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and he sits with Arthur as he passes, wishing nothing more that Arthur could know he was there, that he wasn’t alone, trying to run his fingers through his hair only for them to fall through, his tears dissolving before they land on Arthur or darken the ground. And when Arthur joins him, he holds him tight.
Based off this art by @kenconffetti
Hosea had known he wouldn’t live to see the end of it all.
He’d tried to get them all out - he had. Had sat with Abigail, sat with John. Tried to convince them to leave, to get out, before Jack was old enough to start following in their footsteps, before he could become a thief, an outlaw, a murderer like they all were becoming. Had tried to talk Arthur into leaving but he was too damn loyal and that was his fault, wasn’t it? He’d impressed loyalty into the boy from the moment they’d picked him up out of the dirt, he couldn’t blame Dutch for it all, the man held a lot of fault but Hosea did, too.
Javier, Bill. They weren’t monsters, they weren’t innocents but even he could see some good in them - Javier, who’d only wanted to do good from the beginning, a revolutionary in Mexico who wanted to keep his family safe now, but Dutch had saved him, had picked him up out of the dirt too, had put food in his stomach and a gun in his hand and he’d looked so unsettled that Hosea had known he was a lost cause, Bill had called him a crazy old man and the women were thinking of it but they were scared, what kind of jobs could they take if they left?
He’d known he wouldn’t live to see the end of the gang. He was getting old and you don’t live to be old in their line of work, some did but only if they retired and hid away, and even then you still end up dead, shot by a bounty hunter or some upstart, Arthur had come to him all fussed up, talking about Flaco Hernández and Emmet Granger and Billy Midnight and Black Belle, all great gunslingers in their day, all but one he’d shot dead - and it hadn’t surprised Hosea that Black Belle had been the one survivor, he and Susan had known her in her heyday and she was a survivor.
And he wasn’t anywhere near retirement. He could see that things were crumbling - Dutch was buckling, collapsing under the weight on his shoulders, the cloud behind his eyes growing dark and stormy. Their world was closing in on them, the Pinkertons always one step ahead of them, every con going wrong and there was a rat, he could tell you that and he could tell you who but Dutch wasn’t listening to him anymore, so all he could do was try to get them all out as the rat gnawed at their very foundation.
But then he’d been shot down in the street, looking Dutch in the eye as he died, and then all he could do was watch.
Watch as Javier was tortured in Guarma, as he became even more enamored by Dutch though Arthur had saved him just as much, as Micah led the Pinkertons (and he’d been right, damn it all) back to Lakay, as Arthur was diagnosed, could only try to run his fingers through his boy’s hair as he fought for breath only for them to go through, could only watch as Dutch s l i p p e d, could only praise his boy as he got them out, helped the women and Pearson and Trelawney escape, as he tried to do good though he’d always been the best of them all.
Could only pray that Dutch would keep his word as they found the bonds and the storms cleared from his eyes; could only watch as Dutch became unredeemable, screaming and begging ‘Help our boy Dutch!’ as he walked away and the boy died to save theirs, could only scream and beg ‘Help our boy Dutch!’ again as he left John to die though John never did join Hosea, the man kneeling at his side and praising him every time he made an attempt to his feet, coaxing him and promising ‘You can do it son, you can do it,’ until finally he was on his feet and Hosea was slowly, slowly following him back to camp.
Susan joined him, apologizing: she’d failed, she’d failed, she hadn’t saved their boys but it wasn't her fault it was Micah’s and Dutch’s, she faded away and it was just him again. Dutch had a gun pointed at Arthur and Micah - and he was horrified, they’d never hit their boys, never laid a hand on them and here Dutch was aiming a gun at him but he hoped, hoped Dutch would see through Micah finally, but “WHO AMONGST YOU IS WITH ME AND WHO, IS BETRAYING ME?”
and ‘Please Dutch, those are our boys!’ as his guns turned on Arthur and John, and John wasn’t even armed, they always gave someone a fighting chance and John was wounded and unarmed and then poor Javier was so confused, even aimed his gun at the sky, his family was falling apart and though he’d been so cruel he can’t hate him as he never did turn his gun on his boys.
