The Traveller and the Highwaymen
The Unsung Ballad of Dead Eye Marshall: Chapter I
An Englishman abroad seeks to immortalise the tales of the Wild West, using charm and affluence to coax stories from the ruffians he encounters. When he finds himself robbed at gunpoint by two survivors of the Van Der Linde Gang, he finds himself penning a shocking and heartfelt memoir, as told to him by the mysterious outlaw known as "Dead Eye".
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I am assured that the story I am about to tell you is a work of fact, not fiction.
The account you will read is that of two young persons who grew up in the midst of one of the country's most notorious bands of outlaws -- Dutch's Boys, otherwise known as the Van Der Linde Gang. I have made every effort to preserve this recollection exactly as it was told to me, in their words, not my own. But first, I must elucidate the reader as to how my acquaintance with these roguish individuals came about in the first instance.
My name is Keaton Loxley. It has been nearly a decade since I came to reside in this land -- suffice to say, it is a whole other world compared to little old England; something rougher, hardier, in many ways still untamed. The homeland is thoroughly domesticated and yielded little stimulation for one such as myself. I was born into a comfortable existence, with money enough to afford me any material luxury I could name, but what I aspired for was not something that could be bought or replicated, it had to be experienced for oneself, raw and true.
Filled with the insatiable vigor of youth, I sought the thrill of danger and unknown in what yet remained of the Wild West, and, I am glad to say, I was not disappointed. While the era of gunslinging outlaws may have passed, that same lawless spirit remains ever present, like a stubborn spectre that refuses to be laid to rest. My peers would hardly have dared set foot in such disreputable territories, but I am not quite so faint-hearted as my countenance might lead one to believe.
Life is to be lived, is it not? And should curiosity get the better of the cat, as the saying goes, would it not at least make for a fine tale? I would rather have my grand adventures cut short here than wither away within the stifling confines of English high society. But I digress.
I was not content to be an idle spectator as the last of the true Western outlaws dwindled into extinction. No, in my aimless travels I found a new vocation, giving purpose to my reckless pursuit. I was to play my part in preserving this almost mythical chapter of history, dutifully recording my experiences and conversations with persons of particular interest. I make no claim to be an author -- the stories are not mine to tell. I am but the scribe, noting each word exactly as it is enunciated -- unaltered, uncensored, nothing more and nothing less.
While usually I take the proactive approach, seeking out my subjects, occasionally they will find me of their own volition. Or, to put it another way, I find myself at the whims of some unsavoury villain or other, typically enticed by the gleam of my pocketwatch, or some other facet of my general demeanour that marks me as a likely fellow of means.
I will not deny my fear the first time I was apprehended in this manner, the sickening feeling that at last my foolishness had caught up with me, but having miraculously survived not just the one, but several such encounters, I have found myself to be more capable than I ever suspected. A show of charm, a bit of nerve, and a little good old-fashioned bribery has seen me leave not only with my life, but with ink on my fingers and another exclusive glimpse into the psyche of the Old West.
Now, I shall tell you of the most recent of these occurrences, the one that spawned the volume you now hold in your hands.
I was traversing the main road through West Elizabeth. I had left Blackwater behind me and had Strawberry in my sights, hoping to arrive there before nightfall, but alas! I confess, the measure of time often eludes me and I find the hours have slipped away without notice. Having set out far later than I had intended, evening was upon me all too soon, and, opting not to continue my journey in the treacherous dark, I instead hastened to set up my humble tent and campfire as had become my custom.
The exhilaration of sleeping beneath the star-spangled American skies with the prairie grass swaying gently in the night air never loses its charm. I have found, however, that suppers consisting primarily of various canned meats grow wearisome after the very first bite. In this regard, I fear my snobbish tastes prevail. Nonetheless, I was preparing to endure one such repast when I felt the all-too-familiar prod of a gun barrel trained upon the back of my skull.
"Woah, there, pardner," jeered a young man's voice, prodding the gun against my head a little harder, "just take it easy and no one'll get hurt."
"Indeed," I agreed blithely. "What can I do for you, sir?"
It was then that I became aware of a second figure, stepping out of the shadows in my peripheral vision. This good sir made a show of cocking his firearm, pointing it skyward for now while his partner kept me sufficiently held at gunpoint. A bandana hid his features, save for unnerving golden eyes that seemed to smoulder wickedly in the firelight.
"Money, friend. Hand it over," the first gentleman continued behind my back. His partner's revolver now stared me in the face while a sack was thrust before me, waiting to collect my valuables.
"Very well," I acquiesced, emptying my pockets with little anguish.
Presently I felt the pressure of the gun barrel leave me, and the man behind me came into view, gun still poised at the ready. He was masked and pulled his hat low upon his brow just like his partner, but he was of a more pallid complexion, with lank, dark hair. His fellow, on the other hand, was bigger and when he turned his head, I glimpsed the choppy strands tied back at the nape of his neck, their auburn colour standing out in stark relief as they spilled over the collar of his black coat.
"Thank you for your charity," the dark-haired man sneered mirthlessly. The other had yet to say anything at all.
"...Does your companion not speak--?"
"My cousin will speak when he wants to," the talkative one snapped.
"For the right price, perhaps?"
I watched his dark eyes narrow in suspicion.
"You see, I'm really quite fortunate to find myself in your company," I told them, raising my hands placatingly as I rose to my feet. "You are exactly the kind of ruffians I was hoping to meet."
At this point, they were well and truly confused.
"The hell are you talking about? We've got what we came for, our acquaintance is done." And then, through gritted teeth to his silent partner, "Come on, Bonham."
