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Arthur struck the match against the heel of his boot. A swirl of cigarette smoke escaped his lips. He deserved a smoke on a cold night like this. A brisk wind tore through the mostly quiet town. Arthur’s shoulders grew sore from standing alert outside the saloon for so long, but he expected no less. In fact, he wouldn’t be surprised if Hosea had him on the front stoop until the place closed. Times like this had him regretting following Hosea on what he called a “fun night out.”
The bar door swung open and a drunken man wandered out. Arthur stepped back to avoid getting in his way as the man nearly tumbled down the front steps, too caught up in whatever tune he was singing.
“Old Mary Ann won’t take me back, huck, no sir, no sir-ey—huck—”
The drunk swayed down the main street. His song faded and slurred the farther he got.
“‘Tol’ me she’d have’n heart attack—huck—yes sir, yes sir-eyyyy!…huck.”
Arthur leaned back to keep an eye on the inside of the saloon through one of its front windows. The barroom had been uninspired, filled with men wanting a drink or two after a long day’s work or groups taking a table to talk about the goings on around town. Near the back wall, Hosea sat at a round card table with a smile wider than the Mississippi and eyes glinting with the thrill of a new score. Three men sat opposite him. One hand gestured to two cards laid out before him. Slowly, his other hand flipped over a third card. Even from outside, Arthur could hear the uproar as Hosea’s cards amounted to the perfect twenty-one points. Some of the other patrons looked over at the blackjack players in utter annoyance. Arthur chuckled and rolled his shoulders. They’d be out of here soon.
His idea of a fun night would be a couple drinks, or a few more than a couple, on a mild evening and following in the footsteps of the drunk; laughing to himself, singing off-key, and stumbling home.
“Nah, nah, listen, Jim, I reckon he’s got himself a cheatin’ deck,” one of the men inside shouted. “He’s counting cards or somethin’.”
Arthur imagined Hosea rising from the table now, reassuring the fools who thought they’d outsmart an old man in a game of cards only for him to trick them all over the course of the past hour.
That’s when a bottle smashed and Arthur pushed himself from where he leaned against the saloon’s side, extinguishing his cigarette under the toe of his boot. Clouds dusted the sky overhead as the first mists of rain fell.
“Now, now, gentlemen…” Hosea’s voice drifted closer as he backed up to the doors, no doubt his pockets stuffed with cash. “I’m sure it’s just not your lucky night. Ain’t nobody’s fault.”
“Quit your games, you no-good thief. Gordon, get that son of a bitch,” another voice shouted.
Hosea nearly fell backward through the door just as Arthur moved to put himself between him and the three men stalking towards the door, hands raising.
“What’s going on here?” He tried to keep his voice light. Hosea had instructed him to diffuse, not add to their outrage. Arthur never could tell if he was doing it right.
“That man’s cheating us. Get out of the way, boy,” The man in front, with a floppy hat and patchy beard said.
“He been causing trouble again?” Arthur said, quirking up an embarrassed half-smile. “You’ll have to excuse my pa, he’s always sticking his nose where it don’t belong.”
“Your pa is a cheat. Ain’t nobody get five blackjacks all in a row.” The first man began rolling up his sleeves.
“Hey now, you’ll have to forgive his luck. He’s been on a hot streak lately, can’t seem to pull him from the card tables.” Arthur kept an even tone, but as he spoke, he set his jaw and straightened to his full height. “But he’s just an old man, why don’t you all get home to your women, cool off.” Arthur dropped his voice just a touch, a new trick he’d been getting into the habit of. “Your luck’ll turn eventually.”
The man closest to Arthur, Gordon presumably, deflated with a sneer.
“Just keep your cheatin’ father outta here.”
Arthur nodded and placed a protective arm around a faux-trembling, innocent Hosea, and ushered him off the saloon’s front steps. He could hear the three fools cursing up a storm inside. The bartender was shouting something about a broken glass being added to their tab.
