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Dutch had betrayed him. Betrayed them. Tried to kill him and Arthur, to leave them to the Pinkertons. Only to follow Micah again, that goddamn snake. After all Arthur and him had given him? All they did for him?
It made John sick.
The feeling of Arthur’s hat on his head had only worsened the feeling. It weighed a ton.
He wasn’t able to stop the tears rolling down his face, the loss of his only brother too heavy on his shoulders to be able to, as he kept running down that mountain. The gunshots were echoing on every rock, following him like a death sentence, a ghost trying to get him. He was tempted to turn back and look, to try to see Arthur one last time before he really disappeared out of his life, but--
Don’t look back.
He wouldn’t.
John had to find Abigail and Jack. Copperhand Landing. He had to get there. He had to be fast. Both the tears and the wound on his shoulder were slowing him down, but he would find them, be it the last thing he did.
He made it to O’Creagh’s Run, almost stumbling directly into the water in his blind run - and wouldn’t that be quite a pathetic way to die after everything? But he didn’t, and instead looked around, looking for the road, for any passerby on a horse he could steal to go back to his family, to hold them, protect them--
The early sunlight suddenly shone on the golden coat of a horse, hitched in front of a house.
Here was his way out.
John walked his way to the homestead, one hand still on his shoulder, gun still clutched in his fist, and he started to whisper soft words to the horse, the big Warmblood lifting his head. Unluckily for him, the stallion immediately flattened his ears on his skull, stomping lightly on the ground with contained hostility, and let out a loud whine.
“C’mon boy,” John still tried, ignoring the desperation leaking in his voice. He raised his hand toward the horse’s muzzle, only to almost have a finger chopped off. “Damnit!”
“You ain’t gonna have any chance taming that ol’ bastard, I tell ya!”
John jumped at the sound of the voice, raising his good arm to aim at the man at the entrance of the house, only to find himself face to face with the double-barrel of a shotgun.
That ain’t how I’m gonna die , he angrily thought, pictures of Abigail and Jack flashing in his mind.
“Sorry, mister,” John said, letting the gun go loose in his hand, raising his other arm as high as he could, taking a step backward. “Didn’t mean no arm.”
“Don’t move another bit,” the man warned him, and John stopped. His hazel eyes travel through him, the barrel not leaving him. “You don’t seem in too good a shape,” the man mumbled, almost only to himself. John pressed his lips as he kept studying him. His gaze then stopped at the top of his head, eyes widening. “Where you got that hat, boy?”
John didn’t miss the threatening note in his voice, not fooled by how old the man looked. He had to swallow the lump in his throat, grief almost overwhelming him, before he could speak. “I-It’s my brother’s.”
The man dropped his gun down, looking utterly bewildered. “You’re Arthur’s brother?”
Both relief and sorrow fell on him at the same time. “Yeah, I-I am.” He let his injured arm fall, bringing back a hand over the wound. “You know--” His throat closed on itself for a second, pain choking him, before he could speak again. “Knew Arthur?” Oh, did it hurt to say that.
The man frowned, his bushy eyebrows covering his eyelids. “Yeah. I know him.” He looked him up and down one last time, then got down off his porch, joining him on the cold grass. “Hamish Sinclair.”
“John Marston,” John nodded. “L-look, I-I’m sorry to ask, but, my family, I-I need to find them back, to--” C’mon Marston, get yourself together, you ain’t twelve anymore--!
“Woah, slow down son,” Hamish said, his voice way softer than before; John felt like a spooked horse being soothed. “That why you were trying to rob ol’ Buell here?” He nodded; talking suddenly felt too much. Hamish hummed, passing a contemplative hand over his grey beard. “Where’s your family?”
“Copperhand Landing,” John answered without second thoughts. Maybe he should have doubted this stranger a bit more, be more wary of him but-- He recognized Arthur’s hat. It had to mean something.
“Alright then,” Hamish nodded, turning around and mounting up his golden horse. “C’mon, get on, I’ll get you there.”
John stared at him for a good five seconds, struck by this man’s kindness, the easiness at offering help to someone he didn’t know.
He holstered his gun, realizing the gunshots in the mountain had stopped for quite a time now, and mounted up behind Hamish.
