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Charles can tell a lot about a man by the weapons wields. It's some mark of history, of skill and effort, an indication of how he prefers to kill. Charles is partial to bows and knives over anything else because he doesn't, though it's not like he's a hesitant draw.
Machetes and hatchets are for men who prefer to do their killing up close and personal, who need the warm run of red over their hands and the light dying in their victim's eyes for whatever reason. Sometimes it's the thrill, sometimes it's to kill any ambiguity in violence, sometimes it's revenge and retribution.
Men who prefer rifles tend to be smart, cautious, good at seeing the bigger picture. That or cowards, but Charles likes to think himself the former. They distance themselves, make the violence part of something else, complicate cause and effect, the pull of a trigger not death but a simple movement, no blood or gurgled moans.
Repeaters and pistols are for spree killing. For dropping bodies faster than they can drop him. For bloodbath and protection and a warning. Repeaters have more power, less accuracy, and men carry pistols like a flag, like intimidation is a weapon on its own, like a promise. It's why Charles carries his.
Revolvers are similar but worse. The shoot speed is lower, the capacity of six bullets limiting and dangerous for a gunslinger, but it’s more reliable, less likely to jam or stall. Every bullet has to be accounted for, and the target of every shot must be chosen with microseconds to spare. It’s a gun carried by swaggering idiots, by brutes, and by the very, very good.
It's fitting, then, that he meets the barrel of Arthur's pristine Cattleman before the man himself.
Charles finds bounty hunting a little distasteful, but only because he doesn’t enjoy feeling like a hypocrite. He’s killed enough people and stolen enough things that he knows his head probably has a bounty on it somewhere and that fact makes walking into a sheriff's office something between amusing and dangerous.
Still, the local lawmen seem desperate, so the money's good. Besides, a dark-skinned man in town with a fishhook scar curving from his upper lip to his cheek told Charles the bounty they want him to bring in is hunting colored folks for sport.
Wyland Averies is wanted for harassing some banker's wife but, apologies to the lady, it's not her he's hunting this scum for.
It's early morning in the foothills of Wyoming, way out in the West. The sun hasn't broken through night's grip yet, and everything is grey and cold. Charles takes a deep breath and observes the dewy fog as it thickens with the sun’s rise, droplets opaque and prismatic. The tracks of his target are easy to follow in the soft soil and mark themselves going West, maybe a few hours ahead of him. He hopes to catch Averies before he escapes into the Western mountains looming over the crumbling prairie, but Charles will pursue him either way.
Taima trots along as Charles directs, her gait steady and strong even with the light sweat breaking out on her flanks and shoulder. He will have to reward her for the long ride out, will perhaps use a portion of his bounty to give her a few night's rest in a stable if he can find a place willing to take his coin.
Charles checks the tracks again as he crests over the hill, the bent grass speaking to him of his prey–the other man's horse is lame, its stride off and uneven on the right hind. He'll have to stop soon or the beast will give out, willing or not. Charles will be there when he does.
Charles follows the tracks another mile or so, the sun rising on his shoulders. Taima's ears prick and she whickers softly, her head turning to look past the next hill. A pile of horse dung sits fresh and green along the tracks. Charles dismounts, pats Taima on her sweaty shoulder and gives her a carrot and some ginseng to help her recover for the trip back. Her soft nose butts against his hand, affectionate, her dark eyes bright. She could keep going for days and has for him before.
Charles draws his rifle and his bow. His pistol is holstered at his hip and his knives against his thigh. He's got a length of rope coiled on his belt too, just in case the other guy gets lucky and Charles happens to catch him alive rather than killing him outright.
He thinks of the stories the man with the fishhook scar told him, about the way his target hunted people who couldn’t fight back and the cruel ways he harmed them. Charles is honest enough to admit he does not intend to let Averies get lucky.
Charles gets low to the ground and crests the next hill as the tracks curl around its shoulder. There's a dry creek bed winding between the crease of the hills, and Averies is camped out in it.
Charles presses down, belly to the wet earth, and watches, waiting.
The campfire is small and made from twigs and brush that won't smoke too much as it burns, which makes Charles reluctantly reevaluate the man's intelligence. Hiding in these hills people will see smoke for miles around, but if he's gonna have a fire setting one in a creek bed that will wash the evidence away and just after dawn is the smart way to do it.