The two men found their horses hitched off to the side of the bar and headed off towards camp. March brought gusts of icy winds off the smokies. A freezing mist made the ride back even more unpleasant than Arthur expected. It took almost no time for his hands to go numb and to regret leaving his gloves in his tent. He let Constantine’s reins fall slack and tucked his hands under his armpits. The horse knew its way back to camp.
“We get enough? You didn’t have me standing in the cold for nothin’, right?” Arthur asked.
“Well, my dear friend,” Hosea cracked the same smile from the saloon. It had been a fair take. “I should say so. Despite that mean-looking brute, the other two had some fairly deep pockets. They loosened right up after a few drinks and stories from yours truly.”
“I’m just glad you didn’t walk out of there with a busted nose. What’ll you do when I start thinking up schemes of my own? I can’t keep waiting outside bars waiting to protect your ass from a gang of drunks.”
“Oh my boy, I’m sure you’ll have schemes of your own eventually,” Hosea laughed and raised the collar of his coat. “You just let me know when you start thinking, then I’ll worry about finding another way to keep myself out of trouble,” he jabbed.
“It’s not me you gotta worry about thinking,” Arthur shot back. “That Marston boy better start growing into that big head of his before he loses it.” The boy had been riding with them for nearly a year and a half now. Arthur still didn’t see the appeal. He’d been anything but useful: a nuisance, a troublemaker, and a very large, extra mouth to feel. Only virtue was how his pig-headed behavior could usually provide some sort of entertainment for Arthur if he wasn’t the one taking the brunt of the consequences for it.
“Oh, quit being so angsty about the kid,” Hosea chided. “He’ll grow into a smart young man, just like you did.”
Arthur huffed and fell into an awkward silence. Years of correction and discipline molded him from a half-starved waif to a strong outlaw capable of easily intimidating anyone bold enough to catch his eye, much to his inconvenience at times. Now, compliments grated on his ears, even though he knew Hosea wasn’t lying. The praise didn’t feel quite right. He couldn’t just outright deny it all the time, but he could pretend well enough that they did, at least to satisfy the older men in the gang.
“Sure, sure,” Arthur said. “Whatever you say.” Hosea gave a crooked smile and kicked his mare into a canter, making for a cold yet swift return to camp.
Of all the people in camp, Arthur certainly didn’t have to worry about Miss Grimshaw making his skin itch with compliments. Any kindness from her usually came with a slap upside the head and a verbal dressing down afterward, no matter the fact he was a grown man. It didn’t help that John received the same treatment.
Still, ten years in the gang, now capable and strong, and yet Arthur felt like the rest of them would be just fine without his cynicism and penchant for being too dumb to tell a believable lie more often than not. Leave all that to Hosea and Dutch.
If anything, Arthur preferred just to follow along. Hosea didn’t need him to come along tonight, not really. But it didn’t hurt either. It had at the very least been better than lounging around camp, not that he would ever lounge. They had a system. But goddamn it if their newest gang addition was interrupting that delicate balance. He had found a rhythm in the past decade since he himself had been taken in. As he grew, he fell easily into his role as a follower, enforcer, backup, and now against his will he was met with a new role: babysitter.
“There you two are, it was getting too quiet around here without you.” Dutch stood from warming his hands over the crackling campfire, battling valiantly against the damp night.
“How could it be quiet when Marston’s spouting words like some geyser?” Arthur followed on Hosea’s heels, dismounting beside him and taking the older man’s reins as he stretched and walked over to the fire.
“Oh hush,” Hosea said to him, immediately turning to Dutch. “We had a good night, brought back quite the pocket change.”
Dutch’s eyes lit up with the spark of pride at his partner. A touch of greed, too, Arthur reckoned. Despite Dutch wanting to employ another scheme upon arriving near the mining town, Hosea insisted on a few quiet nights of good old-fashioned hustling. Arthur, a bit sore and cold, had to agree it was better than a shoot-out or running like the wind with the law on their tail.
Hosea shook his satchel at his hip and smiled smugly at the satisfying jingle. Dutch took his seat again, his cheery mood seeming fueled by Hosea’s success.