***
John knew that one of his greatest flaws was that he sometimes ran his mouth too much. If given the occasion, he would talk, say what’s on his mind, or else he would be drowned by his own thoughts. Too honest , Hosea once told him, fondness in his eyes.
It’s that goddamn honesty that made him talk to Hamish. It only took one question.
“So… How did you end up with Arthur’s hat?”
The thing still weighted so heavy on his head, just like the old satchel on his shoulder; all of Arthur’s belonging, the precious items he liked to keep, the cash he had stored once things started to go south, his journal--
He ended up spilling everything to Hamish. The Pinkertons, the run, the deaths. Mac, Davey, Jenny. Sean, Hosea, Lenny. Molly, Susan. Arthur.
John wished he could hold down the tears, but his blurred eyes seemed to disagree.
“Don’t be ashamed of crying,” Hamish told him solemnly, sorrow and anger in his voice. “Don’t ever be ashamed of crying for the people you loved.”
So John pressed a hand over his mouth to muffled his whimpered breaths and cry over the deaths of his loved ones.
***
When they finally reached Copperhand Landing, just around noon, the place was completely empty.
“No,” John breathed out, desperation clinging to his skin like the goddamn humidity of those goddamn swamps. “No no no --”
Hamish’s hands fell on his shoulders before he could make it to the destroyed frame of the house - he hadn’t even realized he was walking on the dampened ground.
“Calm down, John,” he said in a commanding but gentle voice. How could he ask him to calm down when his child and wife were nowhere in sight--! “This ain’t over yet.” He patted his shoulders once, then let go of him. “Now tell me, son, how are your tracking skills?”
Only one part of the sentence registered to him, making his blood flare with low anger. “Don’t call me son,” he growled.
Hamish blinked, and John immediately regretted his words - he wasn’t in front of Dutch anymore - but then the man chuckled heartily. “Glad to see there’s still some fire in you!” He laughed, shaking his head slightly. “C’mon, let’s find tracks to lead you back to your family.”
Finding tracks in the mud wasn’t so difficult, by itself, but where John only saw footprints, Hamish could differentiate them. Two horses, three adults and one child. They had stayed for a moment, stepping around, but ultimately left, right toward Saint Denis.
They’re fine, John kept telling himself, heart leaping in his throat at the mention of his son. They’re fine, and I’ll get back to them.
But, damnit, if any God was upthere, they really loved playing tricks on him, bringing him once again into the evil place that was Saint Denis. And how was he supposed to find them in this fucking city? Where could they have gone? John tried to think about it as Buell carried them through the swamps, the heat of the day reaching its peak and the dampness sticking to his clothes, his hair, his hat-- Arthur’s hat.
A boat? He doubted it; after all the lies and the fear Dutch had fed them, neither Sadie nor Abigail would try it. Would they have tried to flee to the west, where they were always supposed to go, and camp in the wilderness? That would mean putting Jack at risk and there was no way his mother would allow it. Actually, she would think of Jack’s safety first. Where would he be the safest?
“They've ridden into the city,” Hamish told him, Buell’s hooves echoing onto the paved roads. “Any idea where they might’ve gone?”
“None,” John said, his mind slowly but surely shutting down, the exhaustion of the night catching up with him. God, he was so tired.
Hamish slightly turned to him, his eyes meeting his, slowing his stallion to a small trot. “How’s the shoulder?”
Painful. “M’fine.”
The rider hummed, skeptical. “Maybe we should--”
“I’m fine. I’ll take care of it later.”
“... Alright then.”
Hamish turned back toward the road as John started to stare at the people walking on the street, trying to catch sight of his lost family, to no avail. C’mon John! he scolded himself. He blinked a few times, pushing the shadows creeping on his vision. Use your brain for once, you goddamn idiot!
The idea crashed on him when he noticed a man carrying his tired and sleeping daughter in his arms.
“A hotel,” he breathed, barely registering the words himself.
“You think that’s where they went?”
“I ain’t sure, but-- Jack’s only four, he’ll need rest.”
Hamish turned around again, disbelief on his face. “You had a four years old child in a camp full of outlaws? ”
“Ain’t asking for your lessons and judgement, old man,” John growled, really not in the mood to have his life’s choices questioned - as if he didn’t do that himself already.