Oh, how my face lit up at that moment, for I recalled that name belonging to one of a pair of wanted criminals whose bounty poster I had so recently seen in Blackwater township!
"Bonham A. Marshall--" I gasped, "--the one they call Dead Eye! Is it truly you? Why, and that would make you Jack Marston, is that not so?" They shared an exhausted look of despair, while I positively flushed with delight. "Dare I say the pair of you are the last remaining descendants of the true outlaw stock!"
"What's it to you, huh?" young Mr Marston barked defensively.
"Come, now, my good fellow, I mean not to turn you in," I assured him, "I'm a historian, I suppose; I chronicle the lives and exploits of the outlaws of the Old West." When only hesitant silence ensued, I elected to proceed. "All I would ask is that you sit at my fire, drink with me, and pray tell me your story, that I might forever preserve it among the annals of history."
The one I now knew as Bonham lowered his gun and leaned over to whisper something to Jack, who also holstered his firearm after a moment of internal debate.
"You seem to know who we are," Jack said, his tone no less icy. "Who are you?"
"Keaton Loxley," I said, extending a hand, "and very pleased to meet you."
He made no move to take my hand, but before I could retract it, Bonham suddenly stepped in to complete the gesture on his behalf, shaking my hand firmly. I acknowledged this truce with a nod, and he did likewise, golden eyes glinting in a most curious way. I was particularly eager to learn more about this mysterious, mute rogue.
I bid them sit, and offered them some of the coffee I had brewed. Jack shed his bandana to drink the bitter liquid, his seemingly permanent scowl now visible. Bonham accepted a cup of his own but only held it in his hands, his face still covered.
"I understand that the pair of you spent your childhood entangled with Dutch Van Der Linde's criminal outfit," I began.
"Yes, Mr Marston, but seeing as the two of you are some of the few known survivors of said gang, even your most trivial recollections are of unprecedented value," I insisted. "I have failed to track down other persons of interest related to the Van Der Linde gang, largely on account of most of them being unfortunately deceased."
I spared a sympathetic glance at the young Mr Marston, who seemed more irritated by the sentiment than anything else. I hastened to lighten the mood.
"Rumour has it that the romance novelist Leslie Dupont was once affiliated with a gang," I laughed heartily, "Fancy that!"
I thought I saw Bonham's expression change, but, of course, it was hard to be certain, what with the mask hiding half of his face. Whatever reaction I might have perceived, he seemed to be listening and receptive. I now turned to him thoughtfully.
"Mr Marshall. Inconsequential though it may seem, I must ask -- for the record, see," I said, flourishing my writing implements, "...what does the initial, 'A.', stand for?"
I admit I hadn't expected an answer, but after a beat passed, it was then that I heard it:
The voice was of a cruder accent than Jack's, yet decidedly softer. Its unexpected tone took me quite by surprise. Low and rough, yes, but tempered with something lighter, a vulnerability that his more expressive partner lacked. I hoped to coax him to speak more. Bonham certainly seemed more forthcoming than his companion -- perhaps he would be willing to oblige my request?
"Bonham Arthur -- 'Dead Eye' -- Marshall..." I muttered, testing the name on my tongue as I noted it down in my journal. I looked up, appealing to those enigmatic, faceless eyes. "Permit me," I ventured, with all the reverence of a prayer, "will you tell me your story?"
"You don't have to tell him shi--"
The words died on his tongue, and he scowled in defeat.
"You said something about a price...?" he reminded me with a cutting glare.
At that, I took my dull-looking briefcase, and, handing it to him with a flourish, bid him look inside. He did so without a word, and a moment later closed it again and said no more, apparently satisfied.
Meanwhile, those glinting hazel eyes had never wavered from me, their gaze intense, but also pleading, as though there was some great burden upon the man's shoulders, which, in talking with me, he hoped to be rid of.
"You want a story, Mr Loxley? Then I'll tell you."
My pen lay at the ready, my undivided attention at the highwayman's command.
"...'Dead Eye' is the name they gave me;" he began, "'Bonham Arthur' is the name I chose for myself. But my real name, my true self, is known to only a select few -- those who knew me before the fall."
He exchanged a long glance with his fellow before addressing me once more.
"...And now, Mr Loxley, to you."
Imagine my shock as at last the bandana was lowered, revealing the weathered and scarred face...of a woman.
The barest hint of an amused smile ghosted over the stranger's lips, and I found a second handshake offered to me in light of this re-introduction. She smirked down at me, at once both charming and terrifying. Her eyes glowed like embers, reminding me very much of a she-wolf lurking in the dark, readying for the kill.
In all my altercations with bloodthirsty bandits, never had I been so paralysed with fear and awe as I was at the sight of her.
"Bonnie Mae Morgan," she said, "at your service."
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And with that, it is done. Please remind me never to attempt to complete a prompt list challenge again -- the next one will take me two years to finish.
This is the final prompt, but it is also a new beginning. This is intended to be the prologue for a longfic my sister and I have wanted to write for some time now, revolving around her RDR2 OC who has featured in several of the previous prompts: Bonnie Mae Marshall, Arthur's adopted daughter. And yes, she privately takes his surname following his death.
As for when and why she assumed the alias of "Bonham" and began dressing as a man, and how she became the formidable outlaw "Dead Eye", that will be addressed in future chapters.
Notably, this is also the debut of my first male RDR2 OC, the charming and eloquent Englishman, Keaton Loxley. I have to admit it was refreshing writing in his voice! Both his first and last name are references to other media I enjoy -- can you guess what they are?
