Chapter Text
The sun was beginning to peak above the horizon, and he hadn’t slept a wink.
Warm yellows and oranges broke through the inky sky like oil in water as the birds began their morning choir. Here – hidden within the wild landscape, tucked between two towering mountains – the birds sang louder, their songs resonating through the valley as the trees seemed to move to the rhythm. They had set up camp right by a small stream that wound through the mountains like a gnarly root, the water clear and cold from travelling through icy terrains. And to the left of camp, the ground dropped off into a cliffside, leaving them with a breathtaking view of the West and its bountiful countryside.
None of that had mattered to him. Three empty whiskey bottles sat disregarded on the grass beside him, having been full of liquid amber only the day prior. His fingers itched for another as the drunkenness steadily drained from his body as though the morning sun was his cure. Instead, he reached down and pulled a cigarette from the packet and flicked the lighter, listening to the slight crackle of tobacco burning above the flame.
He was sitting on the cliffside, legs hanging and his free hand gripping the edge until his knuckles turned stark white. His back was to the camp, which was eerily silent as he brought the cigarette to his lips. The smoke was hot and thick as it journeyed to his lungs, coating his insides like sticky tar. He exhaled through gritted teeth.
His mind had been tormenting him for forty-eight hours straight. Hosea had insisted that they continue to move relentlessly – had warned that the law had been made privy to the crime. Within that same frame of time, they had up and moved three times, gaining more and more distance from where-
No, he knew better. Hosea was trying to keep him busy – trying to keep his mind from the horrors he had witnessed. It wasn’t working.
Though, the Old Girl had outdone himself this time. This campsite was striking, with its lush flora and vocal songbirds. She would have loved it here.
His breath stuttered within his chest as his eyes suddenly burned and his vision grew blurry. He brought the cigarette back up and took a long drag, enjoying the way it scorched his throat. He flicked the white, crumbling ash at the tip of the cigarette and watched it descend as he exhaled slowly from his nostrils. Thin tendrils of smoke curled around his gaunt face.
“No, son. Leave him be.”
He heard Hosea’s voice speak lowly behind him, voice gruff and crackly.
“Okay…”
His chest tightened as though in a vice grip as John’s small voice followed, and he brought a hand up to rub the skin beneath his open shirt. He glanced down and his eye caught the glimmer of sun reflected from something on his hand.
A gold band encircled his finger, snug and worn from having never been taken off. The gold was slightly tarnished and was in need of a good polishing. It would never be polished now, as the only time it would be removed would be from his dead body.
She was still wearing hers. Even deep beneath the earth, the ring was hugging her thin finger.
He swallowed deeply as thick, warm tears slipped from his lashes. He turned the ring around his finger, his mind occupied with thoughts of what he should have done differently.
He brought the hand back to his chest and cradled it there like one would a newborn as he glanced back up, the sunlight glistening against his unshed tears. The dawn was beautiful here, with the sun-
breaking through the sluggish clouds that hung low over the camp. The water lapped lazily at the shore, the surface unbroken and undisturbed by neither animals nor people alike. The small islands that sat above the water in the distance were blanketed with a light fog that was slowly dissipating as the sun travelled higher into the sky.
He idly spun the gold band around his finger as he stood on the short pier, eyes glazed over and absent. He had been standing there since before dawn, which was evident from the dark circles that hung from his eyes.
He had his back to the camp as he watched the small ripples within the water, mesmerised by the kaleidoscopic reflections upon the surface. The only sounds to be heard were the quiet clangs and clings from Pearson’s wagon as he presumably started breakfast. Otherwise, the routine murmurings of content ‘good morning’s and ‘how’d ya sleep’s were missing.
He found himself longing for the closeness he once had with his family. Years ago, he would have started his day by lounging by the fire beside Hosea, a fresh cup of coffee in one hand and a smoking cigar in the other. They would have muttered between themselves about everything and nothing at all as Arthur would threaten John against touching his journal. Hosea had once told him that a person would never know what they had until it was gone, and now he could see that it had come to fruition.
As though breaking through a hypnotic daze, he turned himself around and glanced towards the wagon that sat almost flush against his own. Each time he found himself looking in that direction, he felt something nameless stir within his gut and clog up his windpipes like sticky tobacco.
He knew that Hosea had returned only a couple of hours ago, a grim expression set on his face as though carved into marble. The man had disregarded him entirely and instead made an immediate beeline towards the tent.
The survival of their boy was still up in the air – undecided.
He swallowed and turned back around so that he was facing away from Clemens Point. The gold ring felt unusually cold against his skin as he continued to spin it around his finger. He just had to think of a way to see his boy before – well, before the worst.
He had to come up with a plan-
“–to what, Dutch?”
They stood on the sand by the rocky ledge that dropped near the scout’s campfire. He had his back to the camp as he faced Hosea, who’s right-side was dimly illuminated by the orange light that emitted from the clearing. The shadows set severe lines on the man’s face as he glared with bubbling fury.
He, himself, wasn’t fairing any better; he took a step closer to Hosea, upper lip twitching into a slight scowl as his head spun with self-injustice. “I’m working on getting us all out of here, Hosea,” he replied lowly as he pointed into his chest.
Hosea scoffed and shook his head. “If the goal destination isn’t the cemetery, then I don’t think things are going according to plan,” he spat the last word, though it felt more akin to a slap across the cheek.
“We escaped, did we not?” Dutch growled in indignation. “Despite it all – no matter how much the Law tries to catch us – we’re still alive.”
“But you’re not that much of a fool, are you? We have been walking a tightrope, and it’s only a matter of time until our luck runs out. The Law’s been cornering us for months now, and soon we’ll sink in the quicksand just like every other damn gang out there. Our time of glory is over, Dutch, and the quicker you realise that the more chance we’ll have to not only escape with our heads, but with our family.”
