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“Just you left, is it?” Joe, the bastard, smirked at him from under his hat, fists clenching his rifle tightly. Him and his men gave the impression of relaxation, confident against the lone man that was John Marston, but John could tell by the tension in their shoulders and their overzealous amount of weapons that they were scared of him. Good.
John exhaled, watching the cloud of breath leave his mouth and flee into the frosty air, “Yeah…just me.” Daring to briefly glance over his shoulder at Sadie, who was slumped against the rock clutching her stomach, he flexed his left fist, taunting Joe, “I was kinda hoping I could kill you.”
“Likewise.”
As it always was with the overconfident members of a gang, Joe raised his rifle first, so naturally John raised his revolver and shot twice into the opposing man’s head. Before he could catch a breath, he shot again at the man on his right who didn’t have time to raise his rifle and shoot, and then finally he shot the man on the left who had shot and missed, unloading the last three bullets into him, watching his corpse crumple to the ground as he reloaded. “That was Joe!” He called to Sadie and - hopefully - Charles, shivering as he trudged through the snow, “We gotta be close!”
He advanced onward, thanking whatever god was up there that he reloaded his gun as more men closed in. “You’re riding with a turncoat!” He shouted at none of them in particular, punctuating his words with a bullet to a head and another to a heart. “You’re fools,” he mocked the men on the opposite side of the valley, removing his rifle from his shoulder as he took cover behind a rock. “Micah Bell, I’m just here for Micah Bell!”
With the rifle loaded, he took down the men who had a height advantage over him, not wanting to stop moving for another second - he, despite every bit of advice that had been uttered against it in his youth, was here for revenge, and he wouldn't let any hired gun stop him.
Out of nowhere, he was barrelled over into the snow. “You’re a dead man,” his attacker taunted, trying to wrestle his gun from him. John delivered a swift kick to the man’s stomach, executing them with a bullet to the skull, his blood fanning out on the once-pristine snow behind him.
Running through the snow again, he passed through a narrow corridor of rock, shooting the first man who dared to come out and make a move towards him, “Micah, come out here!” Two more men appeared from the ledge above him who fell as quickly as they emerged. John wasted no time waiting for their lifeless bodies to fall as he made his way up the hill, desperate for any sign of the traitorous man he was here to kill, “It’s John Marston, Micah!”
There was a camp at the top of the mountain, tents and crates littering the snow and working their way down - plenty of area to take cover and cowardly cower as Micah hid from his executioner. “Where is he?” He asked the empty air, watching for movement out of the corner of his eye.
Unluckily, one of Micah’s men tried to shoot at John from behind a wood pile, but instead of hitting him, they hit a box behind him. John didn’t stall, putting them out of their misery by shooting them in the face, and then another bullet in their chest for good measure. More hats and guns became visible behind some of the tents, so John shot blindly at the thin material, hoping to catch a few men off guard.
When, at last, the movement stopped, John sighed, wiping beads of sweat from his face. Despite how much Abigail had scolded him in the past for being too quick to reach for his gun, he hadn’t been in a proper shootout like this for a while, and he felt that if he weren’t so angry, he would drop from exhaustion at any second.
But he carried on, picking his way through the camp, looking for any sign of Micah, or a half-alive man who would give away his location. He found neither, only boot-trodden dirt and the smell of gunpowder. However, the edge of the camp gave way to a rocky decline, a wooden hut and small barn - if he squinted, he could see two horses inside it, which gave him hope.
“Damn you, Micah,” he muttered under his breath, trying to stop himself from slipping as he trekked down the mountain’s side.
That man had a lot to account for. The manipulation. The betrayal. The being a shitty person to everyone who dared to lay eyes on him. None of them were good people, even John knew that and he wouldn't deny it, but at least they lived the outlaw life the way they did in search of freedom for themselves and their families. Micah did it for the thrill of the chase, just like Dutch did, at the end.
He put his rifle back over his shoulder, unholstering one of his revolvers. Checking it was loaded, he addressed the wooden hut, “Micah, if you’re here, come out!”
The wind was cold on his face as he looked around for Micah or Sadie or Charles.
When he turned back to the cabin, the man he least wanted to see was there. “Hello, Scarface,” Micah said, appearing like a bad omen clad in a brown leather coat and white hat. He spread his arms out, as if for a hug, eyes shining like a snake under the brim of his hat, “did you miss me?”
“Not much.”
