the next and the next- to silence before they even caught a whiff of danger.

Then clarity had come loudly and on horseback, Sadie and Kieran crashing through the brush to where they’d been scouting around for more Pinkertons, nearly running them over in the process. Seeing Bella without Isaac had been startling enough, but with her current riders the tension only grew.

Kieran so beaten and bloodied he could hardly stay up on the horse, holding on to Sadie with everything he had so as not be thrown, and Sadie desperately trying to get Bella under control despite how pale and shaky she looked, and cursing a bluestreak all the while.

Once they’d managed to catch Bella and calm her enough to let Sadie hop down she’d wasted no time in marching right up to Arthur, dizzy and weak as she was, and grabbing him by the shoulders, shaking him as she yelled.

“That boy of yours is gonna get himself killed!”

Those words never left his head, repeating over and over like a horrible omen of what was to come. Charles had managed to direct Sadie and the half-unconscious Kieran to where Trelawy was laying low and get the two injured folks off of their plate and on to his, but Arthur had been a force to reckon with as he’d marched, unhidden, unafraid, to the bustle of activity and sin that was Hanging Dog ranch; ready to make them pay.

Sadie’s words of frustration and fear swarmed him like bees as he, John and Charles picked off the last of the cowering O’Driscolls that scurried about the derelict ranch and with the final bullet in John’s gun the final fool fell dead, putting an end to their pitiful attempt of a last stand, and the ringing in Arthur’s ears from all the yelling and shooting and rage died down enough to finally hear those around him.

“Is that Dutch and Hosea?” Charles asked, wiping the splatter of blood off his face half heartedly as he pointed out their two leaders running around from the farside of the barn, Dutch looking righteous and mad and Hosea looking scared.

“Dutch, what’s goin’ on?” John called out, racing to meet the two older men, Charles and Arthur following swiftly behind.

Arthur was still trying to shake off the incredible adrenaline coursing through his body after the fight and with all the panic in finding Isaac, but he needed to calm down, needed to think straight if they were all going to find Colm and get out of here safely.

“Colm’s in the barn, locked up with Isaac, and I heard the boy screaming something fierce,” Dutch yelled over his shoulder as he ran to the barricade that had been put together in a slapdash heap, probably to protect the man they had in the loft on the gatling, who had been swiftly killed by Arthur upon stepping foot in the ranch.

“Shit, shit, we need to work fast everyone,” Hosea gasped, his lungs working overtime from his and Dutch’s little sprint, but it was only made worse by what he pointed out with a tremulous finger. Smoke. Drifts and plumes coming out from the loft window, where the gun was set up, and with orange, flickering light being painted across the roof of the building, it was clear to see, that on top of everything else, a fire had started inside.

Any semblance of calm Arthur had scraped together was blown away immediately, knowing that Isaac was just a few yards away, cornered by a madman and surrounded by fire, with just broken scraps of wood between them, he could not stop himself from attacking the barricade with a mad, frenzied energy; his compatriots joining in right beside him.

Kick aside the crate, push the broken, bleeding bodies aside, shove past the wagon they’d placed up against the doors, ignore the splinters and cuts and gashes from the broken, fang-like wood, reach the barn doors with his own hands, get to Isaac.

With all five of them hard at work they got to the barn doors in no time, and as they swung them open Arthur had a thought that with all of his men and the Pinkertons dead and Colm cornered in the broken-down barn that maybe for once this could be resolved easily, kill Colm, get the boy, rescue him from the fire, simple. But of course, they didn’t keep him around to think, and the stupid, optimistic thought evaporated as they opened the doors at last.

Colm and Isaac, his son, wrestling and fighting like wolves over a meal amidst the blazing inferno. The flames on the left side of the barn building into terrifying heights as it fed unrestrained on dry wood and straw, and the wide space was so choked with smoke that the five of them had to step back and cough after opening the doors.

At his side Hosea began to hack and gasp something fierce, the singed cloud of smoke too much for his already weakened lungs after running and fighting alongside Dutch, and usually Arthur would be just as concerned as Dutch was right now over his would-be father’s breathing, but at this moment, he couldn’t take his eyes off Isaac, could barely feel the heat of the flames steadily overtaking the building.

He was covered in mud and straw from how much it seemed they’d been rolling around fighting, but worse yet was just how much blood seemed to stain his clothes, Colm was almost equally as injured as Isaac was from their scuffle so Arthur wasn’t confident in saying it was all Isaac’s, but the sight of his son, his boy, his baby, covered in something as heinous as the stain of violence made Arthur’s gut twist. He gasped, stumbling forward, his only thoughts on taking Isaac away from all of his now.