“A very good night then. Come on, get yourself warm,” Dutch said. The two men gathered around the flames and settled onto the worn log seat, content with the night’s work.
Arthur turned away from the tempting warmth to remove the tack from their horses. He wasted no time in giving them a good brush. Even with fingers numb, he couldn’t resist a few rubs on their velvety noses.
“Where is the boy?” Hosea asked in an off-hand way. He must’ve wanted another audience member to tout his victory.
“I sent him off to take care of the rest of the horses,” Dutch said. “Make sure they bed down and out of the wind.”
“He ain’t back yet?” Arthur asked. Night had long since fallen. Arthur assumed the little brat would already be asleep, sprawled out on his cot and probably tangled up in blankets stolen from Arthur’s side of the tent.
Dutch considered this as if for the first time, realizing just how long John must have been gone.
“No,” Dutch said. The quizzical look vanished almost instantly. “He’s probably climbing trees again or playing with the horses. Arthur, would you go fetch him? Take the rest of the horses with you, too.”
“Sure, sure,” Arthur muttered. Back into the cold night again. He walked over to his tent, free from the misting ice-rain long enough to warm up a bit, pull on his gloves, and shoved his hat down further onto his head. He trudged back over to Constantine and Hosea’s mare, Lucky Penny, and led them to the edge of camp.
“Where’d you say he’d gone?” Arthur called back.
“That way,” Dutch waved toward the woods. “He must’ve gone down to the hollow, taken the horses out of the open and away from the elements.”
Arthur just nodded and followed the slow descent into the woods. He took hold of Constantine's halter and Lucky Penny followed behind. Rotten brown leaves squelched under his boots, and the mist collected on the brim of his hat, drip drip dripping onto the front of his jacket. Winter’s bite still drowned everything in grays and browns. Lucky Penny nuzzled his back, knowing that, just like Hosea, Arthur was a sucker for treats.
“Come on you two, let’s go find your friends,” he muttered, pushing Lucky’s head away gently. He made a note to bring her something in the morning when the poor weather hopefully passed.
Arthur zig-zagged down into the hollow. The moon blinked in and out of the clouds and provided just enough light to prevent him having to grab a lantern. The other three horses, Dutch’s thoroughbred and the shires used for the wagon, left heavy divots in the soft soil of the forest floor. Arthur tucked his chin into his jacket to keep from being buffeted by the winds. The rain swished back and forth, providing no way to avoid getting soaked through.
Arthur didn’t have to walk far to find the rest of their horses. Their heads hovered low to the forest floor, eyes half shut in a gentle doze. They gathered by a copse of trees, mostly sheltered against the miserable spring weather.
Lucky Penny whinnied at the sight of her friends and Constantine tugged his way over to say hello. Arthur gave Constantine a solid pat before heading back up the slope. They’d be just as content out here in their little herd as he and the rest of the gang in their tents. Maybe a bit damp, but warm and together and having plenty of food around.
Arthur scanned the shadowy forest, searching for a sign that John had been nearby. The brat wouldn’t’ve run away? Nah, not in this weather, not without a horse, neither. He’d been with them long enough Arthur should’ve known better than to think it. But somewhere in his heart he couldn’t help but wonder. Even he still had the thought to just pick up and go. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere alone, if only for a while before returning to Dutch and Hosea and Grimshaw.
Once Arthur could find no sign of the boy and reasoned he couldn’t or wouldn’t have wanted to have gotten far, he began calling.
“Marston!” Arthur pushed aside a bramble to push deeper into the woods. He woulda seen some trace or run into him if he’d been heading back towards their camp. Unless the boy got lost in the short distance. No matter the miserable, dark night, not even Marston could manage that without some serious question to his mind.
“Marston, where are you?” Even with Arthur’s uncannily booming voice, the wind whipped the words from his mouth. Arthur squinted into the dark. The vague outline of bushes and trees was about all that could be made out in the poor light. Where the hell was this kid?