Charles watches. The target is awake, puttering around the campfire. He's swearing at his horse as he rubs liniment oil into its right hind leg. It's useless, really, the leg is visibly swollen up to the hock from even Charles’ vantage, and he could tell from the tracks that the poor thing foundered ages ago. Riding it out here in the first place was cruel, and Charles can see bloodied whipmarks in the froth of the beast’s sweat.
Charles's jaw tightens, his lips press together. He already hated this man, but he keeps making it easier to do so.
Averies stands, stretching. He walks over to his tent, the back of which is angled toward Charles. He can't see inside the lean-to, and considers moving when hears the jangle of tack and the soft chip of hooves and steel against loose gravel. Three horses curl around the corner travelling up the river from the opposite direction Charles had come. A beautiful white horse, a grey pinto, and a horse the color of dry blood in the morning sun.
There are three riders to match their horses–the man in the lead wore a red vest and a black hat. The two gunslingers behind him are unremarkable except for the weapons they’re packing, the firepower overkill for lone, cowardly Averies.
“Git on, away from here,” Averies warns. Charles can't see him but he hears the pump of his shotgun–simple, easy to use, and slow, just like Averies.
“Is that our man, Missus Haywood?” The man on the white horse asks. He speaks with a lilt, with a drawl like he's shaping every word into a poem or a knife. “This is the man who killed your husband and beat on your boy?”
A dark woman leans over from behind the rider on the grey pinto, her eyes narrowed and fierce, her hands clenching around the waist of the man in front of her.
“Tha's him,” she confirms. She leans forward, almost tipping off the rump of the horse, “Tha's the man who murdered my Jackson and broke my Henry's ribs.”
The red horse prances. The rider settles her with a soft word, too low for Charles to catch this far away. The rider's eyes are hidden under the brim of his hat, but his hands never inch far from his waist.
“Some serious accusations,” the man on the white horse says, his voice severe and heavy like a judge's gavel, but his eyes are flashing in the early light, dark and shiny like beetles. “What do you have to say for yourself, Averies?”
“I don't give no shits about some Darkie's word and neither do anyone else,” Averies spits. He lets off a warning shot. “You best be on your way before I make ya.”
It's an empty threat. There's three men to his one and if he's carrying half so many weapons Charles would be surprised.
“Oh we care about Missus Haywood's word alright,” the stranger declares, “and we know from her word that you stole the money for her rent off her husband when you shot him dead.”
Charles frowns. There's no badge on their chests, no military regalia. The man carrying Missus Haywood on his horse is colored, so it's unlikely that he's been hired by the state or the feds. But they're hard men and armed men, and if they're using Missus Haywood to rob her twice over Charles will have to find a way to pick them off from a distance without endangering the woman.
“I'm going to count to three, Mr. Averies,” the stranger says. “By the time I finish counting you're going to get on your knees and beg forgiveness, and produce the money. Ya understand?”
Charles gets a sinking feeling in his chest. He caught wind of Averies in the town fifteen miles East of here, where he went on a bender, nearly bought out the bar, and almost assaulted that banker's wife. He thinks he knows where the rent went.
“I ain't taking orders from the likes a’ you,” Averies snarls.
“One.”
Averies hefts his shotgun.
“Two.”
Both gunslingers on horseback still in the same moment Charles does, experience drawing their breaths as a collective, the precipice recognized.
“Th–”
The man on the horse draws and shoots the gun out of Averies’ hands. The stock splits under the bullet's velocity and the bastard howls in pain. The man on the red horse throws a lasso over Averies with practiced accuracy, and swings down to hog tie him.
“Now don't misunderstand, Mr. Averies,” the stranger says, barrel of his gun still smoking, “I never said you'd live after you apologized, but I wanted to give you the option. For the sake of your soul, you see.”
“Fuck you!”
“I'll oblige you to kindly refrain from swearing in front of the lady,” the stranger says, amused. He swings down from his white horse. “Now find your gentlemanly spirit somewhere underneath the febrility of your character and tell us where Mrs. Haywood's money is.”
“Ain't got it, you fucks,” Averies spits, “Colored bitch lives in a rat hovel I wouldn't pay to piss in, money got spent easy.”
The beetled eyes of the leader narrow as Mrs. Haywood gasps in horror. Charles jaw tenses, his suspicion confirmed.