Across from them, Colm lifted his head, hearing the door thrown open or Hosea’s coughing or even Arthur’s heartbroken gasp, any of it was enough to break his concentration on laying into Isaac, his fist stopped mid-swing, beads of blood dripping from his clenched fingers.

Colm locked eyes with Arthur and flashed a dangerous smile, seeming to tremble in excitement at the culmination of such terrible violence.

Isaac below him, pinned to the filthy ground, hadn’t managed to break through the haze of the fight, hadn’t even seen them yet, instead, taking advantage of Colm’s distraction, he jackknifed and kneed Colm in the gut at the same time as he smashed his head into Colm’s chin, using the momentum to roll them over and free himself from the pin.

Even through the mind numbing terror and fear Arthur could not help the pride he felt over his boy, he was a fighter through and through.

“Isaac! Get outta there kid!” John beside him yelled, shielding his eyes from the swarming embers with a hand.

Arthur jolted when he heard John yell, breaking out of the stunned state after seeing his child viciously fighting, and he surged forward, cutting through the ever-increasing clouds of smoke. “Isaac! C’mere!”

At a painful speed Isaac whipped around to look at them all, tears springing to his eyes in utter relief. Without a moment of hesitation he leapt away from Colm, all the pain and worry and fear that had been clearly seen on his face seemed to melt away as he moved to run to Arthur, to be reunited once more.

Colm didn’t waste a second.

Rolling to a stand Colm ran and tackled Isaac. grabbing him in a tight hold and dragging him back further into the barn, away from safety so close within reach, and before they could draw their guns and kill Colm for the audacity he beat them to it, shoving his well-used revolver tight to Isaac’s chin, wrenching his head back to an unnatural angle in the boys panicked attempt to shake off the gun; Colm’s trigger finger obviously anxious to pull.

“Arthur! Fancy meetin’ you here.” Colm yelled out, seemingly unbothered by the situation, or the barn rapidly devolving to scorching, splintering charcoal around them. “Y’know folks keep tellin’ me that you’re well! Glad to see that ain’t true.”

“The damn building’s about to come down!” Arthur yelled, his voice hoarse from the smoke. “Just let him go, get outta there!”

“Y’know maybe we make a little trade, how's that sound? You come with me and I'll let golden boy here go-“

“No! I won’t let you!” Isaac screeched, before suddenly ramming all his weight backwards into Colm, plowing him into the nearest post, which gave an eerie crack as Isaac slammed his captor against it. “Leave us alone!”

Arthur’s body moved forward of its own volition, to separate them, to rescue his boy, when everything seemed to move slower.

His family behind him called out for him to be cautious. Arthur ran forward to reach them. The tension in Isaac’s neck and legs as he used the power of his own body, and the structural weakness of the fire-stricken building, to break the post against Colm’s back and send the whole upper loft tumbling down on their heads.

The sound of the gatling gun crashing through the upper level to the ground floor was such a loud, terrible one that for a second it felt like the whole world was coming down around their ears. Arthur spared a glance and realized he had made it to the empty part of the loft just before it had collapsed, and that they were sufficiently separated from John and them, the gun and piles of scorching wood efficiently cutting off that exit.

Arthur grabbed his bandana and tied it tight around his face as he ventured deeper into the flames, moving to the back corner where he’d last seen them, silently marveling at how much power and destruction Isaac’s pain had led to. Stepping into the deep shadows Arthur’s heart froze, becoming nothing more than a cold stone in his chest when he looked to find Isaac and saw nothing by a pile of rubble.

With a mind-numbing desperation Arthur darted over, falling to his knees to start moving aside the collapsed roof, to find Isaac buried under the scorched remains of the loft, but he found, oddly, that it had fallen on him in an almost…careful way.

The splintered wood stood tall, supported by itself, creating a precarious pocket of safety just small enough to have protected Isaac’s head from the full brunt of the collapse. Arthur’s heart began to beat when he saw Isaac, still breathing, still alive.

It was a miracle. An impossible dream made manifest. It was…

“‘Liza.”

Gently, as gently as someone like him could be, he pushed aside those careful slabs of wood, shoved off the more careless remnants that had crashed down on every other part of Isaac, and spared no thought to the unmoving lump of smoldering wood that Colm O’Driscoll had died under, except to try and extract Isaac sooner so that the steadily growing pool of blood didn’t dare touch his boy. He didn’t need anymore filth staining him tonight.

