Hi! My name is Kat. I'm 29 and make Red Dead Redemption themed posts and fanfics.
I like to do modern but also do regular. Modern will be tagged as such.
This blog contains NSFW content intended for 18+ only! Please pay attention to content warnings and tags! I will tag all nsfw content as such. If something needs a tag and doesn't have one, please lmk!
New Soiled Dove Book! My recommendation for RDR / Old West fans.
Soiled Dove is an old west term for sex worker. Didn't know if tumblr would make me censor that, hence the title. ANYWAY.
A lot of my followers know that I'm a historian who focuses on the history of human sexuality and the history of medicine, and that I've posted a lot about both.
Well, here's a recommendation from me! I just received the book myself today, but I'm still recommending it as a potential read! It's a very short book about 120 pages with a large section at the end being notes.
Given the book title, I don't think I need to repeat the trigger warnings. However, I think this is a crucial book, as murder was sadly one of the leading causes of death for sex workers, and unfortunately, it occurred so often that very few cared. We need historians (and anyone who likes history) to humanize these women. That's exactly what this book does.
This book, just from the description, makes the stories of people like Abigail that much more real, and we can mourn the real women as well.
What's your most embarrassing Red Dead Redemption story?
(Mine is under the cut! Ch. 2 spoiler!)
When I was first playing through RDR2, way back yonder in the good old days of October/November 2018, I accidentally broke a TV because I got angry.
My TV was maybe 25/30 inches, set up on a portable desk so I could be in the living room at the same time as my fiancee (he likes playing things on our living room tv while watching me do story.)
I was on Chapter 2, We Loved Once and True Part III mission, where you go to the Chelonian cult and have to chase Jamie to get him to come back? Yeah, that little butthead goes through a field of wheat at one point, and I'm on a horse that definitely isn't fast enough, losing ground. This is like my 4th time trying, so I was really frustrated. I try to ride through the broken bit of fence but for some reason my horse just decided, "Nope." And rammed right into the fencing beside it, stopping making Arthur fly off his horse.
I was so angry that did this extremely dramatic scream groan thing and I threw myself back into my seat, NOT THINKING ABOUT THE FACT THAT IT WAS A RECLINING COUCH WITH THE FOOTREST OUT.
The backrest went back further, the footrest pushed forward, hit the desk legs. The TV was pretty secure/stable on it, but I guess that was just too much and so my fiancee and I watch it teeter back and forth once, and then SLAM!
It was before either of us could react to grab it.
It landed on its back, and the HDMI cord broke off in the TV and the screen busted from the impact.
I cried.
I'm dramatic, though, so...
Thank God TV's are cheap nowadays, especially for little ones.
So that's how RDR2 and Jamie Gillis cost me $120.
😢
TL;DR: Failed mission, Broke TV, Jamie owes me $120 now.
I'm so excited I was hoping someone would send me this because I'm currently working on a very tiny mini fic that's for pride :) not really involving like... Relationships? Moreso the mention of them? But idk I just think it's a cute one and I'm hopefully gonna finish it tonight bc like I said it's super small like probs less than 2k words. I'm filing it under my 'Ranch AU' which is kind of developed in my head and I've even made dialogue fics for (like 2 iirc) but I've never actually made a post on the settings.
But also!!!
So, I'm developing a new AU that's gonna have an Arthur x series and I'm not sure when to announce what the au is, because I don't have any fics yet and I also don't think anyone is going to care much bc it's not like.. idk. I just don't think people will be as excited as me? It's just an AU that's like... Me. Like I've lived adjacently to this world and it's been very important in my life, like super influential to me as a person in a lot of ways. It also comes with my own backstory, like, how I'm related to it.
Also, I'm on the bus and this old lady keeps telling everyone how she's so excited bc she's never taken the bus before but her friend takes it and she meets her friend for lunch some days and she usually gets a ride but today she's taking the bus and her friend doesn't know she's gonna be on it. And I'm so happy for her lol but also she needs volume control but that's okay I'll deal she's too happy to be mad at.
ANYWAY
Here's a little hint for my new AU!
@gluechugger is not allowed to guess about what this is anywhere public bc they're the only person I've discussed it with 😂
That is Miss Shirley. She passed in 2015, but her family encouraged sharing her pic because they love her so much 💕
RIP MISS SHIRLEY! You always knew when the onions were burning 45 seconds before they actually started burning lol
🥀 Whumpril Arthur x Reader Series - Continuing ofc but with no set schedule. I am slowly working on it though!
💼 VDL Enterprises AU - My OG AU, posted on my main blog! I'll be hopefully adding to it, and working on transferring my current works to this blog instead.
New:
New AU - a new AU is in the making! It's one very near and dear to my heart. Will be making a post about it soon! I would like to do lore posts and an Arthur x series (still deciding if I want OC or Reader)! Will say, it's modern, so I hope you all enjoy that, lol. Stay tuned for more info!
❤️🔥 NSFW - I will be asking for nsfw prompts at some point. I would like to start sharing some of my nsfw fics, but warning, self indulgence may occur! One-shots for now.
He's so despicable yet so oddly likeable at the same time... Impulsive and cruel yet intelligent and cunning... He really IS Dutch's dark mirror
So many writers don't do him justice but you truly do
Oh my gosh thank you so much! 💕💕💕
(I saw this ask a while ago and idk what happened, I thought I answered it already 😔)
I feel like Colm is such a fun character to play around with when writing. (Wait, what? Who said that?)
Like he's vile and awful, and he doesn't care if you think that about him. And in a way, he's like... Idk, not charming because not that but kind of like that? Manipulation for sure, lol! Dutch and him use the same kind of tactics, it's just that Dutch wants people to admire him and like him and Colm doesn't give a crap.
I saw this post by @thebotanicalbrush:
"Colm O'Driscoll did not get enough screen time for how much they hyped that man up. Damn shame"
And I completely agree. I think he should have gotten so much more, like can you imagine??? He's got this whole personality that seems fleshed out by the game and we don't even get to experience it!
I'm so glad you think I'm doing him justice in my writing, thank you so much, I hope I can keep doing so 💕
How to survive the phase of shitty writting? I know i can't skip it in order to grow, but realistically, how to not give up? I already tried to quite completly, but i still feel that call,nbut when i try to write it feels so pointless. How to keep going knowing everything i create is worthless for now and i don't even feel i'll ever progress? I’m trying to come back after quite long time of not writing, i was writing for years before but never got any good, so obviosly i wont come back to write a masterpiece right away, i never aimed for a mastepiece in fact, i just want to make it any readable and i know i need to practice but i’m worried it can never get better.
I get asks like this every now and then, and they always contain the same problem.
Your writing is not shitty. It is not worthless.
Bloggers using these terms to describe early writing are often being either glib or depressing. Ignore their advice if it is making you feel bad.
Do you write for pleasure or for praise/accomplishment? If the latter, then you are simply in the practice stage. Practice is inherently worthwhile and no effort in this regard is a waste.
If you write for pleasure, then everything you create fulfills its purpose by being entertaining to create. A small child does not drop the crayon when it realizes its drawing will never be in the MoMA, does it? No, they don't care they just like drawing stuff. Adopt that mindset. Just write to get words on the page and ideas developed because you want to.
My advice for the insecure writer:
Stop re-reading your own work; you're a very biased critic right now and that in itself is holding you back.
All improvements are for later drafts. Trust me, you'll have whole new ideas by draft three so put off the nitpicking and focus.
Avoid outside opinions, writing advice, and blogs like mine for a while; we tend to inadvertently make you feel like you've done everything wrong and need to start over.
Stop starting over. Stop deleting your early drafts. Save all of it (this was the best advice I ever received).
Read and watch books and movies for motivation, and to analyze their strengths and weaknesses.
Do. Not. Compare. Yourself. To Other. Writers—your art is about you and what concerns you, other creators have nothing to do with it.
Remind yourself dumber people are doing it wrong confidently. Copy their confidence.
When you feel self-doubt creeping in again, tell it to take a hike, you've got a story to write.
Whatever you write, no matter the quality, take pride in being a writer at all. Lazy suckers just use AI.
There's nothing wrong with making a mess. How are you supposed to learn from constant perfection? Scratch out dumb sentences, leave afterthoughts in the margins, and side tangents in brackets. If the writing isn't going well, write ROUGH DRAFT in big letters at the top to remind yourself it's just a sketch of what you had in mind, not the finished product.
"...i’m worried it can never get better" I have great news for you! This fear will only be realized if you quit. Since you feel the pull to write there's clearly no point in quitting, your brain already knows writing is the answer. Ideas don't like to wait, and life will keep trying to interrupt you with bigger things, so there's really no time like the present. Go write!
—
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⁂ arthur morgan x female reader, established relationship
⁂ summary - currently having a heatwave where i stay, and my mind went here... the heat in rhodes is getting to you both
cw, p in v sex, fingering, finishing inside, unprotected sex
the heat in rhodes was suffocating. it felt like a wet blanket that clung to every breath and turned the camp into a slow, sticky hell. the air was thick with the smell of dust and sweat. even the usual camp chatter had died down to lethargic murmurs, the men sprawled in any sliver of shade they could find. you were no exception, lying on your cot in the tent, the thin cotton of your chemise plastered to your skin, every inch of you slick with perspiration.
arthur pushed through the tent flap, his boots heavy on the dry ground. he was stripped down to his undershirt, the fabric dark with sweat across his chest and under his arms, clinging to the broad muscles of his shoulders. he had his hat in his hand, fanning his face, but his eyes found you immediately; a low, familiar smolder that cut through the heat like a blade.
“this goddamn heat,” he muttered, dropping his hat on the crate by the entrance. “can't think straight.”
you shifted on the cot as you watched him kick off his boots. he unbuckled his belt, letting his trousers hang loose, the waistband dipping low on his hips. the trail of dark hair below his navel disappeared into the waistline, and you felt a pulse of heat that had nothing to do with the weather.
“c'mere,” you said, your voice rough from the humidity.
arthur didn’t need to be told twice. he crossed the small space in two strides, the cot groaning as he lowered himself beside you, his weight dipping the mattress so you rolled toward him. his skin was hot and his arm slid under your neck as he pulled you close.
“you're burnin’ up,” he said, his thumb tracing your collarbone, leaving a wet trail.
“so are you.”
he grunted, a low sound that vibrated against your back, and his hand slipped down, fingers hooking the hem of your chemise and pushing it up your thighs. the fabric gathered at your waist, bunching damply. arthur's palm flattened on your bare hip, rough and calloused, sliding lower until his fingers found the slick heat between your legs.
“soakin’ already,” he said, not a question, just a statement of fact. His voice was gravel, low in his chest. “that the heat, or my doin'?"
you arched into his touch, your breath catching as he parted your folds, his index finger circling your clit with a lazy, deliberate pressure. “you,” you managed. “always you.”
he chuckled, the sound rumbling through his ribcage against your back, he leaned in to press a wet kiss to your shoulder. his stubble scraped your skin as he kissed along your neck, teeth grazing the tender spot behind your ear, while his finger worked you slow and deep. he pushed one finger in, then two, the stretch familiar and welcome, your hips rocking against his hand.