“Is that so, Mister Averies,” The man drawls. He looks like the crack of a whip. “We'll just have to replace Mrs. Haywood's rent some other way then.” Averies snarls but the man just reaches out to grasp his neck as fast as a rattler strikes. He fishes in Averies’ pockets and makes a pleased sound.
“Ah, here's a treasure. Mrs. Haywood, take this as a deposit,” the stranger says, and he walks over to the woman, at the very least kind enough not to comment on her tears. He presses some piece of jewelry to her palm–a locket maybe–and closes her fingers around it. “Now don't you worry ma'am we'll find the rest of your money, but in the mean time, Mr. Escuella here will take you back to town.”
Mrs. Haywood looks up, alarmed, and shoots a panicked glance at the man in the tan jacket, the rider of the red horse. “But–”
“No buts!” The man interrupts, “I insist. Mr. Morgan and I will take care of Mr. Averies here and find you the money, ma'am, don’t you worry. We found you trekking all this way on foot, we'll at least see you warm and well fed before you get back to your boy.”
The mention of her son makes her hesitate. She looks at the jewelry in her hand and then nods slowly. Escuella nods to his boss and salutes Morgan with a cocky air that the other man ignores, and turns the horse down the creek bed, tracking south to Lubad.
Charles considers following them, to make sure Escuella doesn't kill the woman on the way but it–it doesn't really make sense. They'd just kill her here and bury her with Averies if they bothered at all.
“We'll have to dip into the camp funds I think to help Ms. Haywood,” the man in the red vest says heavily when she's out of sight and the grey pinto's hoofbeats can no longer be heard. “Unless of course Mr. Averies decides to cooperate.”
Averies has been gagged but Charles can hear the muffled curses anyway.
“Ain't gonna make much on this job that way, Dutch,” Morgan replies, rummaging through Averies belongings fruitlessly. Dutch's name tickles something in the back of Charles’ head, a dim bell of recognition.
“Yes but you knew that when you plead her case to me in that saloon,” Dutch answers amiably. “I'll expect you to make up for the loss of course, but I hardly think we'll be hard pressed to spare the cash. Unlike Mr. Averies here–” Dutch spares a moment to deliver a hard kick to Averies’ ribs, “We are not animals given to vice and debauchery without moderation.”
“Bill?”
“Oh, hush, Arthur.” Dutch frowns down at Averies. “Surely you've got something to repay Mrs. Haywood's rent besides one measly locket. You certainly took more than that from her.”
Morgan doesn't acknowledge him. He's found Averies’ horse, still heaving, flanks and shoulders and cinch flecked white with lather, stark against the nag's dark coat. Morgan looks the horse over and spots the right hind immediately, because it's hard to miss. He runs his hand down the leg, gentle. The horse lowers its head, almost to the ground, clearly relieved to have nothing asked of it.
“Lamenitis,” Morgan declares. He pats the horse on the flank and removes the saddle. “We'll sell the tack.”
“That'll help,” Dutch agrees. “The horse too?”
“For meat,” Morgan says calmly. Then he turns to Dutch and Averies and with cruel precision he shoots through the bastard's right ankle. Averies yowls and sobs behind the gag. “Let's have him walk back. See if he likes taking trips one leg down.”
Dutch looks around the camp one more time and sighs. Behind him, the red horse prances, excited. “There's really not much here. I'll let Mr. Averies here try and make it and cut him loose if he doesn't. You go on ahead to sell the meat, then go get funds from camp if it ain't enough.”
Morgan nods. He feeds the horse a treat–a sugar cube it's almost too tired to accept, nuzzling his palm with exhausted interest. Morgan rubs the forehead, under the forelock. It's late spring and Averies is a neglectful owner. Loose hair comes away, the last of the nag's winter shed.
“There's a girl,” Morgan says softly, only carried by the wind. Behind him Dutch has lashed Averies’ rope to the saddle, barely waiting for Averies to scramble to his feet to start dragging him along, ignoring the protests shouted from behind the gag. “A good girl.”
Morgan leans in, lets the horse press her head against his shoulder as if in thanks, and says something too quiet for Charles to hear.
Then he fires a bullet in her skull.
Charles watches from a distance as Dutch drags Averies until he's too tired to beg, exacting Mrs. Haywood's pound of flesh and his horse's too, and then finally cuts him loose without so much as a glance behind him. Averies lay still and quiet on the earth, ripe for an easy bounty.