Once he’d finally freed him from all the broken wood Arthur didn’t waste any time in pulling out another bandana to tie around Isaac’s nose and mouth, being so gentle as he cradled him to tie it, feeling every scratch and sluggishly healing wound that had sprung up on his head as he did, and even the unmistakable feeling of a bullet graze above his ear, turning his hair into sticky, red clumps as the wound had reopened.

It took every bit of Arthur’s self-control to not dig Colm out from the rubble to beat his body even further into a disgusting puddle.

Freed from the rubble Arthur picked Isaac up and held him close, as if he was little again, trailing after him innocent and helplessly reliant on his unfortunate Pa, but it didn’t matter that Isaac wasn’t so small anymore, standing as tall as the women and some of the fellas in camp, strong with lean muscles from years of hard work, none of it mattered, because as long as Arthur had strength in his body he’d always be able to support his boy.

The fire was building up around them, the crackling and popping of smouldering wood growing louder as Arthur secured Isaac tightly in his arms, and the smoke was becoming overwhelming, obscuring his vision as he searched for an exit, willing Isaac to hold on a little longer, to be okay.

“Damn gun,” Arthur cursed, reaching the lonely, empty rectangle of space in the barn without the remnants of the collapse littering the floor, just enough space to appreciate how dire the situation was. Broken, smoldering wood surrounding them on all sides, the gatling gun indenting the floor and blocking the way in, John, Dutch, and Charles yelling for them as they tried to push through the rubble, and the fire growing and growing all around them, threatening to consume the whole building and them with it.

Arthur spun around frantically, holding Isaac tightly, searching desperately for another exit. A particularly sharp turn and his lungs protested with a sudden aborted squeeze sending him to his knee as he coughed painfully, the smoke and hot air irritating his throat and eyes the longer he stood there helpless.

Crouching there, trying to force his lungs into working properly, and getting a scary understanding of Hosea’s fits, he felt Isaac shift against his chest and his whole world seemed to still. He was moving, he was alive.

“Son, son look at me, you with me?” His voice was thick with relief, tears pricking his eyes and evaporating upon contact with the superheated air.

“Dad…dy,” Isaac croaked, barely able to open one eye or move more than idle shifting in Arthur’s hold. “The door…it’s blocked…no fire…”

Arthur blinked his eyes clear to look opposite of the collapsed gun to find the other barn doors, barricaded with a slat, with a growing line of fire building in front of it, but no debris, no collapse, free of it from the empty roof above it. Another miracle, just one he’d been too stupid and panic-blinded to see.

Arthur gave a wet chuckle, disbelief coloring every breath as he managed to awkwardly balance Isaac in his lap and take off his coat, tucking Isaac against his chest with the coat covering his head and upper body. Swaddling him almost, like those long, long gone days when he could practically hold him with one hand, fragile and new as he’d been.

“You are in so much trouble, boy, you ain’t takin’ one step outta my sight after this, understand?” Arthur tried to be firm, but his voice cracked as he kept talking, holding Isaac tighter and tighter.“And I am so, so happy you’re alive.”

Isaac nodded weakly against his chest, his voice finally giving out after the strain of the evening, but he still managed to grip Arthur’s shirt tight even with his bloodied, aching fingers, his shoulders quivering with restrained sobs.

Arthur stood, bolstered and headstrong, just outside the range of the growing fire and watched the barn doors. He wasn’t going to risk lingering in the flames to move the board and open the doors, so he needed to wait, he needed to withstand the ominous creaking of the barn as it swayed in the wind, needed to wait out the hungry flames and plumes of smoke, he needed to wait out the quiver in his lungs as the painful air wormed its way past the bandana.

He waited, bouncing on his feet, until the moment he saw the fire climb up the door, catch on that blockaded plank, and crack it down the middle with smolder running up and down the untreated wood. In a flash he took off into a run, his shoulder not currently cradling Isaac lowered into a ram, and he pushed through the debris and fire and smoke and the horrible memories of Colm beating his son and he crashed through the barn door, sending the whole building caving in on itself at their departure. The smoke and wind blowing from the wreckage was like a sigh of relief.

And standing out below the clear night sky, Isaac safe in his arms, the others coming running around the side, and the knowledge that they’d all be setting off into some peaceful future, all Arthur could do was laugh, tears overwhelming him and streaking through the grime, and just hold Isaac as tight as he dared; the nightmare finally come to it’s grisly end.

* * *

According to Miss Grimshaw it’s been almost two weeks since Daddy and them rescued me from the O’Driscolls. I’ve only just woken up a few days ago.

