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Arthur Morgan was dead and gone, and that was the way Dutch knew things to be. Micah had told him as much, before he’d shot that bastard for all that he’d done. Too little, too late, but he’d done it all the same. No one would get away with killing his boy, not even the man he’d invited to do it. He had just needed to find the right opportunity, and John - good, dear, clever John - had given that to him.
And for that, Dutch had given him the money.
It didn’t matter anymore, nothing much did. Because although he knew Arthur Morgan was buried somewhere, six feet under the soil, he could still hear him. He could still see him. He couldn’t escape.
In the corner of his eyes, a shadow that stood at just the right height, gone when he looked, and then back again. When the wind blew, a voice that spoke in a gruff drawl, just faint enough that he could never make out the words. In the thundering clouds, haggard coughs that tore him to pieces.
As well as he knew that Micah had killed Arthur, Dutch also knew that he’d practically done the job himself. He’d killed Hosea too, but Hosea was at rest.
Arthur was not.
Arthur went with him to Mexico, Arthur went with him to Canada, Arthur traveled behind him, just out of sight, up and down the entire country. When he settled in Tall Trees to build a new gang in some mockery of the family he’d lost, Arthur was there. Behind him, always.
Arthur had said he’d always have his back, after all, Dutch just hadn’t thought he’d meant it quite so literally.
That vengeful spirit of a man who had claimed revenge wasn’t worth it followed him everywhere he went, his footsteps out of sync just enough to let Dutch know he was there. But he never did more than haunt, pale and rotten and wraithlike in the shadows. A lingering wheeze in the wintertime, a far off echo of rough laughter in the sun.
Always hurting, never gone.
Dutch tried to forget, but he couldn’t. Arthur wouldn’t let him. Over the years he’d done all he could to try and amend what he’d done, and giving the money to John had been his hope for the end of this torment, but Arthur hadn’t cared, because Arthur had never cared about the money. What he cared about was doing the right thing, and it took him up until John cornered him on that ledge for Dutch to finally understand what the right thing was.
He was trapped with nowhere to run, and finally he saw that he was never meant to run. He couldn’t avoid it, he couldn’t deny what fate wanted.
What Arthur wanted.
“I got a plan, John.”
“You always got a plan, Dutch.”
“This is a good one.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
Doubt... There had been doubt, but it was justified. Dutch was the one who should have doubted, but he’d been so goddamn blind.
“We can’t always fight nature, John. We can’t fight change, we can’t fight gravity. We can’t fight nothin’. My whole life, all I ever did was fight.”
Fight to keep what he cared about, and fight to lose it all.
“Then give up, Dutch!”
“But I can’t give up, neither. I can’t fight my own nature, that’s a paradox John, you see?”
“Then I have to shoot you.”
And he’d laughed, because John hadn’t shot him all those years ago, and he knew the boy couldn’t shoot him now. He knew that John would never be able to, and he’d fail to get his family back because of Dutch’s selfishness. Because of his own crimes, he’d damn little Jack Marston to a life without his father, he’d damn Abigail to a life without her husband.
If we let Jack, and the women free... John, and his family... I insist...
Oh, but he could hear Arthur now. Finally, he could hear him with total clarity, right in his ear, standing just behind him. There was nothing to stand on, but it didn’t matter when the words were so clear. Dutch had begrudged him for those words, had hated him for it. The gall of that boy! And yet... he had been right. Because if he had done that way back then, would John still be here now? An assassin sent from a thousand years ago...
“Well, when I’m gone, they’ll just find another monster. They have to, because they have to justify their wages.”
“That’s their business.”
John didn’t care, John was just looking out for his family. He was doing what was right, in all the ways he could. He’d been on the same path as Dutch - a path to freedom - only he’d done it a lot more cleanly.
Maybe time for folks like us is passed.
“Our time has passed, John.”
He looked into the boy’s eyes, and saw reflected back an understanding of what was to come. John didn’t stop him, and the whisper on the wind egged him on. He stepped back, and his foot met air, and right before he fell, he saw him, full and whole and calm.
Arthur was standing just behind John.