“Been a few years,” Micah hissed, hand almost instinctively twitching for his gun. John took a few steps to the side, but Micah matched them, and they ended up stood on the opposite side of his campfire, where a pot of stew was being warmed. It reminded John that, despite everything, Micah was still human. “How’s that…whore of yours?” But he still deserved to die.
“She’s good,” John replied, hoping to keep himself calm so as to not do anything rash, so he could go home to her, “Didn’t reckon I should waste my time killing ya. But I felt different.”
Micah grinned with crooked teeth, “So it seems. Maybe after all this is over, I’ll go pay her a call, hm? And the boy.” For the briefest second, his sneer fell, and he glanced over at the hut, pose mirroring John’s, with a hand on one of his revolvers.
“Whatever you say.”
Micah shot first, wildly, and John had no choice but to duck behind a wooden box, while Micah hid behind the hut. John had seen men like him before - shooting to intimidate, posturing confidence and viciousness. “I got more men coming, John!” He warned, “You should run away!”
“I look forward to meeting ‘em!” Lying or not, John didn’t care. He wanted the man dead, but he didn't intend to drag out his death, he just wanted his life ended so he could forget all of this and put it behind him.
Shooting at the box that protected John, he shouted again, “Run while you can, John! It’s your only hope.”
Out of practice and injured, John had no choice but to duck and hope Micah would run out of bullets sooner than later. His saving grace was Sadie, a grimly determined expression on her face as she limped through the horse shed Micah had just run through, laughing maniacally, a gun clutched in her bloodied hand as she attempted to stifle the blood soaking through her shirt. Her nose was pink as she rested against the wooden supports of the shed, levelling her gun to point at Micah’s sneering face. “Come on out, Micah!” she commanded above the gunshots, “At least die like a man!”
“Hellfire…” Micah said, grip on his revolvers loose as he put his hands up, “it’s just like old times.”
Sadie staggered over to him “Come on, you turn around…and start walking.”
To John, Micah didn’t appear to be scared. He made his way to the centre of the camp with an almost confident swagger, a sneer - or was that a smile - on his face. He laughed when the barrel of Sadie’s revolver nudged his back, dragging his shoes in the snow, complaining when she almost hit him again as if he was the one in control of the situation. John stood opposite him, watching him holster his twin revolvers with contempt, “Just like old times, hm?” Behind him, Sadie coughed blood into the dirt, but he kept his hands up like he really was surrendering, tilting his head towards the wooden hut, “Old friends reunited after all these years.”
As if on cue, John heard the sound of the door being kicked open, and coming out of the shadows was a man he thought he’d never see again.
“Mr Marston. Mrs Adler. Nice day, huh?”
Standing in the wooden doorway, revolver in his hand and rifle over his back, was Arthur. He looked about the same - maybe his hair was streaked with gray, maybe he had more wrinkles near his eyes - which made seeing him again all the more confusing to John.
In his shock, he barely registered Micah tackling Sadie, wrestling the gun from her hands and pointing it right to her temple. Fire burned in her eyes as she struggled, but like John, she faltered upon seeing Arthur. Micah laughed, “Now, John…what were you saying?”
John chose to ignore his arrogant demeanour, paying the man almost no attention other than a gun pointed at him, as he turned to face Arthur, “You’re supposed to be dead. What are you doing here?”
“Holidaying, or something like it.”
“Facetious bastard,” John muttered, unimpressed at the small smile on Arthur’s face, “What are you doing with him?”
“Business partnership,” Arthur replied.
“Lifelong friends,” Micah laughed at the same time. He realised what Arthur said and turned his head so quickly to face him, “Business partnership? We been working together a decade now, Arthur! What we had with Cleet and Joe was a business partnership.”
“A decade?” Sadie mustered up the last of her strength to shout, “You was working with this traitor in Beaver Hollow too?”
Arthur faltered, sighing as he brought his gun down to his side.
John didn't know what to make of the situation. It was only a month ago that he and Charles had discussed Arthur while in Saint Denis. They both knew he wasn't a good man, often too quick to violence, sometimes too motivated by money - John was guilty of that too, especially when growing up with Dutch - but he was loyal to his family and, unlike Dutch, did it all for them. To learn he might've betrayed them, to learn he was alive after all this time - it hurt.
“Don’t get all upset about that again, cowpoke, it was years ago!”
He found the words to address Arthur again, aware that his time was running out - Sadie was growing pale, and there had been no sign of Charles, “You were working with him? After everything you said, you sided with him?”