Charles collects the body, because Averies was wanted dead or alive. He stops in the sheriff's office in Lubad–same county, the posters are everywhere–and takes the money before looking around for a grey pinto. He finds it outside the hotel, the nicest establishment in town. He is unsurprised when he spots Mrs. Haywood crying stoically into a bowl of stew. Escuella is with her, nursing a pint and twitching awkwardly every time her shoulders hitch.
“Arthur ‘n Dutch are the best, ma'am,” Escuella tries to reassure. “They'll find your money or recover it, whatever's needed.”
“It ain't–it ain't just about the money,” she sobs quietly. The hotel owner is sending her dirty looks, and Charles wonders what Escuella will do if he tries to boot them out. Escuella is almost as dark as him. “My husband is dead. My boy can't breathe right, might be crippled for life. And he didn't even need it! He pissed it away in a weekend!”
Escuella sighs. “I know, ma'am. I know.”
The woman sobs again, quiet. She's aware of the hotel owner too.
Charles pulls away, sends Taima off out of town. She's too memorable, and Charles wants to observe unnoticed.
Morgan arrives first, stops at the butcher, and takes off to the west. Dutch shows second, lackadaisical almost, confident. He strolls up to the hotel, and Charles can hear his greeting and effusive affection from across the street.
Morgan arrives after another hour, the red horse thundering up the street, big eyes rolling. Charles considers what he knows of the region, where Morgan could have gone that's only half an hour away. The horse doesn't look too winded either, it must be close. There's a cave to the north. A hill with a big plateau northwest of here, nice and defensible.
Dutch implied they had a lot of money stashed away. They must be confident it's defended well.
Morgan doesn't stay very long, just drops off the money with a lie that Averies had money stashed in the hills and takes off–to the South this time. Escuella leaves not long after that, heading Northeast, and Dutch hovers around Mrs. Haywood until midday, when he finally gets back on his white horse and heads East.
Charles hangs back. Mrs. Haywood leaves the hotel, looking pained and tired and determined.
Charles is a talented pickpocket, had to be as a kid. Dropping Averies’ bounty in Mrs. Haywood's bag is easy, like breathing.
The steel at his temple when he turns down a narrow alley between buildings is unexpected, the hammer cocking back bone chilling.
“Who the hell are you?” Morgan growls. His voice is dark and violent, harsher up close. Charles stiffens, fighting down the instinct to fight, raises his arms very slowly in surrender. “Who the hell are you to be thievin’ from that lady?”
Instinctive fear closes his throat, makes it hard to speak. “I wasn’t thieving.”
Morgan presses the gun against Charles’ temple a little rougher. “That so?”
He sounds skeptical. “Averies had a bounty.”
Morgan doesn’t respond. Charles can’t see his reaction. The man’s behind him and their only contact is through the barrel of his gun.
Charles curls his lip. “Dutch gave her a locket. You gave her your own money. Escuella bought her food. I gave her the bounty money. I wasn’t stealing from her. Just didn’t want her to feel put upon.” Charles turns, very, very slowly into the barrel of the gun, so the steel is pressed between his eyebrows, and locks eyes with Morgan. “She’s got a sick kid.”
Morgan purses his lips, blue eyes flashing and his revolver steady as stone in his hands. “What’d she do to earn your charity?”
“What’d she do to earn yours?” Charles challenges. He shrugs. “I didn’t do anything to earn the bounty. Just tracked him. She’s the one who found people to get the bastard. I gave her the money.”
Morgan stares at him. Charles holds his gaze. A horse whinnies loudly in the street.
Morgan lowers his gun and holsters it. “You were there that whole time?”
Charles nods, relaxing a little. He’s got no doubts Morgan knows many ways to kill folks, but he’s edging away from violence not heading toward it. “Arrived about ten minutes before you. Followed him from Dallyworth.”
Morgan whistles. “You tracked him in the dark that far?”
Charles pinches his eyebrows. “You can’t track?”
Morgan shakes his head. “Not like that. Don’t know anyone who can track like that.”
“You don’t know any good trackers.”
“Maybe not,” Morgan says, considering. “Why’d you follow us here if you weren’t keepin’ the bounty?”
Charles scowls to hide his own confusion. “I was heading here anyway.” It’s a lie. “I’m traveling West.”
“Yeah? Us, too.” Morgan looks Charles up and down. “You got somewhere to be in particular?”