“want my mouth on you,” he murmured, his beard rough against your ear. “but I ain’t movin’. too damn hot.”
you turned your head, catching his mouth with yours, a clumsy, open-mouthed kiss that tasted of salt and hunger. his tongue slid against yours, and his fingers pumped deeper, his palm pressing against your clit with every thrust. you broke the kiss, gasping, and reached back to grab his hip, pulling him flush against your ass.
he was hard, you could feel him through his trousers, the thick length of his cock pressing into the cleft of your cheeks. he groaned into your hair, his rhythm faltering for a second as he ground against you.
“arthur,” you breathed. “need you inside.”
he didn’t answer with words. he pulled his hand free, wet and glistening, and used his other arm to roll you onto your back, the cot creaking in protest. he loomed over you, his breathing heavy. he hooked his thumbs into his waistband and shoved his trousers down just enough, his cock springing free, thick and flushed and slick with his own sweat.
he lined up, the head nudging your entrance, and pushed in with one long, smooth stroke. the stretch was perfect, filling you completely, and you both groaned together, the sound swallowed by the stifling air.
he set a slow, deep rhythm, his hips rolling into yours with each thrust, his balls slapping against your wet skin. the sweat made his chest slide against yours, slick and hot, and he buried his face in the curve of your neck, his breath ragged against your pulse point.
“fuck,” he muttered, his voice wrecked. “feel so goddamn good.”
you wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, and your fingers dug into his back, leaving red on his skin. the heat was a furnace around you, the camp sounds fading to nothing. there was only arthur, his weight, his rhythm, the wet sound of his cock sliding in and out of your cunt.
he reached down, his thumb finding your clit, rubbing in tight circles that matched his pace. the pressure built slow, coiling in your belly, your nails raking down his spine.
“come for me,” he said, his voice a growl. “now.”
the command snapped something loose. your back arched, a ragged cry tearing from your throat as your climax crashed through you, your walls clenching around him. he followed immediately, a harsh grunt against your skin, his hips stuttering as he spilled hot and deep inside you, filling you with pulse after pulse.
He stayed there, buried to the hilt. the air was still thick, still suffocating, but the tension had broken. he kissed your shoulder, a soft, tender press of lips, and slowly pulled out, the wet sound of him leaving you making you shiver.
he rolled onto his side, pulling you with him, his arm draped over your waist. “should do that more often,” he mumbled, already half asleep. “good for circulation.”
you laughed, a breathless sound, and settled into the curve of his body, the heat no longer a burden but a cocoon.
thank you for reading, it means the absolute world to me! remember to stay hydrated in this heat 🙂↕️☀️
Main Characters: Reader, Arthur Morgan, Colm O'Driscoll, Pearl (oc), Dutch Van Der Linde
Minor Characters: John Marston, Sadie Adler, Javier Escuella, Kieran Duffy, Riggs Station Trapper
CW: mention of SA, blood, assault, extreme violence, graphic descriptions violence and gore, shooting, death, kidnapping, restraints (shackle and chain), panic attacks, trauma response, forced sedation, delirium, unreality, dissociation, period typical violence and misogyny
⚠️ Click on alt text of the stamp below for the summary. Watch out for spoilers! ⚠️
Author's Note: I had a 5-6 hour session writing about 5k words and editing this last night. Not healthy but super productive! And I'm happy with it, so... I'm also retroactively choosing to label this as Act 1. This IS the Act 1 finale, but I'm immediately beginning to write the next chapter, so don't worry. I'm also doing something different with the summary. The summary is in the alt description of the stamp graphic. Hoping to help prevent spoilers. I try to keep summaries vague enough but I don't want to spoil anything still, so let me know if it doesn't work? So, I realized after it was too late that Fort Riggs is more like an old Native American school/holding ground and really just has a shack with some teepees, but picture it to be bigger with more outbuildings and a main house that's large and two stories. I'm not changing it now, haha. I usually use dividers between sections and POV switches but this was long enough that I couldn't add any more photos, so my dividers are just en-dashes. Thank you to everyone who's been reading, I've been getting fuel through the comments, likes, reblogs, and tags 🖤 I've been dealing with some bad depression lately so all of it really helps. Also special thanks to @shininqstr and @photo1030 for the continuous comments and support, love you guys! 💕🥹 As always, red lace by @uzmacchiato, other graphics are my own, and extreme content is under the cut.
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 1/2 | Part 3 2/2 | Part 4 1/2
Whumpril 2026 Arthur x Reader Series Master Post
Reader discretion advised.
It's been hours… at least you think it's been hours. You can't really tell time anymore. How can one tell time with nothing to go on?
There's a small window in the room, light streaming and dusty motes swirling through the air. You won't make the mistake of trusting that as a signal again.
The last time you were watching the sunlight stream through, praying for a single, bright ray to shine on your body, just to provide a little bit of warmth on your tired skin, you blinked and it was suddenly dark again.
Did time pass so suddenly because you fell asleep and didn't know it, or was it a single, torturous moment of hallucination that left you feeling so cold when you saw the dark outside that window?
You didn't know anymore.
In your fist you grip the silver certificate Arthur gave you. It tires you too much to try and look at the intricate details on it, so instead you hold onto it, crumpled in your hand, letting it be your anchor. Every now and then, you feel it there, moving your fingers along it, the texture simply reminding you that this is real.
You are real.
You shift in the bed uncomfortably, looking around the room, listening for the sound of anyone, anything. No noise. Not even birds chirping outside, or wind blowing against the glass in the window. You're so used to the noise, the camp never really being quiet, always a snort of a horse or clanking of bottles or yelling of men. Hooves on twigs, boots on dirt, a log tossed in the fire that's usually under the window, crackling and popping loudly even into the small hours of the night. Men yelling or singing or talking low about one thing or another.
But the birds are what you really miss. You feel as if you are abandoned by everyone, even nature itself.
Colm is gone. He and the entire gang are gone. Once they heard Arthur Morgan could be hot on their trail, they left the place with fire under their asses.
‘The Manor,’ which you now know to be Fort Riggs after overhearing some men talking about it below the window, was left behind for some place out by Owanjila. It happened suddenly. One minute they were all scrambling around, gathering their supplies and horses and everything they could before fleeing. And you heard horses, wagons, lots of noise and commotion outside. But you fell into a fitful sleep and when you woke, it all stopped.
Complete silence.
The least Colm could have done if he planned on leaving you here to die would be to unshackle your leg from the bed. You can't stand, too weak to move much. It would be a small mercy, one you would gladly have taken. But maybe he planned on coming back for you.
You don’t know which thought is worse. Having to live another second with the vile demon that is Colm O’Driscoll? Or being left to rot as if you are already dead.
You wonder if God's miracles can truly happen in real life. If not God’s, then maybe some power given by some other god, like when Athena grants people wisdom and strength in battle, or when Poseidon takes mercy on a small ship full of men out on a raging sea, drifting their vessel to the shore of some safe refuge of an island.
Maybe Lady Electricity could flow through your body, let you grow wings so you can fly away from this place. Fly away to safety. Fly home.
Where is home, now? You don't know the answer to that either. But it's not here. That, you do know.
So, you lay. Lay there, waiting for what you think must be certain death.
Or maybe you are already dead. Maybe death is just being in whatever spot you happened to meet your demise, locked there for all eternity…
No…
You run your fingers along that crinkled paper. You're alive.
You think all of this, but you still hope. Hope for wings, hope for a home, hope for Arthur Morgan, likely the only person who could find you here.
It's stupid to have hope that a man would take enough notice of you to look for you. You only just learned his name the last time you saw him. You're just another woman in a saloon…
The sound of nothing seems to echo off the walls and through the door, down the staircase. The emptiness is closing in.
But then, you hear a noise that cuts through the fog of your tired mind.
Creaking footsteps, slow and tentative, up the stairs.
Your heart thuds in your chest and you move your head slightly to try and see who is coming into the hall.
Colm, coming to finish the job? One of his men, come to have a piece of whatever he left? You daren't think it would be Arthur. You know better than that.
A glimpse of straw blonde hair and pale skin.
Pearl.
She peers around, then steps inside the room you're in.
Her eyes are puffy, swollen and red from crying, but she has a determined, set look about her.
“P-pearl?” you rasp out, your voice hoarse from the lack of water.
This is dangerous for her. She shouldn't be here. You have no idea if Colm has left you for dead, or if he plans on coming back for you.
—
Pearl didn't know why she came back to help you. She didn't understand it.
There had been others. Other girls, women, who she had helped Colm take, and who then died soon after.
Maybe that was why. You weren't dead yet. None of the others lasted this long. None of them laid there, day in and day out, wondering when their torture might end.
Colm hadn't grown attached to those ones, either. He hadn't started threatening his men about them, telling them he'd cut off their hands if they so much as touched you. He hadn't become obsessive the way he did with you. Sometimes, when you were sleeping, or lying there in a dissociative state, he would stand in the doorway and just watch. Just look at you. He didn't whisper ‘sweet’ things into those other women's ears, things Pearl was sure weren't actually sweet to you. He didn't sleep with them, tenderly running his hands up and down their back after he did what he wanted to them. He just grunted into them and left.
But for some reason, he decided he would keep you.
None of the others had been there long enough to become ‘his’. They were all their own person, just taken, abused, and killed by a wild and cruel man
But he would make you his, or kill you trying.
In all of this, Pearl had watched you.
She heard you whimpering, heard your cries, delirious mumbles at times, or your moans of pain, sometimes inflicted by her own hand.
She saw the way you cowered when he approached. How you feared him. Feared her. But you never resigned yourself to give up. Refusing to look him in the eye, telling him that you would bite his lips off if he tried to kiss you one more time.
He laughed when you said it. She watched him laugh. He liked the fight. And in some sick way, it earned you the tiniest shred of respect from him. Something she never had. Maybe that's why he wanted to keep you so badly.
He stopped trying to kiss you, acted gentler with your body, would shift his weight if he laid on you in a way that made you too uncomfortable. Not like it would cancel out any of the cruelty he’d shown you. Nothing could do that. But that was more than any of the other girls had been given. More than she had been given.
She saw the relief in your eyes when she brought you water, little bits of food, when she laid the blanket over top of you as you shivered in the bed, stripped bare of your clothing and your dignity.
And she saw the look in your eyes when you saw her as not a torturer, but a victim. A victim of Colm’s cruelty, rather than just another abuser.
She didn't deserve that, she knew. She didn't deserve your pity. But… it was there. And she couldn't deny it.
Maybe that's why she came back.
Maybe.
Pearl stopped in front of you, looking up and down at the bruises on your body.
She never really looked at them before.
Sure, she saw them.
But to look at them? That was dangerous. That made the bruises real.
Made you real.
Made her part in all of this real.