“John!” He shouted even louder this time, a two-strand rope of frustration and anxiety tying itself in his stomach. Of course, he’d be the one to have to solve the messes. First standing out in the cold at the saloon, cleaning up the end of Hosea’s hustle, now finding little Johnny Marston who couldn’t even manage to stay out of trouble while getting the horses to bed down for the night.
Arthur trudged up the hill. Maybe the kid had just taken another route back and he’d missed him heading back to camp. He called John’s name once more, not wanting to backtrack just yet. Though the thought of warming his hands alongside the older men sounded real nice right about now.
“Arthur…!” The raspy word sounded hollow, floating on the wind. Arthur perked up, scanning the forest as if John would suddenly jump out from behind a tree.
“Marston?” He turned toward the voice.
“Arthur!”
He was still a ways off. Why he was shouting for him, Arthur had no idea, but his gut pronounced it no good on that alone. He picked up the pace, nearly jogging now through the trees.
“John, where are you, boy?” He pushed past the rain-laden oaks and maples and birches, nearly losing his footing on the slippery ferns infesting the underbrush. He caught onto one half of a split tree trunk and stopped. “John!”
“Arthur!” John was close by, but the wind and rain and dark made it near impossible to tell where the kid had gotten to. “Don't keep movin’. I’m down here…”
Arthur strained to see what ‘down here’ meant exactly. He leaned forward, and tightened his grip on the trunk, taking a step back. The split tree perched itself right on the edge of a drop-off. Its roots looped in and out of the corroded rocky soil. Had it not been for John’s warning, he mighta gone straight over without a second thought. The small cliff was nearly hidden in the trees and cover of night. It must’ve been no more than twelve feet, but even then, that’s quite a fall in the dark. Then that coil of anxiety tightened.
“Are you alright? I can’t see you,” Arthur said. He wiped the rain from his eyes, hoping to at least see something helpful, but the clouds had completely blotted out any useful light.
When John didn’t answer for a moment, Arthur’s skin began to itch. He paced the ledge. It must slope down somewhere, but if it did, he had no way to know without leaving John. He still had his lasso. Maybe he could get it tied around a nearby tree, or haul John up, if he could be hauled up.
“I’m over here,” a quick movement near the base of the cliff caught Arthur’s attention. In a brief appearance from the moon, he caught sight of the boy’s pale face peeking out from under his dark hat. He was sat underneath a tree. Had it not been for his tone of voice, Arthur would have thought he’d been just taking a rest after a nice midnight stroll in the rain.
“Are you hurt? I’m gonna throw a rope down,” he called.
“I’m… fine,” John replied. “Could you get down here? An’ hurry up, it’s freezing!” Of course the boy would be trying to boss him around, even now.
“What’s wrong with you? Don’t you got two working legs?” Arthur began to unravel his rope, looping one end around a nearby oak. When only a thick silence answered him, a quick wave of panic rolled through him. “Shit, you didn’t break your leg, did you?” His hands worked faster at the knot.
“No, it didn’t break my goddamn leg,” the indignant answer followed. Well, good to see John was still John. “I just…”
Arthur slid down the slick drop off, and headed to the boy, getting a good look at his state for the first time. John didn’t break his leg but something was wrong.
“Well, hell…” Arthur sighed, bracing his hands on his hips. John was half sat with his back against the trunk of a tree, one leg raised to his chest and the other splayed out in front of him, not wearing a boot on that foot. Arthur’s stomach flipped and he understood why. John’s foot twisted at an angle that had Arthur’s stomach flip. Even in the dark, it looked bad. No way could John have even tried to get back up the ledge. Arthur quickly turned away from the injury, making sure nothing else was wrong. Besides some mud and scratches, John had tucked his arms in as close as he could, no doubt as cold or colder than Arthur.
“I just think my ankle might be broke.”
“Yeah,” Arthur nodded grimly. “I think you might actually be right with that one.” He crossed his own arms, trying to decide what to do next. “So, did you lose your boot and your senses when you fell?”
John’s face scrunched at the insult. After getting closer, Arthur could see just how drawn and pale the boy was. The ankle must’ve hurt like hell for him to be so visibly affected.