Auntie Tilly and Abigail were beside themselves, they’ve been crying and worrying over me since I woke up, and Daddy ain’t left my side. He gives up riding point and instead rides Llamrei, and leads sweet Bella, right behind the wagon I’m in so he can see me. And everyone else in camp has come to see me since I’ve woken up, telling me they’re glad I’m alive, that I’m dumb as rocks, or just to hold my hand and look at me all misty-eyed.

I’ve worried them terribly, so I can’t blame them. I look like one of those mummies Grandpa told me about with how many bandages I’ve been covered with.

There’re the scratches and cuts and bruises and burns of course, and the bullet wound on my scalp -never thought I’d see the day I’d say I had one of those- then Colm dislocated my shoulder and my ankle is twisted and my wrists are so bruised and sore I can barely make a fist, but a few of my fingers are sprained or got dislocated so I wouldn’t be doing that anyways.

Sadie apparently is making everyone’s lives harder cause she keeps refusing to rest and tries to ride and do work, the bullet wound is pretty bad according to folks, but she acts like she barely feels it. I believe it too.

Trelawny wasn’t hurt too bad in all of that, and Grandpa let me know he went and gathered up his family to come join us. Mrs. Trelawny wasn’t too happy at first, and everyone made a big fuss over the fact that he’d been married with a family this whole time, but it sounds like they’ve settled in; and even better, his two sons are here! I hope we can be friends.

Kieran though, he’s the only one in a worse state than me. Everything I’ve got he’s got twofold, not to mention his eyes are so damaged he still can’t see anything more than light.

But, at least for me, it was all worth it.

I didn’t have to make any kind of argument to Uncle Dutch Grandad. When I woke up it was in the back of a wagon and we’d already been on the road going north since they got us out of there. We’re going to Canada, Montreal I think, Daddy hired a trapper friend of his to guide us out of the state and get us North. He might be helping with jobs too once we’re up there since he speaks the language and knows some of the tribes.

I never thought I’d see the day when we’d do something so sensible. Walking away when we were ahead seemed impossible since we never were, but things feel…different now.

Uncle John says it’s because I’m so stupid that everyone had to smarten up to make up for it.

I think folks are just relieved.

We got the money, even the money Colm stole, and so we healed that lingering regret. All the O’Driscolls are dead or unorganized, so Grandpa and Grandad don’t expect we’ll be seeing much of them on our travels, Micah and Colm are dead, and once we cross the border to Canada we won’t be the Pinkertons' concern anymore.

It’s been so long with us on the road and fighting everyday to get by, that I think we forgot what it feels like to just live. We ain’t there yet, still got a few more months of traveling and recovery, and who knows how long it’ll take us to get settled, but we are rapidly approaching that calm life that Grandad has been talking about, that we’ve all been wanting.

That ranch next to the lake for me and Daddy, I think I can see it. It’s waiting for us, but first, we got one special stop to make, our last chance before we leave for good.

I just hope I’m well enough to ride on my own by then.

* * *

“Is it really ok for us to do this?” Isaac asked nervously, fidgeting atop Bella as they rode up the shaded path.

“Bit too late to ask that now.” Arthur grunted, they were an hour and a half into the ride and a mere few minutes away from their destination. Isaac’s trepidation had very poor timing.

“But we had to leave everyone and we ain’t even halfway to Canada!” Isaac whispered, as if the Pinkertons were hiding in the autumn leaves around them. “Are you sure it’s ok?”

“Do you want to go?” Arthur pulled Llamrei to a stop, watching Isaac intently as he slowly stopped as well, faced away from Arthur the anxiety in his posture was only more noticeable.

“Of course I do,” Isaac replied, hushed, reverent, and terrified. “I want it more than anything right now, but am I just bein’ selfish?”

“Be selfish, who gives a damn.” Arthur’s tone was firm, leaving no room for argument, and Isaac looked up at him startled and wide-eyed. “Not a one of them down there wants anything less than that. They wanted you to go, wanted you to see, you did so much for all of them, it’s the least they could do.”

Isaac gulped and looked back up the path, his hands shaking where they held Bella’s bridle. “It was summer when we left right?” He asked tremulously, urging his pony to go slowly, slowly up the path. Llamrei huffed in irritation at the slow pace but settled when Arthur gave him a brush, finicky boy he was.

“Was your birthday, or round it at least, would’ve just been comin’ off the rainy season.”

“I forgot how nice Oklahoma looked in the fall.”

Though it had been eight long years since they’d last been here, the path up to Eliza’s little homestead looked just the same as every other time Arthur had ridden it. Barring seasons and weather, it still had the same secretive, magical feeling to it. As the hustle and bustle of Tulsa fell away and you reached the distant outskirts, climbing up that hill, under those trees, and coming face to face with the endless blue of the sky as you rounded the bend made it feel as if you were walking on up to heaven.