Said old man huffed a laugh, eyes going back on the road, leading Buell on a side street. “See I hit a nerve.”
John deflated slightly behind him, realizing how mean he sounded. “Sorry,” he mumbled.
“No need,” Hamish reassured him, turning Buell once again, seeming to know where he was going. “You’re on edge. Quite understandable, after the night you got.”
John sheepishly looked away, even though the man couldn’t see him. He might be on edge, and tired, and hurt, but that didn’t give him the right to be an asshole to the only person helping him right now. Or maybe it did. He didn’t know.
As his eyes drifted away again, both searching and passing through people without seeing them, he suddenly noticed a bright yellow dress. He perked up, knowing this dress way too well, and almost fell off Buell as he recognized Tilly.
“Tilly,” he whispered, eyes glued to his dear friend as she was about to disappear behind a building. Hamish glanced at him, stopping Buell, and hope finally bloomed in his heart. “Tilly!”
The girl stopped, looking around to whoever might have called her, surprise and confusion written all over her face. John dismounted the stallion, almost falling when he hit the ground, barely keeping his balance, and immediately started to run toward her. She finally noticed him, her dark brown eyes widening in shock, and John saw her mouthing his name.
Tilly welcomed him with open arms, embracing him tightly as he did the same, clutching her in his hold, so glad to see she was fine.
“You’re alive,” she said after a moment, pushing herself out of his arms. “Oh, God, John, we thought you was dead, Micah told us that you didn’t make it, that Dutch couldn’t save you, and-- is that Arthur’s hat?”
John stared at her for a second, having forgotten about it entirely, then nodded once, lips tightly pressed. Tears started to appear in Tilly’s eyes, and she opened her mouth to say something, ask, and he shook his head, feeling the immeasurable weight on his skull again. “Later, Tilly, I promise,” he said in a hushed voice. “Are you with Jack and Abigail?” he added, more frantically. “D’you know where they are?”
Tilly gaze flicked between his eyes, fell for a second on his injured shoulder, then to something past him. John saw her frown, all traces of sorrow vanished, replaced by a scowl. “That feller with you, John?” she asked in a threatening tone just as he turned around to see Hamish walking to them, Buell reins in hand.
The man huffed a laugh, greeting her with two fingers. “Milady.”
“Yeah,” John answered hastily. “Tilly, meet Hamish Sinclair. Hamish, here’s Tilly Jackson.”
“I thought you looked a bit young to be his wife,” Hamish joked around, hitching Buell to one of those poles with a horse head.
She eyed him suspiciously for a second, then a grin stretched her features. “I ain’t much younger than him, mister,” Tilly answered.
“Alright, that’s great,” John interrupted them, turning back to her. He tried to stretch his shoulders, shaking of the tiredness, and winced when a shot of pain rang through his entire chest and arm. Tilly noticed, of course, and placed a hand on his good arm, concern in her gaze. “M’fine,” he grumbled, jaws clenched hard. He let out a shaking breath. “Tell me you know where Jack and Abigail are.”
“I do,” Tilly confirmed quickly, lifting a burden off his shoulders. “C’mon, I’ll lead you to them.” She started to walk back the way she came, and John followed despite his aching legs. “Sadie rented us all rooms in Hotel Grand. Gotta put the money you boys got to use.” John didn’t even know the gang had managed to rob this goddamn train. Well, at least, the others didn’t escape with all of it.
Images of the night suddenly flashed before him - Dutch’s gun aimed at them, Bill and Javier behind him, gunshots passing by his ears as Arthur and him rode fast, the trees a blur by his sides, Arthur placing his hat on top of his head, holding his shoulder tightly one last time--
“You with us, John?”
“Yeah,” he answered to Hamish, yanked out of his mind. Jack and Abigail, he had to focus on them, not on anything else.
Hamish hummed quietly beside him, Tilly entering the large building of the hotel. “You don’t look like it.”
“I’m fine,” he said for what felt like the thousandth time.
Hamish hummed again as they reached the fancy door of a room, Tilly knocking twice quickly, three times slowly, and one last time after a second.