“‘Sea says things like this’ll swell. And these are new boots, I don’t wanna have to ruin ‘em,” John spat. “Besides, it'll hurt more later won't it?”
Arthur grunted in a begrudging approval. He had to agree there. He’d be avoiding a lot more of John’s awful yowling when he gets him back for Grimshaw or Hosea to wrap the boy up. Now, he just needed to get him back in the first place.
“Alright, you’re right. Let’s just get you outta here.” He held out a hand. John hesitated, snatched his boot lying off in the mud, and grabbed onto Arthur, hoisting himself onto one foot with his other hand.
He grimaced and hissed as his sock caught on a briar, but carried on, hopping like a fledgling robin. Arthur frowned and rolled his eyes. Again, torn between his frustrations and worry.
“Jesus, get over here,” he muttered and pulled John’s arm up, hoisting the scrawny teen onto his back with a short yelp. “Hang on. I can’t climb the rope and hold onto you at the same time.”
John dutifully kept his mouth shut and dug his knees into Arthur’s sides. He clasped his hands over Arthur’s shoulders, letting his boot leave muddy marks across his jacket. Well, the kid sure wasn’t gonna fall now. Arthur grunted from John’s bony knees pushing against vital organs and grabbed onto his dangling lasso.
“Don’t drop me, or I’ll fill your cot with beetles,” John threatened. Even so, Arthur could hear a faint thread of fear in his sullen voice.
“I ain’t gonna,” Arthur said. Taking pity on John’s foolishness he added, “Just hang in there. We’ll get you fixed up and no need for beetles. Hosea’s probably got some stories for you when you get back, anyway. Maybe it’ll give you time to think up something better than the fact you tripped down a hill.”
“Like you wouldn’t have done the same thing if I hadn’t told you that “hill” was even there!” John gripped. But whatever else he might’ve added to his case got caught short once Arthur started making his way up the muddy incline.
He winced in sympathy as John’s ankle brushed against rocks and roots in his path, and jostled against Arthur. To John’s credit, he didn’t make a peep. That in itself had Arthur climbing quick as he could without shaking John off his back. Arthur managed to reach the top despite the rain-soaked rope and dicy terrain. He tried to ignore John’s ragged breath and trembling, untying his lasso and rapidly looping it onto his belt.
“Need a break?” He asked.
John just shook his head against Arthur’s shoulder. Now with two free hands, Arthur hoisted John up so he could slump almost limply against his back. Arthur didn’t mind. Even with John shooting up like a beanstalk, looking to pass up Arthur once he reached adulthood, he still must’ve been half Arthur’s weight.
“C’mon it’s not far now,” he grunted. John didn’t raise his head from where it was mushed into Arthur’s jacket. The cold brim of his hat pressed uncomfortably into Arthur’s neck, letting icy rain run down his collar. He let it go, just this once. Besides, if John was feeling any better and knew his act peeved Arthur, he’d manage to find a way to drench him even more.
Arthur focused on picking his way back toward camp. He carefully stepped over and around each obstacle looking to pull him off his feet. If he dropped the boy, he couldn’t imagine the trouble he’d find himself in.
“Almost there,” he mumbled, trying just to find something to fill the silence other than John’s noisy breath in his ear, the occasional wince, and the snapping of wet twigs underfoot.
The camp truly hadn’t been far from where John had fallen, but Arthur still sighed with relief when he spotted a warm orange glow and the shadowy geometric shapes of a wagon and some tents up ahead in the clearing.
“Don’t worry Dutch, I’ve got Little Johnny, I know you were oh so worried!” Arthur called out, earning him a sharp jab to his side.
Both Dutch and Hosea rose from their spots when they caught sight of Arthur carrying their youngest boy back. John perked up for a moment and set the full weight of his sharp chin on the tender spot of Arthur’s shoulder. Arthur considered how much trouble he’d be in if he dropped him. Before Arthur could follow through and get rid of his troublesome cargo, Dutch rushed up to peel him off his back.