The trail up wasn’t long, and so before Isaac had braced himself entirely, that little house had come into view.

Those windows Eliza had wanted so terribly, the hill on the other side leading to the river, the pigpen and chicken coop, all of it hopelessly deteriorated and decrepit at this point, but still standing, like it had all just been waiting for their return.

Isaac clumsily dismounted from Bella, his foot catching in the stirrup, the bad one at that, before Arthur could reach him to take him off the horse himself, but he looked as if he didn’t feel the pain at all. His gaze locked on the silhouette of the home, finding the familiar all over again, his shoulders trembling as any number of half-forgotten memories came flooding back. And without Arthur’s prompting, Isaac quietly approached the side of the house.

The vine-choked cross sat undisturbed. Its wood weatherbeaten and cracked, those letters Arthur had carved that awful day nearly faded away.

Isaac stumbled to the edge and kneeled down with a thud, the hole Arthur had dug easily identifiable by the fertile green grass that carpeted it. Wildflowers and clover blooming, catching bees and butterflies' attention to come pay their homage to the humble grave.

Arthur watched silently as Isaac gently touched the splintering arms of the cross, held together more by the flowering vines then the rope he’d originally used to tie it, he watched and wiped one runaway tear away as Isaac spoke, his voice hoarse and heavy with emotion.

“H-Hi Mama…it’s- um…it’s been awhile.” Isaac wiped his sweaty palms on his pants and worked his jaw over and over as he tried to find those perfect words, hidden somewhere between his teeth. “I know you would’ve been worried about me goin’ off with Daddy and livin’ with the gang, but I promise, they’ve been good to me. It’s been hard, but we’re a family…I just wish you could’ve seen it and met them. You would’ve gotten on so well with Grandpa and Aunt Abigail and even Aunt Annabelle…though maybe you two’ve already met.” Isaac chuckled, wistful and sad. “We’re goin’ up to Canada now, gonna find us a good, honest life, so before that we- I wanted to come see you…” A pause, a shuddering breath. “I miss you, Mama, I’ve missed you for a long time…sometimes I miss those days when it was just the two of us. Sometimes I think of how unfair it is that you died and I just can’t breathe, Mama!”

Arthur stepped forward and put a bolstering hand on Isaac’s shoulder, not saying anything just yet, just gave him a comforting squeeze and gave Isaac the space to keep saying what he needed to say.

“But e-even if you ain’t here to see it, I’m gonna make you proud, make you both proud,” Isaac’s vulnerable, breathless voice steadily fell away, strength and confidence filling him up like oxygen. “I’m gonna grow up and be a good man like you wanted, I’m gonna live a good life, then one day I’ll get to tell you all about it.”

“He’s been a real pain in my neck, ‘Liza,” Arthur spoke, startling Isaac so bad the poor boy jumped under Arthur’s hand. “Just like you in all the worst ways, stubborn, hard headed, real prideful about how good he is at cribbage and mean about it too. But then he’s bright and caring and so brave that it scares me sometimes.” Arthur took a deep breath and remembered Eliza, her sharp wit, her cruel bite, the ugly way she laughed when Arthur was being particularly foolish. He thought of how similar her son looked like her and his heart ached. “I thank you, ‘Liza, I wouldn’t change him for nothin, much as he’s gonna give me gray hairs.”

Isaac gasped and reached up with one hand to touch his shoulder, the one Arthur wasn’t squeezing, gently as if he was touching someone else's hand for comfort. The boys whole body trembled and he tipped his head back up to that expansive blue, willing away gathering tears, only to gasp again.

Arthur followed Isaac’s gaze up to find a hawk. Circling above the homestead, coming in tighter and tighter circles until it flew just over the two of them, the golden tips of its wings catching in the sunlight like fire.

“Love you, Mama,” Isaac whispered like a prayer. “With all I got.”

The two of them stayed for quite some time, watching the hawk wheel and dance on updrafts, living in that sacred moment for as long as it would house them. Imprinting the smell of the wild grasses and flowers and the river just down the hill all carried over the wind to them, memorizing the warmth of the sun and the clearest, bluest sky they’d ever seen.

The moment held them, cradled them on the secret, magical hill, kept them for as long as they could stay, they kept each other company, and the humble cross, and the ever-vigilant hawk, until they were ready to stand and ride down that long, winding trail to reality, until they could bear to face the life that awaited them just around the bend.

Until they could reach out and grasp their future with both hands.