It was starting to crack a carefully crafted facade of indifference. She began to think of the other girls before you… what were their names? She couldn't even remember that. She never bothered to learn them, more likely. Why would she learn the name of someone who would be disposed of so soon? It would make them human.
But you… she didn't know your name, but now she wanted to. She wanted to help. She knew it wouldn't wash away the sins she'd committed previously, but… it would still help you. She could still, hopefully, save you.
“Pearl?” you repeat, your voice quieter this time as if you're afraid you might startle her. She still hasn't answered you. Just stood there and stared.
She finally takes a few slow, tentative steps forward. She looks at you like she feels guilty. Like she actually feels remorseful for what role she took in your current position. She swallows hard, and places a gentle hand on your shoulder.
You can see the bags under her eyes, and the area of and surrounding her eyelids are riddled with the tiny, red, pinprick dots of someone who has been heavily crying on and off for hours.
You can see the bruises around her neck, up under her jawline, a dark, deep purple, beginning to turn a sickly greenish huge along the edges.
You can see the fear in her eyes. Fear that doesn't look like it's for herself, but rather, for you.
She bends down beside you, avoiding looking at your face, and whispers to you.
“I– I'm sorry… I'm so, so sorry…”
She finally looks at your face. Fading marks from where you'd been hit. Cracked, dried lips. Eyelids that look like they're struggling to even just stay open.
“I want… I want to help you.”
Your brow furrows, and you shake your head weakly.
“Pearl… I–”
The words die in your throat. How can you tell her that though you are keeping hope, it isn't her that can help?
What can she do, now, when you're here and in this state?
She has no key to unlock the shackle and chain that binds you to the wrought iron bedframe, not any tool to pry it off your ankle…
She has with her no food to aid your hunger, or water to quench your thirst.
She has no way to carry you, which would be necessary considering the weakness in your legs. You would try to stand from the bed, but you can't manage more than to pull yourself to the edge of it to use the chamber pot she had placed nearby previously for your use.
How many days have you been here? How many hours have you spent wondering if you would ever be saved? And now, she wants to help. Help that, from her, is too little, too late.
As you watch her, you see it. The same thoughts swirling in her head. She sees it. What can she do?
“I– I wanna help…” She shakes her head, tears beginning to swell in her eyes. “What’s your name?” she asks in a choked whisper.
You open your mouth to answer, to tell her, but a creaking from the door stops you cold.
No…
“Well now, ain't this just peachy?”
Colm smiles that sadistic, cruel smile from the doorway. You and Pearl both watch him, frozen.
“I told you you'd come crawlin’ back, Pearl.”
—
Charles rode to the trapper who was camped near Riggs Station. The air was warmer down here, summer settling in on them after a cold, wet winter. The man watched Charles warily as he approached on Taima, riding harder than the man would have liked someone to be when riding toward him. Charles didn't bother getting off his horse, pulling her into a quick stop beside the man’s camp.
He looked around at it. There were a few things strewn about, what looked to be the man's mess kit, furs and leather, along with other various items.
“I don't want no trouble now…” the trapper said, putting one hand up placatingly, but reaching for his rifle that stood beside him, loaded and ready, with the other.
“Not here for trouble, just information,” responded Charles, his matter-of-fact tone slightly putting the other man at ease. He still was guarded though. “I’m looking for a friend. He’s tall, broad shouldered, dark blonde hair… Would have been riding a dark chestnut colored Hungarian Halfbred?” Charles asked.
The trapper watched him closely for a moment, before giving a short nod.
“Yeah… he was through a couple o’ hours ago now… looked rough, like he ain’t slept in days.”
“That’d be him. You know where he was headed?”
The trapper watched Charles, unsure if he should trust him, but eventually nodded once, slow.
“I know the roundabout way he was goin’. He was askin’ ‘bout O’Driscolls. I told him I traded with ‘em here and there, but I didn’t know where they was comin’ from for sure… It’s somewhere south of here, I reckon. Though I ain't sure they’re gonna be stayin’ south too long, now.” He paused, looking Charles up and down and narrowing his eyes. “You a bounty hunter?”
“Not exactly… Why?” Charles noticed all the things the trapper was doing. He was keeping his firearm close, which wasn’t unusual, but there was an urgency in it, it seemed. He told him that he didn’t want trouble, as if he’d been expecting some. He wanted to go south and find Arthur, but the fact that this trapper had been so on edge made him suspect something. "You said you didn’t want trouble. You already had some, I assume?”
“Yeah… Got robbed, ‘bout an hour ago now. Been tradin’ with them O’Driscoll’s. Ain’t had no problems yet... ‘Cept this time, they wanted more than usual. Said they was in a rush, needed supplies for goin’ a long ways. And they decided they didn't like my prices too much… so they just took what they was wantin’ instead.”
So they were on the move, Charles realized. That wasn’t good. If they were moving camp, and they took you with them, then they didn’t have much time. Losing them would possibly mean never finding you.
“Do you know anything about where they’re going? Or where their old camp was? You said it was likely south of here?” he asked, much more urgently.
“Ain’t sure where they’d be headed. As for where they are…” The trapper thought for a moment. “They could be down south, southwest. Maybe somewhere near ol’ Fort Riggs, it's been used as a camp before. Been a awful lotta’ folks gettin’ robbed comin’ through them parts…”
“Thank you, appreciate it.”
And with that, Charles rode south, finding and following some horse tracks that could be Arthur’s, could be O’Driscolls’. He would have no way of knowing until he came to their end.
He rode as hard as he could without fatiguing her. Taima’s muscles rolled underneath him, carrying him fast and steady, pushing forward.
The tracks led him south, slightly westward. The trapper may have been more correct than he'd realized. After about half an hour, he saw Arthur riding up in the distance.
“Arthur!” he called out, pushing the horse to catch up to him and Boadicea.
Arthur turned to look behind him, his brow furrowed as he saw Charles approaching.
“Charles? The hell are you doin’ out here?”
Charles' eyes scanned Arthur’s state. He was dirty. His beard was unkempt, hair wild and messy. The trapper hadn't been wrong, he looked like he hadn’t slept for days. Dark bags hung under his eyes, and there was an almost erratic look there that reminded Charles of something half feral.
“Arthur. You’re running yourself ragged out here. Have you slept at all?” Charles was concerned. Extremely so.
“I’m fine, I been sleepin’,” he answered dismissively, his voice rough and low. “Why you out here, Charles? I ain’t comin’ back yet,” he said, looking away from him.
“Dutch sent me to fetch you.”
Arthur's nostrils flared in irritation.
“I said, I ain’t–”
Charles interrupted him before he could finish.
“I won’t make you go back right now.” Though he was concerned, he knew there would be no convincing Arthur, and all he could do to get him back to camp was to help him find this woman and bring her back. Or at least find her…
“I have a lead. Fort Riggs. And they’re on the move. Ain’t a guarantee, but it’s a lead.”
On the move.
Not good.
Arthur’s jaw clenched hard enough that Charles saw it twitch through his facial hair.
“Fort Riggs… goddammit. I was out that way already. You sure?”
“No. But it's a lead.”
Arthur hated to admit it, but maybe he missed something. Maybe he didn't go far enough, he never went to the actual fort. Stupid. A stupid mistake. Arthur Morgan didn't make mistakes. But he could feel the tired in his bones, beneath the adrenaline of looking, searching, a search that bordered on obsession.
His teeth ground together, making his voice come out tense and harsh.
“Well, it ain’t far off. I’m goin’.” He only took a moment to look at Charles hard in the eyes. “You gonna ride with me?”
Charles met his gaze and nodded.
“Always,” he said, and both men immediately set off in the direction of Fort Riggs.
Arthur rode like he could outrun the possibility of a mistake. Like speed alone could keep him from thinking about you not being found.
Neither asked what they were both thinking. Was it already too late?
—
You watch as Colm circles Pearl, like a predator circling its prey. He’s got a grin on his face and a gun in his hand, and a strange, unreadable glint in his eye.
“Pearl, Pearl, Pearl… What are we gonna do with you?”
Pearl is shaking, her eyes wide as saucers.
“Colm, sugar… I came back… back to you.” Her voice trembles as she speaks, giving him a little reassuring smile and nod, or at least one she thought would be reassuring.
His smile slowly turns cold.
“Don’t you ‘sugar’ me now… You left.” The glint of deranged humor had vanished, replaced by ice and stone.
“Yes, but… but I came back. I’m here. Ain’t that worth somethin’?”
Colm looks her up and down, his eyes clearly searching for something specific. And then he finds it. You know he does when a wide grin spreads across his face again.
“Oh, Pearl… You dumb little whore.” His boots step heavy on the creaking, warped floorboards, making his way over to her. “You went and found yourself a bed to lie in, didn’tcha?”
Her eyes widen, and she looks between you and him, like she’s trying to ask you what it is that he sees. But you don’t know, and your own fear is paralyzing anyway.
“What? C-Colm… I’m faithful to ya’... A-Always have been…” she stammers out, looking at him pleadingly.
Each step closer reminds you of the step of an executioner.
“You always was an opportunistic little thing, huh?” He grips her chin in his hand and lifts it. Right above the bruise of his hand, right below her jawline, is a dark, purplish hickey.
“Well, lookie here. What's this then? You got a little… mark… sure does look like the kind of mark a man might give a woman when they’re bein’... intimate.”
“N-No! Colm, that ain’t what that is! Probably just… a fingerprint. One of yours. Lord knows I don't fault you for it sugar, but you were squeezing awful hard,” she cries out.
He wraps his hands around her neck, making her tense, instantly quiet. Fat tears begin to fall from her pale blue eyes.
He tilts his head, not squeezing like either you or her expected, moving his thumbs on her throat. You watch what she can't see: him placing his thumbs where they lined up with the bruises there that he'd left. Sure enough, his thumb is a far way off from that dark little hickey under her jawline.
She looks up at him, silently pleading.
“Opportunity… I understand that, ya’ know…”
He glances at you as if you share some sort of inside secret about it, before looking back down at her. “But you ain't even waited a whole day to go spread them legs for whatever filth wanted to get a quick fuck in ya’, woman. Sounds less like opportunity, and more like… disloyalty.”
He takes his hands off her neck and watches her, taking a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and pulling one out. He lights it with a flick from his lighter, then takes a deep drag from it, then holds it, flicking the ash to the ground.
“How is it…” he walks a few steps towards her, beginning to circle, “that you think… you're gonna talk your way outta’ proof, woman?”
He completes his circle around her, standing directly in front of her. She closes her eyes, looking at the ground, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs now.
“I… I swear, Colm, I–”
“You swear?” he rumbles, cutting her off. “You swear? Lonnie saw you, Pearl. Saw you comin’ outta’ that saloon with Micah Bell.”
She shakes her head no, desperate for him to believe her, to stop.
“Please, you gotta believe me, Colm! I been with you three years, I ain't disloyal!”
“Three years. Three years I kept you fed, clothed, and fucked. And you threw it away, went and slept with a rat, a rat that runs with Van Der Lindes! Admit it!” He's gripping his cigarette tight enough that it almost snaps.