“Jesus, John, what happened?”
The boy recoiled like a feral cat at the touch, but settled once Dutch set him down and he got his good foot under him. Hosea gingerly took his boot from his hand so the boy could balance on Dutch’s arm.
“Fell,” he bit out.
“Says his ankle might be broken,” he said. Arthur began shaking out the water from his jacket where the creases collected little reservoirs.
Hosea stood back beside Arthur with a grimace of worry plastered across his face. Dutch was already leading the boy to sit beside the fire, asking about what happened.
“Well, thank you for fetching him, Arthur,” Hosea said. “We’ve got him from here.” The older man started toward his tent to gather what he’d need to fix up that ankle and any other scraps they found. “Go get some rest.”
Arthur didn’t doubt they’d be pulling out blankets and medical supplies in no time. Not one to argue with his instructions, Arthur began making his way back towards his and John’s tent. With only the relief of the boy off his shoulders, Arthur lifted one of the flaps to settle in for the night, but paused and looked over his shoulder.
Dutch had one arm over John’s shoulder. The boy’s face screwed up painfully from Hosea’s methodical prodding. Arthur decided he didn’t want any more part in the babysitting tonight. No, no need to watch them treat the injury. He’d no doubt make both John and himself feel worse if he stayed to watch. John had both Dutch and Hosea and didn’t need a third bystander to pity him. Arthur turned away.
He tried brushing off the dirt from his front, just smearing it further. Arthur huffed and stripped off the jacket, his boots, his jeans. He tossed the pile at the foot of his bed, leaving just his mostly dry underclothes on. He curled into his cot, tucking himself under his thick blanket before John could come back and demand the thing from him.
Arthur had managed to settle in just in time to try and ignore the bad business of whatever treatment Hosea had determined would do. The blustering night did nothing to mute John’s pained cries and curses. Arthur just pulled his pillow over his ears. He’d be fine. It hadn’t been anything permanent, nothing a few weeks of rest couldn’t heal. But each agitated noise hit him like a punch to the gut. For John’s sake, Arthur hoped Hosea would work faster or whatever pain reliever they gave the boy would dull his senses quicker.
Finally, the night quieted. It felt like the entire forest had a chance to catch its breath. The wind died down for a moment, rain coming on heavier now. Arthur removed the pillow, tucking it comfortably under his weary head, but he couldn’t sleep just yet.
Even from inside the tent, he could hear the fussing from the others. Hosea fussing over how agitated and swollen John’s ankle already seemed to be, Dutch fussing over how John had gone and got himself into another scrape, and John fussing more than the two combined about how he was fine and that Hosea needed to “quit wrapping so goddamn tight.”
Arthur smirked and a little of the tension in his back eased. They was all in for even more fussing once Miss Grimshaw woke in the morning and would feel the need to reassess Hosea’s work, surely riling John up again. Right now, he was just grateful the woman slept like the dead and prayed the noise didn’t wake her. That did not sound pleasant in any way. Not his problem, now. Hopefully not in the morning, neither, though Dutch would no doubt have something for Arthur to do as soon as the sun rose. Probably to go and fetch the horses. He dreaded going out again into that awful terrain. The rain would probably continue through the night. At this rate, the hollow would be flooded by the time he’d even find the damn horses. But that’s just the way things happened. He’d need to pull his weight the same as everyone else. Not that John really counted right now.
Times like this, Arthur wondered how their little gang would get on without him. He certainly thought they’d be just fine if they’d never brought him along, raising him, putting food in his belly, clothes on his back, and at least some sense in his head. Hosea would have to get Dutch to watch his back while he hustled some drunk townies. Not like they’d already been doing that when Arthur hadn’t yet filled out into the man he was now. And then John. Well… John.
A soft thud thud thud crept closer to the tent. Someone pushed the canvas flap open.
“—on’t put any weight on it,” Hosea ordered. “If you need something, just holler or wake Arthur.” Of course.
John thudded his way over to his own cot with a little help from Hosea. Arthur cracked one eye open. The older man tucked John’s pillow under the wrapped ankle. Arthur grimaced at the joint that had doubled in size.