Charles frowns. “Why?”
“Because I don’t know any good trackers,” Morgan says, “And I think you should ask Dutch to let you join our gang.”
Charles frowns and considers and wonders where this curiosity about Dutch and his gunslingers comes from. Maybe it's the unexpected altruism, or the way Morgan skinned the horse and harvested the meat with methodical if unpracticed precision despite the dark look on his face, or the image Dutch made on his white horse, dangerous and cruel and kind all at once, or maybe Escuella's awkward attempts at comfort, genuine as they were impossible.
Maybe it's because he’s tired of goin’ it alone.
“Charles Smith,” he introduces. He extends his hand.
“Arthur Morgan,” Arthur responds, and he shakes on it, gun hand to gun hand. “Let’s see if you’ve got the makings of an outlaw, Smith.”
“I already am one,” Charles replies.
A quirk of Arthur’s lips indicates a smile, hidden in the corner of his coat. “Well,” he says at length, “Then I guess we’ll see if you’ve got the makings of a Van der Linde.”
Dutch raises an eyebrow at Charles' story, equally impressed with his tracking skills. Charles asks if he can join and after a quick glance at Arthur he nods and tells him a woman named Grimshaw will get him situated with a tent.
It doesn’t take long to settle in.
Dutch’s name rang a bell because he’s Dutch Van der Linde, of the Van der Linde gang. Gunslingers famous for their bravado, their bank robberies, their brutality.
They don’t seem particularly brutal to Charles, not to folks who won’t hurt anyone. They actually seem to go out of their way not to be, and they take in folks who can’t fight much too. Dutch’s girl, Molly, doesn’t seem to do much but sew and sing for the camp some nights, and one old man does nothing but drink.
There are colored folks mixed in with the white ones. Women. A kid. It’s a strange outfit. Charles was worried for the women at first, especially Tilly and Jenny, but when he carefully asked if they needed anything, anything at all, they outright laughed in his face.
“The day one of these fools is a nuisance to me is the day Arthur shoots them through both eyes and leaves his brain intact,” Tilly says, grinning. Jenny laughs, and beside her Karen snorts, unladylike but fond and agreeing all the same. “Dutch wouldn’t tolerate it anyway.”
A strange outfit. Strange gang. It’s…nice. Real nice, not to be alone. Charles didn’t realize before how much he craved company, even if he still keeps his distance from the others.
He makes close friends with the other colored men first, Lenny and Javier. Then he becomes acquainted with Hosea, Dutch’s right hand man, because Hosea shares a tent with him and Lenny. Seems odd to Charles, that the old man would sleep on the ground while Arthur got a tent to himself, but Hosea insists he likes it that way the one time Charles brings it up. And before long he’s seen Hosea on a job–the man could talk a cobbler into buying his own tools twice over. If he wanted a bigger tent he’d have it.
He finds he dislikes Bill, but thinks he’s unlikely to slit Charles’ throat in the dark. John is decent enough but usually brooding somewhere, and irritable enough that only Arthur and Hosea test him on it. The reverend and Uncle are constantly drunk but the former is kind if a bit paralyzed by his own ethics and the latter has too good a deal with the gang to jeopardize it by being disruptive. The girls are all fine, and of them Charles gets on well with Abigail and Karen the most–both of them strong-willed and strong-tempered and tough as nails.
Sean is decent but too loud. He spends most of his time being rowdy with the Callanders. Pearson works constantly at making mediocre stew, but accepts good natured criticism for it and accepts the game Charles brings back gratefully, and listens raptly when Charles shows him how to use the inedible parts better.
Dutch is…well, Charles really never met anyone like him. He seems to float sometimes, with the force of his own belief in his ideologies, his ideas. He believes in it, whatever he thinks the future is. He makes Charles want to see it too.
He doesn’t see much of Arthur, Dutch’s right hand man and older brother to half the camp. He’s out most of the time, returning only for short hours every few days to check on everybody before mounting up on Boadicea. It’s almost eerie, the way the whole camp turns to greet him when he arrives, smiling and capturing his attention for themselves, especially the women and the younger men.
He asks Lenny once, why he follows after Arthur like he does. They’re not much alike, Lenny being bookish and lean, a decent shot but not exceptional with his shotguns and repeaters, and he’s a kid who grew up in a city rather than the wilds like Arthur so clearly did.