“No! Lonnie’s lyin’, sugar! He don't know what he's talkin’ about!”
Colm's face turns red, looking like he was about to explode with rage.
He surges forward and grips her by her throat, pulling her up on her tip toes. His face is close enough to hers that you can imagine how his breath smells from his rotting teeth, having smelled it too many times yourself.
He makes her look at him directly, the look of someone deranged staring right into her terrified eyes. His voice is deceptively low and calm when he speaks.
“You're callin’ Lonnie a liar, now? The man who’s ridden with me for 15 years, a liar?”
He takes the cigarette in his hand and presses the red, burning end of it to her cheek, making her shriek in raw, horrified pain.
You pull your knees to your chest and cover your ears with your hands and squeeze your eyes shut tightly.
He pushes the end of the cigarette to Pearl again, her neck now, twisting it into her skin, right where Micah left his mark on her, erasing the claim the man had laid to her body with his mouth. Colm’s way of taking back what was his.
The shrill cry reaches your ears through your hands, making your own tears spill, unbidden.
Finally, Colm crushes the cigarette and flicks it away, letting her go, and she crumples to the floor, clutching her neck and her cheek, sobbing.
He stands there, fuming, breath coming hot out of his nose in heavy huffs like an angry, enraged bull, before noticing you with your hands over your ears and your eyes shut tight like you didn’t want to see it.
When he comes over, he pries your hands from your ears, letting them drop beside you, and bends down, grabbing you rough by your chin.
“Open up them eyes, girly. I ain’t lettin’ you miss this.”
When you only squeeze them closed harder, he pulls his hand back and strikes you, backhanding you across the face and sending your head spinning, a choked sob leaving your throat.
“I said OPEN ‘EM!” he shouts, and you cower back in response, but manage to open them, looking at him through watery lashes.
You only comply so he doesn’t send you spinning again.
Colm grabs Pearl by her hair and drags her. She cries out in pain, but he doesn't care, pulling her along the floor and dropping her next to the bed.
“Sit. On the bed. Now.”
The look in his eyes…. He doesn’t look human, not that he ever did much, but this is different.
Now he was just an animal.
She crawls up onto the bed, over the chain you're shackled to, making a metallic clanking. Her body brushes against your legs which seem now to be hopelessly stuck in place.
Your eyes are locked on her face as she cries out, trying to get him to see some sort of reason.
“Colm… M-Micah Bell? I didn’t– I didn’t know it was him!” She looks up at him pleadingly. “Colm, I swear, I didn’t know!”
“Don’t matter if you did or didn’t. It was him, Pearl. And he… he touched you. Fucked you. Ruined you. You was mine! You filthy whore… Ungrateful. Disloyal. Unfaithful.” He practically spits out each word. “That’ll be the last time you cross me. You best believe that.”
Pearl clasped her hands together, looking up at him, pleading.
“Please, please Colm… I’m sorry… I’m so sor-"
*BANG*
Your body registers the wet sensation of blood splattering on your face and a sharp chunk of bone hitting your cheek before you even realize what you just saw. Pearl’s body falls back onto the bed, and you feel a wet warmth spreading across your legs where she’s laying. You stare forward, your already delirious brain unable, or refusing, to process what just happened. You’re locked on the place her head was just before the bang. Your brain refuses to let you look down at your legs, refuses to let you see what lays on you. If you look… you know you'll scream.
You don't even register Colm's steps beside the bed, now standing right next to it. He crouches down to look at you. His soulless eyes try to peer into yours, your expression blank, but you don't glance his direction. It's like… if you look into his eyes… you'll lose part of yourself.
“You seem to be havin’ trouble there, girly… Ain’t you gonna say somethin’? Cat got’cher tongue?” he whispers, prodding, taunting.
When you don’t answer, he keeps going. “Now, I know you an’ Pearl was close… but she had to go. She betrayed me… I gave her food, clothin’, shelter… Made sure she was wantin’ for nuthin’. And she went and slept with one of the worst bastards possible. Only one worse would'a been ol’ Dutch van der Linde himself.”
You feel your stomach turning, nausea hitting you in a wave and your stomach threatening to spill any minute. You still feel her blood on your face, and you bring your hand up to it, fingers touching where it splattered on you. It’s sticky now, drying down quickly there, but the blood on your legs and lap remains warm.
“Have I ever told you how pretty you look in red?” He bends down to your level again, and leans in close to your face. You can smell his rank breath now, see the yellowing of his teeth, the way his eyes look like there’s nothing behind them.
“You gonna cooperate?” he asks behind a smile. He leans forward, about to press his lips against yours. About to kiss you. The one barrier he hasn’t crossed, simply from the fight you had left in you. The way you resisted it so hard.
And right now, you can’t use it to stop him. All the fight is gone.
—
Arthur and Charles had approached the fort cautiously, unsure if there would be anyone there waiting.There were signs of a camp left abandoned. Uncleaned horse shit, cups and unwashed dishes still scattered, The remnants of a campfire remained, only embers left now. The tracks showed them that they left in a hurry.
Arthur looked around, brows furrowed. He tilted his head, ears listening… but not hearing anything.
“It's quiet,” he grunted.
No birds? There should have been birds… Should have been noise.
Charles eyes followed the tracks around the area. Horses, wagons, humans…
But then… something peculiar.
Some of them were covered by fresher tracks, mainly the prints of men on foot or a single horse, heading back into the camp instead of away from it.
“Arthur…” he said, only loud enough for Arthur to hear him. “We got a problem…”
Charles gently nodded in the direction of the tracks. Arthur looked and quietly assessed, eyes widening at the realization.
O’Driscolls.
Here.
Now.
Before he could act, the first bullet flew past him.
—
Colm stops.
His lips must be only a millimeter from yours.
There’s noise outside all of the sudden, breaking through the silence.
Little noises, like pops.
They get a little louder. You hear the faint, distant shouting of men.
Colm stands and goes to the small window, looking out for a moment.
“Oh, this is beautiful…”
He turns to face you, smiling like a little kid in a candy store.
“There he is… Ain’t that real sweet? Arthur Morgan followin’ the trail to the little lady. Just like I knew he would.
Arthur.
Arthur’s here.
Your eyes widen as your brain shifts, registering something new. Genuine hope of rescue.
“You did play such a good little role in all this. I was pretty mad when I found out Arthur Morgan had his eye on ya’… Maybe Pearl and them boys who brought you to me did me a favor. Arthur, he’s ‘bout to find out he ain’t just comin’ in for a couple of us… He’s got a whole damn army of us out there waitin’ for him.”
Colm waited for it to sink in before throwing his head back and laughing.
He was using you as bait to get Arthur to come here.
And he had most of his men out there, hiding. Waiting.
Dread runs through you as you realize, he’s out there alone, trying to fight, outnumbered. And you’re the reason.
You brought him here.
He’s gonna die because of you.
Colm continues laughing as he watches the horror of it spreading across your face, all of it’s too much to bear.
There’s more men shouting outside. More pops of gunfire, but now it's starting to surround you. Not coming from one direction, coming from all directions.
Colm’s body goes still, and his laughing stops abruptly. You watch him begin to turn white, something dawning on him now as he listens to the gunfire and shouting.
“No… goddammit. GODDAMMIT!”
—
Arthur realized the moment the bullet flew past him. Maybe before that.
This was set to be an ambush.
They knew he was coming.
He and Charles had to suddenly defend themselves from what was too many O'Driscolls, who popped out from behind the trees and outer structures of the fort like bees coming out to defend the hive.
Arthur was ducked behind a broken wagon, using it for cover, while Charles stood about twenty feet away behind a thick tree, peering around to shoot at someone with his rifle a few times before getting back behind it.
Arthur had been in worse situations. But all these O'Driscoll men against just him and Charles? Those odds didn't fare too well…
“Charles, to your right!” Arthur yelled across to him as an O'Driscoll snuck around the side.
Charles shot the man twice in the stomach and he crumpled over like a rag doll.
“How many do you think there are?” he called back.
“Probably ‘least forty!” Arthur responded, before moving forward to another piece of cover, a big barrel that was about ten feet up. He shot a couple of men to his left who were coming at him with shotguns, his revolver’s aim true. A bullet through the one man’s left eye and a bullet through the right side of the other man’s head, both dropping dead on the ground.
More men seemed to be filling the area, and Arthur heard the sound of hoofbeats across the ground riding toward them.
“There's more! Watch your back, Charles!”
Charles didn't respond, but he heard him, as well as a yelling that made his attention turn to it quickly.
Sadie rode in with a shout akin to some sort of warcry, guns blazing and taking out three men on the way.
“O'Driscolls - you sons’a bitches! I'll kill you all, you bastards!”
Arthur's head whipped around at the sound of her voice, and then he saw them. The gang.
Sadie and Dutch rode in from the western side, while John, Javier, and Kieran rode in from the east. It was strategic placement, allowing them to close in on the fort offensively, the only escape being to ride south from the back.
“Need a hand, son?” Dutch laughed as he dismounted The Count and started shooting, his flair for dramatics ever present, even in the middle of a gunfight.
“Ain't got time for your theatrics old man!” Arthur called back in annoyance, but still glad he was here. Glad the gang was here.
The situation had been getting out of control.
With the gang here, everyone quickly fell into place, shooting (and on occasion slashing or stabbing) their way through the army of O'Driscolls that blocked the main house.
John and Dutch easily and efficiently advanced through the crowd, dropping men left and right.
Sadie stood over a man who was scrambling back on his heels, clutching his bleeding stomach, as she drove a knife down into his chest.
Javier kicked the body of someone who had tried to surprise attack him and met a bullet to the chest.
“¡Eso te pasa!” he yelled, sneering down at him.
Even Kieran was holding his own, covering Charles as he advanced forward in the chaos.
As men dropped on the ground like flies, Arthur moved forward again, getting closer to the front entrance of the main building.
“Colm! You hidin’ in there like some yellah-bellied bastard? Don’t make me come up there just to kill you!”
He heard a laughing that rang out above the shouting and gunfire, coming from high up in the house.
“Arthur Morgan... ‘bout time you showed your pretty face! I been havin’ a whole lotta fun with your girly, here!” he called from the open window upstairs.
Arthur’s grip tightened on his gun and he gritted his teeth so hard it was surprising they didn’t crack from the pressure.
“I’ll get you, you sick bastard! Let her go!” he yelled back, seething as he pushed forward, knocking a man down and shooting him on the ground before taking cover again.
Colm just laughed more, all bravado and face.
“You ain’t gonna take this one from me, Morgan! I ain’t finished playin’ with ‘er yet!”
Dutch’s voice rang out from close behind Arthur.
“Colm, why can’t you just play nice now, and come on out?”
“Oh, that’s rich comin’ from you, Van Der Linde!”
“I think you’re just mad that your woman came cryin’ to one of my men’s beds, aren’t ya?” Dutch taunted, trying to draw Colm out from his spot upstairs. The shooting continued as the two played at this little conversation over the sounds of revolvers and pistols and rifles.