“I did it for you, John! I had no choice!”
“I thought you were dead! I mourned you, and Sean and Susan and Hosea! And all this time you were helping him?”
“I never meant to hurt you John. But it's a cruel world out there, and I ain’t a good man.”
John’s arm was starting to ache, and his hands itched to pull the trigger and load half an ounce of lead directly into Micah’s brain - if he even had one - and he knew he had to make a decision. But unfortunately, Dutch had raised him to always get the last word in, “I know we ain't good men, Arthur. But I expected you to be better.”
The sound of Micah’s laugh was cut off by a bullet in his shoulder. John’s hand was shaking and he missed his target, so, after Sadie viciously pushed herself away from him, hands back on her gut as she tried to staunch the bloodflow, he shot Micah again, and again, and once more for good measure.
Only hours ago, John would have killed to see the defeated look on his face as he faceplanted into the snow, but things had changed.
Arthur broke the silence, “Well that’s that then. Thank you, I think.” He took a step forward, but John raised his gun again, and for possibly the first time in his life, found his brother at the end of the barrel. “C’mon John, please. I ain’t seen you in so long. I didn’t think you and Jack and Abigail would make it.”
“Keep her name out of your damn mouth, Arthur!” John couldn't decipher the expression on Arthur’s face. He looked hurt, blue-green eyes shining - which was wrong, because Arthur was his big brother, and he never cried. “You sound exactly like him. Like Dutch. And Micah. After what you did, what you've become, you don't deserve to say her name.” On the opposite end of the gun, hands were raised, and out of the corner of his eye he saw Sadie eyeing Micah’s gun, desperate and distraught, but John shook his head, hoping that Sadie would tamper her rage for now, like he was trying to. “You’re my brother. You saved my life. Saved her life. But you betrayed us. We came here to avenge you, killing him to bring you some peace. And you were here. The whole time.”
“John! What are you doing?” Sadie shouted at him.
“I’m letting him go!” He took his hat off - Arthur’s hat, and his father’s before him - and threw it into Arthur’s empty hands. “I don’t wanna see you near my family again. Save yourself from all of this. You’re a good man, Arthur Morgan - at least, I hope so.”
“Thank you, John. And…I’m sorry. To both of you.” He put his hat back on, and he looked almost like he did when he saved John in Colter all those years ago. Who knew Arthur could do more damage to him than the wolves?
With one last lingering look at the two of them, Arthur turned his back, walking past Sadie to the barn.
Before his hand got the chance to land on the back of what John was assuming was his horse, gunshots deafened him. Arthur fell to the floor next to his horse just like so many men John had shot without remorse, but this time, he wasn't the one doing the shooting.
Sadie was the one to shoot Arthur in the back, with Micah’s gun. ‘Vengeance is hereby mine’ it said, jarringly scratched into its dark steel barrel.
“Damn it, Sadie.”
“I’m so sorry, John,” Sadie half-sobbed. She was angry, but she was grieving a man that had died years ago, a man that she had laid to rest only a second ago, “I couldn't let him go after what he did. After what we came here to do.”
John stared at Arthur’s lifeless body, blood staining the back of his woolen coat. “Abigail was right,” he whispered, “We never shoulda come here.”
“We did what we came here to do,” Sadie said, wiping the blood off her face with her sleeve and staring at it, shock colouring her every movement. “There’s money in the cabin. Micah’s. His. We can get it, pay off your debts, and forget this happened. I need a doctor, and I'm sure Charles ain't farin’ any better.” She had slipped back into her bounty hunter mindset so effortlessly, and it angered John.
However, she was right. What was left of Micah’s gang would come looking soon, and he didn't want to stick around while Abigail and Jack were waiting for him. Time for processing this would need to come with quieter times and a bottle of whiskey. They didn't get time to bury Arthur - he had his resting place on another mountain, an inscription already on his grave.
John hooked his arm around Sadie’s waist, letting her support herself on him, leaning on his shoulder, while he carried the money in his other hand. “No one can know about this, Sadie. Even Charles. It would break Jack’s heart.”
She nodded, resolute, putting one foot forward, “Arthur Morgan died years ago, as far as I’m aware.” She shook her head, sorrow and anger and grief weighing heavy on her back, “Come on, let's find Charles before we all bleed out. We got a long ride ahead of us. And Charles and I got a wedding to go to!”