“I wanna be like him,” Lenny admits after a while, “I know I ain’t gotta lot a’ his talents but–I wanna be like him.”
“You have other talents, son,” Hosea interrupts on Charles’ other side. “You should’ve seen him tryin’ to learn his sums. Still uses his fingers to add. And Dutch taught him to read using the Iliad and the Odyssey and Shakespeare, poor kid took ages to get through a single line.” Hosea sounds deeply fond. Then he turns, Charles hears him shift in the dark. “He also knew not to interrupt an old man’s sleep.”
Charles can practically hear Lenny’s cheeks burning, and it makes him smile.
Much as he finds he likes some of the gang, he doesn’t trust them. Only an idiot would. He sleeps lightly every night, sleeps longer to make up for it. Sometimes he has to get away from camp for a while to breathe, and he’s always a little surprised when they’re still in the same place he left them when he returns.
Eventually, he starts going out on jobs. They don’t target people just trying to get by, which is good because Charles wouldn’t stick around for that. Dutch talks a lot about fat cats and industrialization and capital, and they start bringing Charles in on the bank job they’re planning in Helena. They’ve scoped it out over a period of months, even made deposits there under fake names to get better looks at security. Charles finds himself impressed despite himself, interested in the plans despite still feeling like he’s only got a toe in the door in this gang.
“Mr. Smith will take care of the patrons in this corridor, because I trust him not to be trigger happy and shoot some poor woman who just wanted to withdraw her monthly allowance,” Dutch says, then turns his sharp, dark eyes on Charles, “I can trust you, isn’t that right Mr. Smith?”
Charles surprises himself by saying yes, and feeling it true. Trust might be a two-way street, but–apparently, somehow, this is a group of people who can trust Charles even if he doesn’t trust them.
“Good,” Dutch says, mustache thickening on his lip as he smiles. “Now, Mr. Escuella, you’ll handle the cashier–”
They pick up Micah in Helena.
Charles isn’t even sure how, really, it’s like he saunters in to camp one day and just elects to stay. He’s abrasive, a bigot, makes passes at the girls they’re quick to shut down, and most of all he’s cruel and unreliable.
He’s also very good at pretending he’s not as rough as he is, that he’s learning to be a better person. Dutch buys it. Charles does not.
Arthur must not trust him either, because he starts spending more time at camp, placing himself between Micah and…well, everyone else. Charles goes on more jobs, so does Javier and John and even Bill. If Micah goes out it’s with Dutch or Arthur, the former because Micah always asks and the latter because Arthur always insists.
Micah seems irritated with Arthur’s watchfulness, but only complains to Dutch about wanting to prove himself, about this idea he has for robbing ferry boats in Blackwater. Dutch dismisses it the first time and the second it’s suggested, but by the third time Micah’s worn him down enough to hear him out.
They start making their way Southeast to rob some ferryboats a few weeks later. Micah challenges Arthur to a sharpshooting contest, and the sour look on his face when he loses makes Arthur smirk every time he sees it for days after.
Micah is disruptive, loud, throws off the easy rhythm of camp. He’s always testing boundaries, especially with Arthur and Hosea, and it doesn’t take a genius to see he’s trying to make space for himself at Dutch’s right hand. Arthur and Hosea seem more annoyed than worried. Charles finds himself watchful, toeing his way out of the gang even while he works hard around camp and out on jobs. His sleep gets worse, more tense.
Then, one day, Micah pushes boundaries, this time with something Arthur loves.
Boadicea is a beautiful horse. She’s a saddlebred-warmblood cross, red as a setting sky, and huge, standing proud at seventeen and a half hands. She covers ground like she condenses space and earth beneath her, and she’s brave enough to charge gunfire or run straight down a cliff. She’s got a small star visible beneath her forelock, her hooves crowned in white coronet bands but otherwise she glows in sunshine, visible from across camp almost always.
She’s also the meanest creature Charles has ever met.
She doesn’t like other horses. She doesn’t like other humans. She does like Arthur, but mostly pretends to only tolerate him, and occasionally she will allow the girls to feed her. Brown Jack once tried to mount her and she savaged him so badly Bill had to ride one of the girls’ walkers for weeks.
Arthur loves her, adores her. Spends a not inconsiderable amount of time currying her coat until it shines and sneaking her treats even though Hosea chides him for spoiling her. Only Dutch has a nicer horse, probably, in terms of quality and not in temperament, and only Charles spends as much time around his horse as Arthur does.