“Didn’t bother me, none. Water under the bridge, partner! You know, Bell did me a favor, I reckon…”
There was a pause in their back-and-forth as an O’Driscoll jumped out at Dutch from behind a pile of wood in front of the porch, brandishing a large knife. Arthur shot the man before he could get close enough though, and Dutch gave him a quick nod in thanks.
“Well, what’s that then?” Dutch finally asked, trying to keep Colm engaged as Arthur moved up onto the porch.
Only a couple of seconds later, a body fell in front of Dutch from the second story window.
Pearl.
Bruised and battered, limbs broken and sticking in unnatural ways from the fall, and a single bullet hole going right between her wide open eyes and out the back of her head, leaving an exit wound the size of a fist.
Arthur saw it from where he stood, and looked at Dutch, who’s face had turned from taunting to a furious sneer.
He caught Arthur’s gaze and gave him a sharp nod, a signal to move forward while he covered him.
Arthur ran to the door, charging into it, but it was locked. He used his shoulder to ram forward into it.
*THUD*
*THUD*
*THUD*
On the third hit, the door broke, cracking inward and allowing Arthur to run through. Dutch was right behind him, both men sweeping the empty room quickly before proceeding into the next. Someone jumped from one of the closets, grabbing Dutch from behind, leaving Arthur to shoot him off.
In the next room there were two men guarding the stairway, one with a sawed-off shotgun and the other with a double barrel, both instantly shooting at, yet somehow missing Dutch and Arthur. Dutch was quick on the draw, shooting the one man in the chest and then the head, while Arthur ran up on the other and stabbed him in the side of the neck with his knife, his blood spraying Arthur’s face.
While Dutch was reloading, Arthur ran upstairs. Halfway up, Colm ran down, colliding with him and knocking him back down the stairs part of the way until he caught the guard rail and pulled himself back up. Colm managed to barrel past Dutch, too, quickly making his way out the back, but not before getting shot from behind in the shoulder by Dutch. Colm cursed but continued running, the shot not slowing him down as adrenaline rushed through his blood and kept him going, out to where one of his men had his horse waiting.
“That all you got, boys?” he taunted as he rode off.
Arthur tried to turn and follow him, and Dutch yelled out to him.
“Arthur! Get the girl! I’ll get Colm!”
Arthur wanted to follow Colm, but as soon as he remembered you, the bloodlust didn’t matter. All that mattered was your safety.
He ran up the rest of the stairs to the second story and was met by another man who had been waiting up there. He didn’t reach for his gun, just instinctively pulling back his fist and letting forward a heavy swing, knuckles connecting to the man’s jaw. The man punched Arthur once in the eye before Arthur grabbed him by his collar and held him suspended there by sheer strength, punching him over and over with the force of a hammer. The man fell to the ground and Arthur shot him with his revolver for good measure before giving one hard shove to the door, breaking it down.
There you are.
Arthur instantly stills at the sight of you.
You lay naked, curled in the fetal position, staring at the doorway with wide, unseeing eyes. Your hair is a tangled mess, your skin pallid, eyes sunken, lips dry. Your body has fading bruises, a fresh one blooming now on your cheek and mouth. There’s blood splattered on you, all over your face and chest. There’s a shackle around your ankle, chaining you to the wrought iron bed frame.
And a pool of dark maroon blood is at your feet, soaked into the mattress, some of it covering your legs.
“Oh, god…”
—
You hear the gunfire become less frequent.
Less pops and bangs, more silence, the kind of ghostly silence that drifts across a battlefield full of dead soldiers.
You do faintly hear a voice from far off in the distance. Colm. Yelling with someone, but the sounds get quieter and quieter.
You take a single, deep breath in, and look at the doorway.
Arthur.
He’s here.
Right?
You wonder if it’s really him, if somehow this man actually found you and came to rescue you.
Probably just another trick of the mind.
Arthur rushes over, taking off his own dirty, blood splattered jacket, and laying it over you to cover most of your nakedness.
You feel its weight settle on your body, as if it’s a real, tangible item.
He crouches down, making you flinch and whimper slightly from the sudden closeness of an apparition of a man you’ve been daring to dream would arrive.
“Hey, hey, sweetheart… it’s alright… I ain’t gonna hurt ya’...” His voice is too gentle for a man like him, you think briefly. It must be your imagination.
“Jesus Christ…” he whispers, his hand coming out to touch you. You flinch again, and he holds it there, before slowly moving it forward. Predictable now, you don’t flinch as he gently smooths back your ragged hair.
Your eyes focus on his face but you still say nothing. You barely see him.
Is this a dream? It isn’t real… It can’t be.
“I’m gonna get you outta here, yeah?” he whispers, and you swear you see his eyes shining.
Strange.
Like they're wet.
He takes his hand back, and slowly stands, looking down at your ankle.
The shackle.
He doesn’t know how he’s gonna get it off, but he decides maybe he should just shoot the chain and worry about the part around your ankle when he gets back to camp. He needs to get you there quick.
He pulls out his gun to shoot at it.
“Now, don’t move sweetheart, I’m gonna–
“NO!” you scream when you see the gun, a Schofield revolver, the same kind of gun Colm used to shoot Pearl.
“No… no… no… please… please no!” you begin to repeat, starting to sob as the image of Pearl plays through your head.
“Alright, alright! Hey, hey…” Arthur says quickly, trying to reduce the panic he sees on you. He sees your eyes locked on his gun like it’s a grenade with the pin pulled, and then he realizes.
“It’s alright, darlin’, it’s alright… Look.”
He crouches down slowly as you continue sobbing, but you watch him, and he lays the gun, and the other one from his off-hand holster, down on the floor, and slides them across the room gently.
You don’t stop sobbing, but you calm some.
“See? No gun… no gun. Don’t gotta’ do it that way if you don’t wanna.”
His voice is still gentle, but firm. He slowly raises his hands, his eyes not leaving yours.
“You see that? Gun, over there. Ain’t on me.”
You bite your lip trying not to sob, and nod.
He slowly stands and approaches you again. He looks at you, a tense breath leaving him as he tries to decide what to do. He keeps his voice low like he’s trying to calm a spooked horse.
“Alright, darlin’... we gotta get you outta here. We’re gonna figure it out.”
You say nothing still, but your eyes are locked onto his.
“I’m gonna take care of you. You got my word, sweetheart. Ain’t nobody gonna hurt you again.”
—
You realize somewhere between the rest of Arthur’s gang coming inside to help and Arthur picking you up and carrying you out to his horse, that this is real.
Actually real.
He is real.
Maybe it was when Dutch, back from his fruitless chase of Colm, angry about it yet upon seeing you started assigning everyone things to do, making the impossible task of getting you ready to leave this hellish prison actually seem possible.
“Charles, I want you to do a perimeter check. All the buildings outside, and the surrounding area. Take Kieran with you. Mrs. Adler, if you could be so kind as to find this poor woman some clothes? And maybe a sheet or a towel to cover up that… mess. Let’s get her some of her dignity back… John, find something to get that shackle off of her ankle. There’s a shed outside on the eastern edge of the fence that might have something in it. Javier, find her some water. She needs to drink if we’re to be able to get her back to camp. Arthur…”
Dutch stopped when he looked at Arthur, who was sitting in a chair beside the bed, holding your hand. He wasn’t listening to Dutch, his focus solely on you. You laid on your side, one fist clutching something, eyes closed, but you weren’t sleeping, he could tell that. He wondered what was in your other hand, but didn’t ask, just letting you hold whatever it was, and being there with you, a silent assurance that nothing would happen under his watch. Dutch didn’t say anything else, just letting Arthur be.
Maybe it was when Sadie found some old clothing left behind, and gently helped you into it, having to dress you mostly herself. It was a union suit and trousers that fit well enough to not leave you naked in front of God and everyone else…
“I know it ain’t woman’s clothin’, but I’m sure you don’t care about that right now. Them O’Driscolls are sick bastards, can’t even bother keepin’ you dressed…” She spat on the floor as if to punctuate her hatred. Her words were surprisingly soothing.
Maybe it was when John announced he found a pair of bolt cutters and you finally had your ankle free from the metal band that had been your existence for however long you’d been held captive.
“Listen, ma’am, I know you’re scared. But we gotta’ get you outta this. I ain’t gonna hurt ya, I promise… Maybe close your eyes, so you don’t gotta see me do it.” Closing your eyes helped.
Maybe it was when Javier offered you water from his own canteen, cool and crisp.
“Here… Drink. Easy, easy, mija. Slow down, you’re gonna choke yourself, cariña. That’s it… just a little.” It tasted better than the freshest spring water you ever drank.
Maybe it was when Charles gave the all clear, having thoroughly checked the perimeter and making sure nobody was left.
“Safe to move out, now. Nobody’s gonna be following us, and we can move in the cover of night… If it goes well, we could get back to camp by morning.” His words were as much to Arthur and Dutch as they were to you, a reassurance that you would be safe.
Maybe it was when Kieran came to you, his hat held over his chest, his nerves showing through slightly trembling hands.
“Ma’am? I just wanted to… to let you know. I seen this kinda cruelty first hand… I know it. I just want you to know… you ain’t alone anymore.” His solidarity made tears spill from your eyes.
Or maybe it was how gentle Arthur spoke, how careful he was to explain everything, every move and every decision.
“Hey, we’re gonna be goin’ now. Takin’ you back to my camp, alright? You can get some proper rest there… it’s safe. There’s others there, too. Other women, some men, but they ain’t gonna hurt ya’. We even got a little boy, John’s son. Name's Jack. Only four years old.”
He speaks to you even though he knows you likely won’t respond. He knows you're listening.
“We’re all gonna be ridin’ together, so don’t you worry ‘bout nothin’ happenin’ to ya’, ain’t nobody here that’s gonna let it. I ain’t gonna let it. Alright? Now… you able to walk at all?”
You shake your head ever so slightly, just enough for him to be able to see it.
“That’s alright. I’ll carry you out then. I ain’t gonna hurt ya’. I’ll be real gentle sweetheart.”
Arthur stands from his chair beside the bed, and leans over, scooping you up like you weigh nothing. Maybe you do. You still feel so hungry.
Your body tenses momentarily, but you begin to relax as you realize he won’t drop you.
“Good girl, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” he praises, before starting a slow descent into the hall and down the stairs. He carries you outside, and whistles lightly for his horse.
A dark red mare trots over. Your eyes are too hazy and it’s too dark to make out many features, but you can tell at the very least it’s a fine horse.
“This is Boadicea… She’s a real good horse, and I promise she’ll take us real gentle.”
Boadicea lets out a huff of air softly, as if she’s agreeing, then nudges your arm with her nose, lightly. It's the only thing you haven't tensed.
Arthur had to hand you to Charles, who was seemingly another gentle giant in the group, holding you with softness but solid strength while Arthur swung up onto Boadicea’s saddle. Charles handed you up to Arthur then, and he sat you in front of him, facing him.