“Come in,” answered Abigail’s muffled voice, and John’s mind went blank.
He didn’t realize he had opened the door before the deep blue-green eyes of his wife were on him, circled in red. She gasped at the sigh of him, bringing her hands to her mouth, tears already appearing in her gaze.
“John,” she whispered in a shaky breath, and he crossed the short distance between them to bring her to his chest. Her arms encircled him, holding him tight, and he pressed a kiss on her forehead, stroking her back lightly with one hand, the other at the back of her neck, entangling his fingers in her hair.
“Oh, John, John,” she whimpered on him, shoulders shakened by tired sobs. “I thought-- Oh, I thought you were dead, Arthur, he-he told me you either got killed or captured and he--”
“I know,” he whispered softly. “I’m sorry for worrying you, Abigail. I should’ve listened to you and Hosea, leave this life way sooner--”
“Papa!” John looked up at the sound of his son’s voice, his heart squeezing, still not used to the name. Jack was standing up on the bed, hair a mess and in pajamas, a wide smile plastered on his face, and he jumped once, clearly happy. “You’re back!” He took a few steps toward the end of the mattress, and John barely had the time to get away from Abigail before the boy jumped into his arms.
Another pang of pain shot through his shoulder as he received his son, tightly embracing him as he giggled happily in his ears. A few black spots appeared in his vision, but he quickly blinked them away, not wanting to faint with Jack in his arms. He made a beeline for the bed, sitting heavily on it, letting his son sit on his lap as Abigail watched him with worried eyes, noticing his injury.
“John, you’re--!”
“I’m fine,” he lied, because, clearly, he wasn’t. She sent him a look, seeing right through him. “I’ll be,” he added. “I just need-- rest.”
“A’right,” suddenly came Hamish’s voice, all their attention turning to him. He didn’t even waver under it. “Guess that my clue to leave.” He tilted his head in a silent farewell, smiling at their reunion. “Do knock on my door if you ever come around O’Creagh’s again.”
“Thank you, Hamish,” he said sincerely. He didn’t know how he would have found them without his help.
“No problem, John.”
“Who was that?” Abigail asked him once the man had left, coming to sit next to him.
“One of Arthur’s friends,” John answered. They shared a long look, a feeling passing between them, Abigail looking at the hat then back in his eyes. She tilted her head slightly, a pleading light in her gaze, and John could only tightly clench his jaw and press his lips in answer.
Jack perked up at the name, pushing himself away from his father’s chest. “Uncle Arthur, he helped us,” he said in a high serious voice, and deeply frown. “But grampa Dutch, he didn’t want to.” John couldn’t help but smile at the upset pout, even though the reminder of his mentor's betrayal left a sour taste at the back of his throat. “Papa, where’s Uncle Arthur?” Jack asked then, his brown eyes boring into his. “Is he okay?”
“He--” John started, lifting a hand toward the hat on his head. “H-he’s gone, Jack,” he finished softly. To say it out loud brought a new reality to his brother’s death, and he barely managed to push his tears away. “Uncle Arthur’s gone.”
John saw Abigail turning away from the corner of his eyes as Jack only stared at him, the news sinking in slowly. The boy made a sad face then, looking down on John’s lap. “Oh.”
“I’m sorry, son,” John said, rubbing Jack’s arms up and down. “I know you loved him.” John had been so jealous of that, at first, that Jack would go to Arthur so easily while it was so difficult for him to be a father. Now, this jealousy just left him feeling guilty.
“Yeah,” Jack nodded, looking back up at him. “You loved him too, Papa.”
John’s breath hitched, suddenly overwhelmed by everything he pushed away to be able to reach his family. He brought his son yet again to his chest - and he didn’t know if it was for Jack’s sake or his own - and closed his eyes as new tears started to spill out of them.
“Yeah,” he answered after a moment, rocking his son on his lap. “Yeah, I loved him.”
Jack, the sweet boy, patted his back in a comforting way, tearing a strangled laugh out of him.
John vaguely heard Tilly and Abigail speaking quietly, Sadie joining them at some point, but right now, he didn’t care what they could say. He was back with his family, surrounded by people he loved. And even if many were missing, he knew he would be fine.