No one in camp is dumb enough to test her.
Except Micah, apparently. Because Micah is stupid or is fixated on Arthur, or simply can’t help himself when it’s so clear that Boadicea hates him more than most, having taken to actively charging him if he gets too near the fencing.
Charles saw it happening, sort of. Out of the corner of his eye, from across camp, but it was too unbelievable and too stupid to register in time to stop it.
Micah approaches the horses, and walks straight past Baylock and Nell II and Maggie all the way to the end of the paddock, where Boadicea minds her own business, eating her hay. She sees Micah coming and pins her ears, turns her hindquarters to him in clear, firm warning, tail swishing back and forth with agitation.
“C’mon, girl, don’t be like that,” Micah croons, “Such a pretty girl, surely you want a treat.” He offers her a carrot, holds it out like a peace offering to the least peaceful creature in camp, himself included.
Boadicea stamps a fly, and shakes her head, ears pinned. It’s more than she gave Brown Jack in warning, Charles thinks hysterically as he realizes what Micah’s up to, that he’s got a bridle behind his back and he’s trying to trick the damn horse into letting him ride her.
But Micah does what he always does and presses in, tests the limits. Boadicea snorts like she’s suffering the greatest of indignities, abandons her hay, and lunges for Micah.
She catches his bicep between her large yellow teeth and rears, striking out with her heavy hooves like she’s taking down a larger stallion and not a whiny snake of a man too dumb to realize she’s not to be messed with.
Micah cries out. It draws the attention of the rest of camp. Boadicea’s hooves come down and she rears again, millimeters away from striking Micah’s temple and fracturing it to pieces. Micah’s saved, ironically, by the horse taking his arm with her and avoiding the contact.
Micah gets his bearings as her hooves come down, and he pistol whips the horse. Boadicea’s great head swings aside and she lets go of his arm, swings her haunches around to strike at him with her hind legs and Micah aims the pistol with an infuriated yell–
Arthur bodychecks him out of nowhere, must have started moving as soon as he heard Micah scream. They wrestle for the pistol. The shot fires off into the forest, and Boadicea bucks her way across the paddock, infuriated and pissed off, starts lunging for the other horses too slow to get out of her way. Charles starts moving before he realizes it, heading for the two men still wrestling on the ground.
“Ugh–gerroff me, Morgan! I’m gonna kill that damn horse!”
“I should let her kill you!” Arthur growls, wraps his arm around Micah’s throat. The pistol rises dangerously up toward Arthur, Micah aiming behind himself, and Charles steps on Micah’s wrist, forcing him to release the gun, but not before Micah manages to pull the trigger one more time, another shot careening into the forest.
“What in the sam hell is goin’ on out here?” Dutch calls. He’s been in his tent, pouring over Blackwater maps. He emerges squinting into the sun. Charles grinds his foot into Micah’s wrist when he tries to whine pathetically, and Arthur’s arm squeezes tighter around his throat. Micah thrashes anyway.
“Nuthin, Dutch, just some idiot biting off more’n he can chew,” Arthur replies, face darkened with anger. Micah squirms, but Arthur’s hold is too strong.
“Arthur, son, let him up, he’s turning purple,” Dutch says. Arthur turns his glare to Dutch but does as he’s told, and Charles backs off as well. “Now why is your horse throwing a fit this time?”
Arthur deliberately lands a kick at Micah as the asshole pants dramatically on all fours, cradling his bicep. “This rat,” Arthur says, disgust in his lips, “pissed her off.”
Dutch rolls his eyes so hard Charles thinks he might see the back of his skull. “Son, you know that horse ain’t sane. Why would you try her like that?”
Charles watches Arthur go still. The pissed off disgust is replaced by a stony wall of blankness, his gaze and expression directed down, away from Dutch, behind Micah. It’s strange to watch a man bury himself in real time.
“I just, I just wanted to see what was so special about her that cowpoke—,” Micah says, nodding to Arthur as he gets to his feet, shaky like a newborn foal, “—would put up with her. I’m even more at a loss now than I was b’fore iffin I’m bein’ honest.”
He looks a little pitiful, like a drowned puppy, if that puppy was an oily thirty-something year old man with a droopy mustache.