“Arm’s up, round my neck now. I know you’re tired, but I got ya’, I ain’t gonna let ya’ fall. Just hold on when you can, yeah?”
You wrap your arms around his neck, one hand still a clutched fist and the other grabbing the back of his shirt as you lean forward against his chest.
One of his strong arms wraps around you, his hand pressed against your back and holding you to him.
“There’s a good girl… you just stay like that for me, alright? We’ll have you back to camp in no time.”
You hold onto him, and he starts Boadicea moving forward. You focus on the feeling of the wind through your hair as you ride, the cool night air is such a contrast to the cold you experienced back in your prison.
—
You hardly remember the ride to the camp, dozing on and off and listening to the way Boadicea huffed underneath of you, to Arthur’s steady breathing or small words of encouragement, his voice a low, gentle rumble that you can feel in your chest.
“You’re alright, sweetheart, I gotcha’.”
“S’alright… we’re gonna get you taken care of.”
“Doin’ so good for me, darlin’. We’re almost there…”
You stop a few times along the way, him holding you steady while he lets you drink from his canteen, him making sure you aren’t going to give out from dehydration before they can even get you back to camp.
“Can you drink for me, now? Real slow sips… there ya' go, jus’ like that.”
Before you know it, the sun is rising in the sky and you’re riding through the trees, looking around in a daze and wondering where you are.
The horse slows and your grip around Arthur’s neck tightens.
A man with white hair makes his way over to you and Arthur as he pulls Boadicea to a stop.
“Arthur… You found her,” says the white haired man, as the other members ride into the camp behind you. Arthur waits for Charles to come over and then hands you to him, gets off his horse, and takes you back, cradling you like you’re made of glass.
Maybe you are made of glass.
You can’t quite tell what you’re made of anymore.
You’re sure that you knew at one point, but now you aren’t sure of anything, really.
Except maybe one thing.
Arthur Morgan is real.
It hits you in an instant.
This is real.
You are real and your pain is real and Arthur is real.
Colm is real and O’Driscolls are real and Pearl is real.
No.
Pearl was real.
Was.
Now she’s just… gone.
You start to breathe faster as the realization makes its way to your consciousness.
Pearl is gone.
Dead.
And you didn’t, couldn’t do anything about it.
You watched Colm kill her.
And he’s still out there.
Still out there, able to come find you at any time.
He told Pearl he would see her again one way or another.
And he did.
And then he killed her.
What if he finds you?
You don’t even notice how fast your breathing has become, how many tears roll down your cheeks, how fast your heart beats now.
You don’t notice Arthur’s panic as he rushes you to a tent and lays you on a cot.
You don’t see him shouting for someone to help as you start to scream.
You don’t even hear yourself screaming.
You don’t hear your screaming or your crying or your incoherent words all trying to come out at once.
You just see her, that image of her, play over and over.
You smell Colm’s rancid breath in front of your face as he leans to kiss you.
You feel the violation, the humiliation, the degradation that he played out like it was some sick, twisted game.
You hear his words, you hear his laugh, you hear Pearl’s pleading, you hear the gunshot that silenced her.
You don't really register the flurry of activity around you.
“Arthur, here… give her this.”
“What?”
“Just give it to her. Trust me.”
“Here, here darlin', can you drink this for me? There… nice slow sips. Good girl…”
You don't even register the liquid in your mouth, down your throat, the drops that dribbled along your chin.
But…
You stop hearing, stop feeling, stop seeing.
Your vision fades out, drifting away slowly.
Your consciousness floats above your body, neither existing here or there.
You don’t wonder anymore, or speak anymore, or think anymore.
You just are.
“What the hell did you give her, Hosea?” Arthur asks as he watches you begin to calm, begin to drift into a seemingly, surprisingly peaceful unconsciousness.
“Laudunum. Just enough to keep her sleepin’ for a while. She needs it.”
“Well, what happened? She was fine on the ride home, didn’t cry or nothin’.”
“She was likely in shock, Arthur. Or, in some mental state where she wasn’t processin’ anything. Healin’ from what she just went through? That ain’t gonna happen overnight…”
Arthur’s breaths came out in angry huffs now. He didn’t understand.
“I know that, Hosea… but… She was alright, damn it!”
He slams his fist down on the table beside the cot, leaving a slight dent in it.
“I thought she was alright!”
Hosea waits a moment before placing a gentle hand on Arthur’s shoulder, making him flinch, but not pull away.
“It’s alright… You did what you could.”
“Should’a done better.”
“You did better, Arthur. Better than anyone else would have. Arthur…” Hosea sighs, trying to gather what he means. “Nobody else would have pulled that girl out alive. I promise you that.”
Arthur looks at Hosea, jaw clenched, not answering. But in the end, he seems resigned to having to accept Hosea’s words, at least in the moment, simply because he couldn't do anything else.
He sits down with a heavy huff in the chair next to his cot, watching your lashes flutter in your sleep, hoping that what he did would be enough.
He notices your fist still clenched around something, but it's more relaxed now, more open.
He reaches out and takes the thing you've been holding on to so tightly.
He gently unfolds the crumpled paper, and when he sees what it is, he feels like his heart stops.
He really is a content warning all on his own! Lol
I was trying to think of all the things he said in the work that I needed to warn about and in the end was like, 'F*** it, this should cover the rest.'
Jfc I need to start keeping a timer or smth on how long my writing is. I actually edited each little section as I went this time and I'm so happy with that? Like it was so much easier. Watch me forget to do it next time though, anyway, been writing since like 11pm and it's 4:30 am so happy memorial day I guess. If you're into that sort of thing
AND MORE IMPORTANTLY HAPPY I FINALLY FINISHED DAY 11 OR WHATEVER IT WAS (SEDATION) I SAID IT WOULD BE ANOTHER LIME 4K WORDS BUT HAHA I LIED ITS LIKE 9K I'M ABOUT TO POST SO HOPEFULLY I DON'T FALL ASLEEP WHILE DOING MY TUMBLR POST EDITING (srsly why does copy/paste add like 3 lines between each of my paragraphs? It's really annoying 😭
Main Characters: John Marston, Micah Bell, Dutch Van Der Linde, Javier Escuella, Kieran O'Driscoll, Sadie Adler
Minor Characters: Charles Smith, Bill Williamson, Hosea Matthews, Abigail Roberts, Jack Marston
CW: MICAH, Period Typical Violence, Sexism, Racism, mentions of: Domestic Violence, SA, Assault, Abuse, Dubious Consent, Choking, Bruising, Ejaculation
Summary: Dutch learns of Arthur's search and needs to make a decision. Micah inadvertently gives John important intel.
Author's Note: Hi! Welcome to my series that I love writing but apparently have no time to write! Would have posted this already but while I was editing the post my phone died and Tumblr didn't save the draft 😢 Life sure does seem to have plans that it definitely didn't run by us before making! I know their is no reader or Arthur in this but I promise, they are in the second half! Almost completed second half so stay tuned folks! Thank you everyone for your patience and support 🖤
Note: The personalities of the gang members are written as what I consider their 'true' selves to be closest to. Therefore, it may not fit the Horseshoe Overlook version of a character. (P.S. Warning! Warning! Dutch Van Der Linde sympathizer! My true version of Dutch is a still somewhat unhinged, dramatic, narcissistic man, who does love and care about the people around him but is sometimes unable to show this, and is mostly kept in check by his moral compass, Hosea. I won't argue about in game Dutch, you can choose to believe whatever version of him you want! Please do not tell me something like, "Dutch would never say that," because quite frankly, I don't give a damn. I allow and encourage discussion but not rudeness, and will remove any purposely hateful comments. This is a safe space and I would like to keep it that way. I'm not saying this thinking that people will do it, I'm only saying it just in case.🖤 Graphics are my own except red lace divider by @uzmacchiato
Thank you to @photo1030 and @shininqstr for your comments ❤️❤️❤️ they helped me keep going 🖤
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 1/2 | Part 3 2/2 | Part 4 2/2 (coming soon!)
Whumpril Arthur x Reader Series Master Post
Nine days earlier...
John and Javier made it back to the camp just at dusk. They'd talked very little on the way back, just pushing the horses to get home as quickly as they could, both craving a hot meal and rest after the unplanned tracking they'd gone on. They could both feel the tension in the air between them. Going back to camp without Arthur? It wasn't like they finished a job and went separate ways. They were going back to safety and he was looking for an enemy. It didn't feel right.
Dutch made his way over as they arrived, the men hitching their horses and walking into camp from the corral. Their shoulders were aching and slumped with tiredness from having been on a job the day before, a night of drinking, and then immediately leaving to help Arthur on his search.
“Arthur still out lookin’?” Dutch asked, his voice uncharacteristically tense.
“Yeah. He's bein’ stubborn ‘bout it. Said he's headed into Valentine to see if he can get any information from the folk in town.” John shook his head as he spoke. “Ain't like him, Dutch. I know he's doin’ what he thinks is right, but it ain't like him to chase a cold lead…”
No, it wasn't like Arthur to do that. Normally he was the one who talked others out of it. But… from what Lenny managed to say when they'd gotten back last night, Arthur seemed different with this woman…
“Dutch, he gave her one of them silver certificates we'd gotten on the last robbery? The one we found in that big safe? I think it was a five dollar one… Not my idea of a casual tip…”
“‘M tellin’ ya, Lenny! It's fookin’ love, it is! Our Art’ur’s sweet on the lass, no doubt in me mind–” slurred Sean a little. He was still quite drunk, hence why he and Lenny hadn't gone with the other three. He leaned onto Lenny, wrapping an arm around his shoulders for support. “And she– oh ho ho– she– she's sweet on ‘im, too. Did ya see the way she touched ‘im? Put her hand on ‘is shoulder, like she was familiar wit’ him! Familiar! Wit’ our Art’ur! ‘Magine that!”
Lenny sighed while Dutch pinched the bridge of his nose like he was getting a headache from the whole situation.
“And, you two are sure this was O'Driscoll work? Sean ain't just making that up?”
Sean scoffed, taking apparent offense to the comment.
“When ‘ave I ever lied, Dutch?”
Dutch raised his eyebrows, about to tell Sean exactly the last time he'd lied about something, but Lenny shook his head and spoke before he could.
“No, Dutch, we’re sure. It's O’Driscolls.”
Dutch crossed his arms over this chest and let a sigh out through his nose.
“Alright, Lenny, make sure Sean gets into his bedroll before he passes out; You get some sleep, too. Been a long night for all of us, even before all this mess.”
“Javier? What do you think?” Dutch asked after milling on the thought for a while.
Javier took a moment to look around camp, collecting his own thoughts before shrugging.
“Eh, I’m not too sure, jefe… I think he knows what he's doing. He's stubborn, but he isn't stupid.”
“You think he's got enough to go on to get a lead? Or is this some... wild goose chase?” he asked, gesturing with his hands.
“That depends. Most people, I'd say no. But, it's Arthur. If anyone could figure it out… it'd be him. He at least won’t give up until he can't go anymore.”