“Goodnight boys,” Hosea whispered in the dark once he was satisfied with John’s condition. “And John, don’t touch it or it won’t heal right. I mean it.”
“Yeah, yeah, you told me already,” John said, but Hosea had already left them. His voice had gone thick and hoarse from all his shouting and struggling. Arthur couldn’t blame him. The boy twisted as far as he could away from Arthur without moving his leg, bunching up his blanket under one arm and around his chin. They both closed their eyes. The rain tapped lightly against the tarp over their tent. Hosea and Dutch continued a short muted conversation by the fire before turning in for the night.
The mess of the day, cold and dreary, was done.
A toad croaked in the night.
John’s cot creaked and rattled as he moved onto his other side. The kid couldn’t stay still even asleep, although from the unnerved feeling in the back of Arthur’s mind, he had the sense that wasn’t the case.
“Arthur,” John whispered. Yep, there it was.
“I’m trying to sleep.”
“I wanna tell you something.”
“Tell me tomorrow. I’m tired.”
John grunted in exasperation. “I wanna tell you now.”
Arthur gave a long-suffering sigh, rolling his eyes and slowly tilting his head enough to meet Marston’s big dark eyes staring back at him.
“What?”
Of course, as soon as Arthur asked, John turned to stare at the ceiling, going suddenly quiet. Arthur kept on looking. If he tried rolling over again the boy would just keep pestering him and he’d have to go through this whole rigmarole again.
“I… uh…” John started. He cleared his throat, voice still not its normal pitch. “Um. Thanks. For looking for me.” The gratitude sounded like someone had just drawn Marston’s deepest darkest secret from him at gunpoint.
A soft breathy laugh escaped Arthur.
“Don’t mention it. I ain’t do all the much. You weigh about as much as a pea, anyway.”
John’s face contorted like whoever was holding him at gunpoint had now just robbed him blind, too.
“Yeah, but—but you didn’t have to look for me. Like,” he swallowed. “I don’t know when Dutch and Hosea would’ve started looking.” The unsaid if they ever would have hung in the air between the two cots. Arthur knew they would look, at least eventually. Dutch had always been more aloof to the whereabouts of his boys, but Hosea at least had asked about him. Had the most sense out of all of them. John didn’t know all that. But still, shame and anger welled up in Arthur’s gut, picturing Dutch alone at the fire, cheery and content while John must’ve been waiting for someone to notice he was gone, unable to crawl back on his own.
“Just, thanks for looking, is all,” John said, and aggressively rolled back to lay face-to-face with the canvas. He tucked one arm under his shaggy dark hair.
“I’ll always come get you, John,” Arthur said lowly, almost speaking into his pillow. “You don’t gotta worry about that.”
He wasn’t sure if John heard it. The boy certainly hadn’t fallen asleep yet. Unlike Arthur, he seemed to need more time than the blowing of a candle to start snoozing.
With no response, Arthur also turned onto his side, wrapping himself up in his blanket. His fingers and toes finally warmed from the heat inside the tight cocoon he rolled himself into. His eyelids closed, too heavy to stay up waiting for another quip or question from John. Sleep began to fall on him like a soft wave of sunshine, a feeling sorely missed. Just as the first thread of a dream crept along the edges of Arthur’s consciousness, a small voice broke the spell.
“…thanks,” John whispered. “Night, Arthur.”
With no one to catch him, Arthur smiled to himself, a real, rare smile. Another kind of warmth flooded his chest.
Dutch and Hosea and Miss Grimshaw didn’t need someone like him. No, he was certain they could do his work themselves or find someone else for it. But John? Well, John couldn’t keep himself out of trouble any more than you could keep a raccoon out of the trash. And while the boy had his annoyances and sharp tongue and enough energy to put a wild Mustang to shame, Arthur couldn’t imagine not having the little delinquent in his life.
Yes, they both had Dutch and they had Hosea and they had Miss Grimshaw. But John had Arthur.
“Night, John.”