Never had he been glad to see the Pinkertons, but as they interrupted the stand down he could kiss the very dirt they stood on.
Arthur’s dying.
Their baby boy is dying.
He’d always thought Arthur would be one of the ones who made it - who started a new life, even took a wife and had kids, have the ranch they always dreamed of, work with horses like he always loved to do.
But his boy is dying, and Dutch is just staring.
They never hurt their boys, but Dutch had stepped on his fingers.
Hosea had heard them break.
He knows that breathing - that rattling, gasping, gurgling that always precludes death.
And his baby boy is making it.
“N...no…”
He’s never found himself without words before, but he can’t breathe and his boy can’t breathe either - he doesn’t even need to breathe but his chest feels tight and he needs to say something, to get Dutch’s attention because what is he doing, their baby boy is dying, they’d raised him and promised to never let him get hurt again and Arthur is dying.
“I…”
I can’t watch this.
I can’t do this.
I’m so sorry I wasn’t there.
I’m so sorry I didn’t stop this.
I’m so sorry I can’t do anything.
Arthur’s begging Dutch, trying to out Micah who’s right there with his final words and he can’t breathe he should be saving his breath because maybe, maybe someone will come back for him and if he saves his strength he can hold on ‘til then, and Dutch is just staring,
and Hosea’s reaching for Arthur though he knows there’s nothing he can do, can’t pick him up and hold him close, can’t doctor his wounds or comfort him, can’t even let him know he’s here, “Arthur, I…”
I’m here.
I know.
I believe you.
I’ve always believed you.
Dutch takes a step back, a quiet, “I…” and Hosea snaps to him, meets his gaze and how could Dutch leave their boy on the ground? Leave him to Micah’s mercies? Micah is still standing there, huffing and panting for breath but still stronger than Arthur, still on his feet,
“Dutch!” the sound startles even him, tearing from his throat in a way that would hurt if he could feel pain, shrill and panicked, “Help him!” but Dutch doesn’t respond, takes another step back, and Dutch has always been queasy, has always been the one to take watch-duty while the boys were sick because seeing people sick made him sick, but this is something wholly different, the clouds are gone from his eyes, Hosea can see that he’s seeing for the first time in a while but he’s not acting and
“You…” he hadn’t known he could cry, in all this time he’s never cried but tears that dissolve before they hit the ground are trickling down his face, “You better help our boy!”
but Dutch, of course, can’t hear him, and as Dutch staggers away he wonders if, even if he could hear him, he would help Arthur.
“Dutch!” his feet move without him willing them, planting him between Arthur and Micah though the latter is screaming his rage and Arthur is laughing, a horrible rattling sound, but Dutch staggers over the hill and away and maybe it’s Hosea’s desperate, wishful thinking, or his own tears clouding his eyes though even when he blinks he sees, but he thinks there are tears in Dutch’s eyes but damn him he doesn’t get to cry when he’s abandoning their boy to die alone.
And he’s never seen a sight so awful as Arthur, gasping and fighting for breath, dragging himself to the cliff’s edge so he can watch the sunrise and he remembers, clear as day, Arthur laughing what feels like a lifetime ago but is only a few months, if that, when they’d been talking about how they’d wanted to be buried - and hadn’t they been buried as they wanted? He’d been buried with Lenny, he’d heard Sadie say,
“When I go, I hope they cover my grave with roses.”
“When I die, I just want to be buried with friends,”
“Me too. With friends, or with family. I don’t think it matters more than that.”
“What about you, Arthur?”
“Me? Aaah, I don’t care about that nonsense.”
“Come on!”
“Face me to the west, so I can watch the settin’ sun, remember all the fine times we had that way.”
“See Tilly! I told ya Arthur had a soul!”
and he sits with Arthur as he passes, wishing nothing more that Arthur could know he was there, that he wasn’t alone, trying to run his fingers through his hair only for them to fall through, his tears dissolving before they land on Arthur or darken the ground.
And when Arthur joins him, he holds him tight.