“Well, Dutch? You think we should be settin’ up a scoutin’ party," Hosea asked as he took a drag off his cigarette before flicking the last of it into the small yet still crackling fire, “or should we be settin’ up for war?”
Dutch shook his head, his mind running circles but his face revealing nothing. Hosea could see it though. He could read the eyes of the man nobody else seemed able to read.
The past few days had taken a toll on Dutch. It wasn't so much that Arthur was out by himself. That was normal. The man went off on his own all the time, sometimes without so much as a grunt and a nod. But to be hunting O'Driscolls just to find a woman he barely knew? And hunting Colm, in specific. It worried him.
Together? Arthur, Dutch, Hosea, John… and any of the rest of the gang? They were fearless. Alone? Dutch worried that alone, Arthur may just be a man.
“I don't know, Hosea. I don't know… I think we'll have to wait and see how Arthur handles it on his own, first. Then we’ll decide.”
“You ain't thinkin’ about goin’ after Colm, too, are you?” Hosea asked, a knowing look in his eyes.
Dutch thought on it for a moment, taking a swig of whiskey.
“Maybe.”
“That wise?”
Dutch just looked at Hosea, not saying anything.
“I know it's personal with you and Colm. But… this woman… We don't know her, or anything about her. Arthur barely knows her himself. And she ain't Annabelle–”
“It isn't about that, Hosea!” Dutch snapped, interrupting him. He clenched his jaw tight, looking away and letting out a deep, controlled breath. He knew Hosea was right, his own pride and want for revenge against Colm was involved here. But it wasn't just that.
Although Dutch never admitted it to anyone but Hosea, he was sorry. Not that he had brought Arthur into the life of living as an outlaw, or that Arthur was loyal to the gang. He wanted that loyalty, that strong tether to him and to them. But, he knew loyalty had cost them all.
He was sorry that the gang had taken Arthur's opportunity to be with Mary, simply due to the nature of their differing lives. Even if he didn't personally like the woman, Arthur had found something in her.
He was sorry that Arthur had already lost his son, and his son's mother, with no opportunity to have prevented it in the first place. No opportunity for justice, either.
Arthur's loyalty had cost him more than Dutch had ever intended. Such was the way of the outlaw, he knew that. Arthur knew that. But, he never had a choice.
That's just this life, Dutch told himself. Over and over again, it's what he told himself. And he believed it, too… most days.
But, he didn't want to abandon Arthur.
“I'm sorry… I'm sorry, old friend. But… this ain't about that. Arthur is family. He has always stood next to me, to us; We will stand behind him. Beside him. Whatever he chooses.”
Hosea nodded once, slow. He knew the thoughts that bounced around inside Dutch’s head better than anyone else. He knew that it was, in part, about that, about Colm and the long standing feud between Van Der Linde and O’Driscoll. But, he chose to have faith that this time, maybe it wasn't all about his appetite for vengeance. This time, maybe it was also about standing by a man that they had raised, and defending his choices, and those he chose to protect.
Dutch knew he and Arthur were different. And things were different with Annabelle than they are with this random stranger Arthur met in a little livestock town. But, he also knew the kind of man Arthur Morgan was. Much like himself, they could say revenge was a fool’s game. Because it was. But that wouldn't stop them from trying to seek it.
Over the coming days, the camp was filled with unspoken worry. The gossip, however, was spoken more than enough. Arthur, going after O'Driscoll's by himself? It was one thing to run into a group of them when someone was off on their own. It was another to go looking for a whole O’Driscoll camp alone. It was one thing to find some lady in need of help by the side of the road and help her. It was another to go looking for one that hadn't asked for help.
“He's been gone an awfully long time, Dutch. Over a week now. Without any word. I just… think we oughta send someone to go check on him…” Hosea said, more than worried since it had been a long time since John and Javier returned, and Arthur had still not.
"I fear that you may be right… I was hoping he would have returned by now, but, since that is not the case… we should send someone. I'll send Charles, maybe someone with him, too.”
It had actually been nine days. Nine days that Arthur hadn't come back. Tomorrow would mark the tenth. It was putting everyone on edge. The protector, gone from camp on a search that nobody was sure about.
Sadie was nearby, waiting to see if Dutch was going to do anything about this whole mess. If he didn't, she was gonna go look herself. O'Driscolls? She would fight them in a heartbeat.
She quickly jumped at the opportunity.
“I'll go, Dutch. Was gonna go by myself, anyhow.”
“No,” Dutch started, “not you.”
Sadie’s jaw dropped, and then defiant anger spread across her face.
“What the hell, Dutch! I'm just as good as any man here, you know that! Let me go, I want to!”
“No. Mrs. Adler, it ain’t–”
“Ain’t what?” she challenged, cutting him off. “Ain't safe? Ain't a woman's job?”
“No, Mrs. Adler–”
Sadie cut him off again, getting progressively more and more worked up as she spoke.
“You think I ain't strong enough? Ain't smart enough? Ain't a good enough shot? Is that it?”
“It really isn't that, it’s–”
“What? I can handle it! I've proven myself! I already shot and killed O’Driscolls, and I'll kill more, too. You can't ban me from a job just because you think I'm–”
“MRS. ADLER!” Dutch boomed above Sadie's own raised voice, making her finally stop talking to listen. He waited until he was sure she wouldn't interrupt him before speaking. “I am not keeping you from a job because you are a woman. I am doing it because we need someone who will bring Arthur back, not somebody who will only encourage him to look further. If the woman is gone, she's gone. There's nothing we can do about that. And we need him back.”
The whole camp had fallen quiet, now staring at the two of them. Sadie's own mouth was set into a firm line, but her eyes were wide with surprise, her cheeks red from being worked up and from being embarrassed, having been yelled at by Dutch in front of everyone. Normally she would have just stormed off. She wouldn't take his shit. But this time hit different...
“If you want to prove yourself? Continue proving yourself? You will stay here. You will help us at camp. For now.” Dutch watched her with a fixed look, making himself clear.
“I ain't doin’ anymore goddamn chores,” Sadie huffed, putting her hands on her hips defiantly.
“Good. You can go on guard duty. Go tell Bill he's relieved from it for now.”
Her face twisted up. She didn't want to do that, either. She wanted to go help Arthur track down the O’Driscolls. It was her first opportunity to possibly find the ones who murdered her husband. She wanted to do something other than standing around camp all day, listening to people talk.
She turned on her heel and stormed off. Everyone watched as she went into the treeline. There was a little bit of noise from that direction, Bill's voice and then her own, yelling, angry. Then a loud “OW! What the hell has gotten into you, woman?” More yelling. Finally, they watched as Bill emerged from the treeline, slinging his rifle over his shoulder, looking disgruntled as he headed towards the campfire.
“That woman's got a stick up her ass ‘bout somethin’…” he muttered, shaking his head and sitting down.
John just stared at him from across the fire. Charles, glanced up from sharpening his hunting knife.
“What?" asked Bill after John stared for a moment. “She punched me. For no good reason, neither.”
After that, Dutch decided to only send one man out, for now, not wanting to take too many of them away from the camp.
Charles rode out that evening, just as dusk hit, hoping to avoid attention by traveling the trail at night, and to start on tracking as soon as he got into West Elizabeth the next morning. He knew Arthur likely wouldn't be just hanging around Strawberry any longer, and he would need to pick up his trail to find him.
A few hours after Charles left, Micah rode back in. He'd been out a couple of days, stating he had ‘business’ to attend to. Whatever that meant. Nobody really questioned it when it came to Micah. Nobody really wanted to know.
When he rode in, he smelled of liquor and body odor. He'd been out longer than expected, twice as long as he said he'd be.
He dismounted Baylock and threw the reins at Kieran, who was feeding the horses.
“O’Driscoll! Horse needs lookin’ after,” he grunted, not even looking at Kieran.
Kieran, as much as he would like to ignore him, listened and took Baylock to the hitching posts. It wasn't the horse’s fault that his owner was an asshole.
“Ain't an O’Driscoll…” he muttered, though Micah didn't pay him any mind.
As Kieran began taking the saddle and tack off of Baylock, Micah, with a shit-eating grin, slowly sauntered over to Dutch, who was already walking towards him with a hard expression on his face.
“Micah. Where have you been?” Dutch asked, his voice stern.
“Awh, Dutch. Whadd’ya mean?" he asked, feigning innocence. "Just had a little thing to take care of. I told you ‘bout it, didn't I?”
Dutch's look didn't change, only sharpened.
“You should have been back to camp two days ago. With Arthur gone, you can't just stay out like that. We need you here, Micah.”
Micah’s grin faltered and he hooked his hands into his belt loops. He could see Dutch wasn't in quite so good of a mood as he was, and he knew he had been out longer than he initially said he would be.
“Right. I got… distracted.” Even he wasn't fool enough to keep poking at Dutch when he was in this kind of mood. “Won't happen again.”
“And? You still haven't told me where you were the last two days.”
Micah’s smile returned, his yellowed teeth making him look even more slimy than he already did.
“I was with a woman.”
John scoffed from his place by the fire. Micah looked sharply back at him but then turned again to Dutch.
“Got holed up an entire night with some pretty thing, then I took her home the next day. Boy, the sounds that girl made–”
“Alright, alright! That's enough. You don't need to go into details, now,” Dutch interrupted before he could continue, shaking his head in exasperation. “Just… make sure you ain't leavin’ camp that long again.”
“Sure, Dutch.”
With that, Micah walked over to the fire, sitting on a log and stretching out his legs, leaning back with his hands behind his head.
John kept his head down as he whittled a piece of wood. Bill and Javier were there, too, Bill nursing a bottle of whiskey and Javier strumming idly on his guitar just to pass the time.
“Where's the Chief?” Micah asked.
“Dutch sent him to go find Arthur,” answered Javier.
“Oh. Right. The prodigal son hasn't returned yet?" he asked sarcastically.
Nobody answered, a response wasn't really needed for the question. Micah knew he wasn't back yet.
“Dutch sent the Chief to chase the Cowpoke to chase the Skirt. Ain't that just poetic?” he said mockingly.
John stopped whittling and looked at Micah.
“Why you gotta have a problem with everything, Micah? Why do you care who Dutch sent?” asked John.
“Well, he could'a sent me. I was down that way myself, anyway… but whatever. Ain't my place to do the decision makin’.”
“No. It ain't. So maybe you should just shut your mouth ‘bout it,” John replied before going back to whittling. Truth be told, he wished he was going to find him. He knew Charles was a better tracker, but he wanted to be there for Arthur, even if he hated to admit it.
“The ‘Great Arthur Morgan’ chasing a skirt. Real shame that is, him goin’ soft on us. I wouldn't be caught dead chasin’ after some woman… Nope… they chase after me.”
“Maybe if they have a knife in their hand…” muttered John.
Javier and Bill both snickered as Micah scowled. But then he just smiled again, yellow teeth and all.