“Yes, well, Boadicea is certainly a mystery to all of us. She’s been a good horse for Arthur, but she’s not exactly welcoming to others,” Dutch says pointedly. “Now, get that arm looked at. Arthur, go calm your damn horse, and all of you, please, try to be a little bit focused while we work on the biggest job we’ve done yet!”
Dutch turns, stomping back to his tent. Some of the other gang members have gathered.
“I’ll get some more hay for her,” Jenny pipes up. Her clever eyes are fixed on Arthur, and behind her Lenny nods agreement.
“Better let Arthur do that,” Micah spits, “If you so much as inconvenience that thing I’m not sure he would even let them bury you.”
“I’ll be certain to leave you out for the crows either way, Micah,” Arthur retorts. He’s watching Boadicea prance in the distance, the buck gone but the energy still dissipating as she circles the area in a dramatic trot. She’s not run off though, is too loyal for that. “Don’ worry ‘bout it though, Jenny. I’ll see t’er.”
Jenny looks askance at Grimshaw, who straightens her back and snatches Micah by the collar of his jacket. “Reverend Swanson will see to you,” she declares, and stomps off with Micah dragged unceremoniously behind her.
The others dissipate, the drama passed. Charles hesitates, unsure as to why he’s still there.
“Thanks,” Arthur says after a moment, and rolls his shoulder. “For help’n.”
Charles shrugs. “You nearly got shot for your horse,” he points out. “I didn’t do much.”
“You’d do the same for Taima,” Arthur says with certainty and, yeah, Charles supposes he would. “Boadicea’s just a little harder to love, that’s all.”
Charles stares at Arthur, trying to parse the strange blankness in his face. Arthur’s never been easy with his thoughts, his feelings, but he’s not hard to read either, or at least it’s not usually hard to read that there’s something there. Just this moment, though, Arthur looks like he’s staring at a wall, like there’s nothing in front of him or in him for miles.
You won’t have to skin her, Charles almost says, and it’s–a weird comment, a weird thought. Of course Arthur wouldn’t have to skin her, he wouldn’t ride her lame into the middle of nowhere and whip her until blood spilled from the welts. Charles wonders what Arthur said to the nag before he killed her–another odd thought.
“She’s worth it,” Charles says instead. “Anyone can see that.”
Arthur smiles, a strange little half smile, and tips his head down to cover his eyes with the hat, his expression with the collar of the jacket. “Sure is.”
He claps Charles on the shoulder, and wanders over to his horse. She trots up to him, snorts, and trots away. Charles watches her do it twice more before turning back to camp. He wonders at himself, wonders at the odd feeling in his gut. He’s restless, jittery. He chops some wood no one needs just to get it out of his system, circles the camp, brushes Taima. She picks up on his mood and looks around, trying to find the threat. He combs out her mane and leaves her be before his mood can disturb her more.
He spots Arthur, leaned up against a pine tree, hat obscuring his face as he’s curled over his horse. In his lap is Boadicea’s head, her master’s hand smoothing over the welt of Micah’s blow with some ointment. Arthur keeps up a steady stream of words Charles can’t hear, but his horse seems relaxed, receptive. Worth it.
Charles wanders back to his tent. He looks at Lenny, who sits by the campfire next to Jenny, chatting her ear off, his teeth and eyes flashing in the firelight, her cheeks pinked with whatever compliment Lenny just paid her.
Charles thinks about–a lot of things. About joining up, and how the colored folks here mix with the white ones, how Arthur recruited him because he can track and because he gave a girl some cash, and Dutch agreed because he’s reliable and calm. He thinks about opportunities, about cracks in armor, about calling grown men barely ten years younger “son.” He thinks about weapons, about guns and knives and words and truths like the sun rising to grant him cover as his enemies squint into the dawn. He thinks about his bedroll, between Lenny and Hosea, the squish of their shoulders, about how Taima looks at home grazing beside Old Boy and Boaz and mostly he thinks about trust–how it can be broken, how it can survive anyway, how loyalty reinforces trust reinforces loyalty, about how a man can hold that whole cycle together on his own and how he can’t.
He thinks he feels the seeds of something like that, strangely enough. It’s been a long time–so long he hardly recognizes it in himself. Trust.
The cicadas sing and the summer heat seeps away from camp. Lenny never comes back to the tent, and Arthur stays with his horse, watching over her, over camp. Charles sleeps, and the off-key songs of the boys around the campfire stir warm and solid in his dreams.