“Right. Because you're such an expert on what women want, Marston? How long has it been since you got any?” He waited but John just kept his head down, continuing to whittle away at a piece of wood, his movements sharper, not actually making anything, just using it to keep his hands occupied. “S’what I thought.”
After a moment of tense silence, where John thought Micah would finally shut up, but no. Bill had to go and start him up again.
“You really get a girl, or you just pullin’ our leg, Bell?” Bill grunted, narrowing his eyes in suspicion.
Micah looked over at him slowly.
“I ain't pullin’ your leg, Williamson. Cross my heart.” He exaggeratedly made a cross over the center of his chest.
"How much did you pay for her?" Javier asked dryly.
John snorted at the comment, but Bill didn't bother holding back a full laugh. Micah seemed unphased though.
“Nothin’,” he answered, his grin only growing. “Didn't pay a penny.”
“Bull-shit,” Bill said, looking at Micah again, skeptically. “You didn't get no woman ‘less you bought her.”
“Hell, I ain't gotta pay for no whore, Williamson,” Micah scoffed.
John stopped whittling, unable to hold back again.
“Sure you ain't, and Uncle's the mayor of Saint Denis,” he responded. “Nobody wants to sleep with you, Bell. I seen cheap whores turn ya’ down when you were tryin’ to throw all your money at ‘em.”
“Yeah, Bell. I ain't ever seen a woman wantin' to sleep with you, money or no money,” Bill chimed in. “If you're serious, what’d she look like, then? Bet she was one o’ them poxed out whores.”
"That's where you're wrong, Williamson. She was cute. Blonde, real short. A bit thin for my likin' but had a real nice set on her."
John rolled his eyes so hard he thought they might get stuck like that. Jesus Christ...
"Had some ugly bruises from whatever feller had his hands on her ‘fore me," Micah continued. "I didn't mind though, the ones ‘round her neck were fresh enough they hadn't turned that ugly yellah color they get…She was all over me, blubberin' on like a mess… only thing I paid her was charm and compliments."
"Of course." John muttered under his breath, "Micah takin' advantage of a cryin', beaten woman? Sounds about right…” His lip curling in contempt at the blatant cruelty.
“What? You think you're better than me, Marston? You ain't. You'd be doin’ the same as me in that situation.”
John finally looked directly at Micah, incredulous at the claim.
“The hell I would! Some of us don't see women as things to break just because they're down.”
“You speak of women like they are carcasses for the vultures, Micah.” Javier spit on the ground in disgust. “It is pathetic.”
Bill was quiet now, taking a longer pull from his whiskey and finding the dirt under his fingernails very interesting all of the sudden.
John and Javier both looked disgusted by Micah's nonchalance. It didn't surprise them, but that didn't mean they didn't care. They might be bad men, but neither of them agreed with that kind of treatment of an innocent woman.
Micah, however, was ignoring them and just continuing to talk.
“Won't ever forget that one's name either, on account of the pearl necklace I gave her once I was done. Looked real pretty against them purple bruises.” He started chuckling at his own joke, but he was the only one laughing. “Pearl… said she just had a row with her man and was lookin' to get away. And ol’ Micah swept on in and saved the lady's day…”
Javier and John froze as they heard him say the woman’s name.
Pearl.
The one who took the woman at the saloon that Arthur was out searching for.
“Saved the day... Saved the day? Are you kiddin’ me, Micah? That's what you call takin’ advantage of a woman who almost got killed by her man?” John said, raising his voice in anger. “You hear who she runs with? Wouldn't happen to be O’Driscolls, would it?"
“How the hell should I know? I wasn't askin’ personal questions."
“You said you took her home… where did you take her?”
"Why, you gonna go lookin' for her? Get you a piece of her, too? Abigail really ain't givin’ you none, is she?” Micah jeered, clearly enjoying getting Micah riled up.
John stood in an instant, and was in front of Micah, pulling him up by the collar, too quick for Micah to react.
“Micah. I swear to God, you say anything else about Abigail and I will cut your tongue out and feed it to you.”
John dropped him, letting him fall back onto the log seat harshly, almost causing him to fall off of the back of it.
Micah sat there looking shocked for a moment, until he started laughing.
“Jesus Christ– Oh, I sure did get your tail feathers ruffled, Marston!”
John just stood over him, fuming.
“Where, Bell?”
Micah's laughter slowly died as he realized John was serious. He let out a sharp, impatient huff.
"Oh, Christ Marston… I don't know… real close to…some fort somethin' or other, south a little ways of Strawberry. She didn't want me to leave her right there though, had me let her off before we got there.”
John looked at Javier, who was already standing, thinking the same thing as him.
“You think that's her, hermano?”
John gave a single, sharp nod.
“Gotta be. How many Pearls you think there'd be fittin’ that description?”
“Likely not as many as I left on that girl's–!”
Micah's vulgar comment was cut off by a swift, sharp kick to the shin from John.
“Ow! Hey, watch it, Marston!”
“Watch yourself, you goddamn idiot! If Colm finds out you were with his woman, you just put a target on all our backs, and hers! Dutch and Colm are already part of this blood feud, and you just made it worse.”
Micah’s face dropped, realizing what he had just done.
“Well, shit… how was I supposed to know that was Colm’s woman?’
“You better not have let her know where our camp was, Bell, or you’ll be the one to explain to Dutch why we’re movin’ camp again.”
“I didn’t! She don’t know anything ‘bout where we’re at, I ain't stupid,” Micah claimed.
“One small goddamn mercy…” muttered John, now walking toward the horses where Kieran was still at.
Javier went the opposite way, to Dutch's tent.
"Kieran! Hey, kid!" John called out.
Kieran, who was still brushing down Baylock, practically jumped at John calling his name, almost dropping the brush in his hand.
"Y-yes, sir? What's goin' on? I swear I didn't do nothin’..." he said as he fumbled with his hands.
"You know a Fort South o' Strawberry? That the O'Driscolls use?"
Kieran’s face became solemn at the mention of the O'Driscolls, and he nodded sharply.
“Yeah, they got Fort Riggs. Been usin’ it for a hideout for years. They hadn’t been there for a while when I was with them, but there’s a chance they could be back down there…”
“And you know exactly where it is?” John asked with more urgency.
“Yes, sir, I do know the way…”
He was hesitant, wanting to stay away from O’Driscolls at all costs. But, he also wanted to prove his loyalty to the gang since they were beginning to trust him more.
“Alright. Get the horses ready. I’m gonna go tell Dutch we’re ridin’ out.”
“Y-yes, sir!”
John barely heard him, already sprinting to Dutch’s tent.
Javier was inside, relaying the information about Pearl and the O’Driscolls’ potential location to Dutch and Hosea.
“You’re sure it’s the same woman? We can’t afford to go chasing a false lead.”
“It is, it must be. He says it is supposedly a fort, south of Strawberry, that he let her off near,” explained Javier hurriedly.
“Fort Riggs, Dutch. Kieran knows where it is. Said it’s one of their old hideouts, ain’t been used in a while. It’s more’n likely where they’re holed up, now,” said John.
Dutch’s eyes grew wider as he looked between the two men.
“Fort Riggs… Yes, I do think I’ve heard of that…”
“Kieran knows where it is, he’s gonna show us to it. He’s gettin’ the horses ready now.”
Dutch nodded, standing abruptly and beginning to pace.
John knew that look he had. His mind was working to come up with something.
“Alright…” He paced a few more times back and forth before abruptly stopping and clapping his hands together. “Alright!”
Dutch stepped outside the tent, looking around the camp. Everyone had already heard the commotion of John and Kieran, Javier and Dutch, speaking about the newfound revelation, and were mostly gathered around his tent to see what was happening.
Dutch had a plan.
“Everyone! We have information on the potential whereabouts of the O’Driscoll gang, and hopefully it will lead us to Arthur, and, godwilling, the woman he has been searching for. I need you all to be vigilant in keeping the camp safe while we are gone, and prepared for our return. I do not know if we will encounter one O’Driscoll, or fifty of them, or none at all. But so long as Arthur is out there, we will be bringing him and that woman home.’’
He didn’t wait for the gang’s response, already moving into action.
“Hosea, you are in charge until our return, of course. Make sure there are medical supplies ready upon our arrival. If we have the woman with us, I am... unsure of what state she will be in.”
Kieran had managed to get his own horse ready, as well as John’s, Javier’s, and Dutch’s, so when Dutch approached him to mount The Count, he was already handing him the reins.
“You know where this fort is, you said?”
Kieran gulped his voice was earnest as he spoke.
“Y-yes, sir. Been there loads of times.”
“Good. Once we cross the river into West Elizabeth you will lead us there. We can't waste any time looking for Arthur right now, and he may be there as it is.”
Sadie swung up into her own saddle, having gotten her horse ready by herself. She saw Dutch watch her, her eyes challenging his.
He gave her a hard look, but turned away towards The Count, swinging up into his own saddle, not objecting to her coming along. When he was in the saddle fully, he gave her a small, single nod of acknowledgement, and she gave one back.
John was saying goodbye to Abigail and Jack, Abigail actually looking proud of him rather than angry with him for the first time in a while.
"Shouldn't be long, Abigail... might not find anythin' anyhow, but... We gotta look."
Abigail hugged him, and then straightened up, her eyes looking suspiciously watery.
"You bring him back... And... you better come home in one piece, too... No wolves time, you hear me John?"
"Yes, ma'am. No wolves."
He got on his knee and took Jack by the shoulders, looking him in the eye.
"You gonna watch out for your Ma while I'm gone?"
Jack looked up at his mother, then back at his father, and nodded with all the solemnity a four year old could manage.
"Yes, sir... I'll watch out for mama."
John ruffled his son's hair, an intimate gesture that he didn't usually give.
"Good man. I'll be back soon."
He stood, and walked to the horses, joining the rest of them.
After Abigail and Jack went back to their tent, Micah came over, starting to fuss with Baylock’s saddle.
“What the hell do you think you’re doin’, Bell?” John asked, his grip on his reins tightening.
“What do you mean, Marston? I’m gettin’ ready to ride out.”
“The hell you are! You ain’t comin’ with us! Ain’t you caused enough trouble already?”
“Oh, quit complainin’ Marston. If it weren’t for me, y’all wouldn’t even have a lead on the O’Driscolls.”
“So? That don’t mean you got any right to come with us.”
“You think I’m gonna let you decide if I’m comin’ or stayin’? It ain’t up to you, it’s up to Dutch.”
“Micah,” Dutch interrupted with a sharp tone, “John’s right. You’re staying here. We don’t need any more problems.”
Micah looked at Dutch in anger and disbelief.
“What? Dutch, you can’t be serious-!”
“I am, Micah. You’re staying here.”
“You’ll let some broad ride out with you but not me? You ain’t thinkin’-”
“I know exactly what I’m thinking Micah, and what I’m thinking is that you are a liability, and this is none of your concern. Stay in camp.”
His words were final, and Micah knew that, so he sulked away back to the campfire, cursing under his breath.
“Alright, men!” Dutch shouted to the riding posse he’d formed. “Move out!”
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