He exhaled sharply from his nose like a bull seeing red. “Do not call me a fool, Hosea,” he replied through gritted teeth. “Do not make implications that I will not do anything for these folk. Everything I have done has been to get us all out of this cesspool. We are so fucking close to Tahiti-”
His friend – his partner, his Old Girl – barked a humourless laugh in his face. “Really? All of this – dragging Arthur into a trap set up by Colm – was for Tahiti? Or was it just Micah Bell stroking your ego?”
The colour drained from Dutch’s face at the accusation. His head started to spin wildly as his fists clenched so tightly that they became white. “Don’t you dare, Hosea,” his voice broke from the strain of speaking through a throat that was closing up. “Don’t you fucking dare. Mr Bell has been the only man who has yet to doubt me. He trusts that I know what I’m doing – he trusts in me, which is more than I can say about you right now.”
“No,” Hosea’s voiced raised by a decibel as he took a step closer to Dutch. “This has stopped being about loyalty for you – no, at some point, it had become a play of power. Whether you see it or not, what matters most to you now is whoever can make you believe that you still hold control. But Arthur and I are aware that the time for people like us is rapidly passing by, and that’s why you no longer value us as you had before.”
“That’s not true, Old Girl,” he started, his chest tight as he longed for the connection they used to have – but, like a photo becoming sun-bleached, it was rapidly fading. Finally, he reached out, hand aiming to gently grasp at Hosea’s shoulder like it had many times before.
But Hosea shrugged away from his touch, a quiet resignation now written across his face. He watched Dutch with glassy eyes, his brows low and frown accentuated by the lines on his cheeks. “I don’t know who you are anymore, Dutch,” he murmured with an unsteady tone. “You’re certainly not the man I had fallen in love with all those years ago.”
All at once, it had felt as though his chest had been carved open and hollowed out, leaving nothing but a functional carcass in his place – like a cage without its bird. His extremities felt weightless as his mouth become as dry as parchment paper – he tried to swallow, but his body had nothing left to give, as though he had been sucked dry.
He opened his mouth to say something – anything – when Charles’ voice broke through the pregnant silence between them. The urgency in Smith’s calls was enough to have Hosea scrambling over his own feet towards Arthur’s wagon, eyes blown wide and face pale.
Dutch simply watched him leave, feeling as though his feet had been cemented to the spot. He absently wondered if he stood here for long enough, whether he would simply be reclaimed by the earth once more.
But he knew he could not afford to think that way. He looked down at his hands – the hands that had done a lot of harm (shooting, killing, hitting, robbing, maiming, grabbing), but also a lot of good (giving, touching, caressing, writing, feeding, guiding) – and knew that he-
had to see John.
A brief walk by his tent had shown that it was empty, but Old Boy was still nibbling at the hay placed by the northern hitching posts. He took a short stroll around the campsite until he spotted a mop of stringy black hair by the shore.
John was sitting upon a thick mossy log, back curved where he was slouched over one of his firearms. Tentatively, Dutch took a seat beside him, settling within the deep grooves of the fallen tree. Glancing over, he could see it was John’s revolver – the one with the carving of a wolf on the grip – held within his grasp, a dirtied rag in the other. John was occupied with polishing the barrel, his head kept low and eyeline avoidant of Dutch’s. Eventually, after a long moment of silence, John uttered a rough, “Whatchu doin’ here, Dutch?”
Dutch’s jaw ticked as a momentary feeling of offense at the disrespect burned bright behind his eyes. But – alas – he willed himself to breathe through it and the sensation quickly faded into the familiar and constant fatigue he had recently been bestowed with. The sand was still damp and clumpy from the downpour as he idly dragged his shoe through it. “I can’t just speak with my son?” He asked in return, though admittedly felt foolish for doing so.
John scoffed as his hands stilled where they had been rubbing the oil into the revolver’s detailing. He turned and glared at Dutch – though there was something else to his gaze – a question, or perhaps the remnants of a shattered trust. “You defended him, Dutch,” he shot back, voice more akin to a growl. “Were you even going to ask for my side?”
He sighed, feeling an irritation begin to bubble once again. “This ain’t about sides right now, boy. Besides, ain’t that what I’m doing now?”
“Doesn’t matter if you’re doin’ it now,” John replied, nose twitching as his lips furled into a scowl. “It looked like you were boutta’ kick me out right then and there. Over Micah.”
“Kick you out?” Dutch repeated in bewilderment. “Son, I never woulda’ kicked you out. It’s- you know there are rules in this camp, and there are consequences if you break them.”
His eyebrow twitched. “Don’t talk to me like I’m a kid,” he said as his grasp on the revolver’s grip tightened, encasing the engraved wood. “I know the fucking rules. I just don’t think they should count if someone’s being a dickhead.”
Dutch’s brows raised at the language – a vocabulary he hadn’t heard from John since his feral preteen years. It didn’t make him angry like he thought it would – instead, he felt curious. “What did Mr Bell say to you, John?”
At that question, a wave of unbridled fury rushed over John’s face, causing his eyes to glisten with something to be feared. “He said that Arth-Arthur won’t be needin’ no feeding. Since he’s… y’know…” after a few seconds of heavy breathing, John threw the rag out of anger. “Motherfucker can eat shit for all I care…” he mumbled underneath his breath.
Dutch watched as the water slowly soaked through the cloth, weighing it down as it drooped beneath the surface. The truth rattled around his skull like a rat trapped in a liquor bottle, with sharp claws and pointed teeth. At the same time, it felt as though something had snapped within his chest – as though a rib had cracked and pierced his heart. “He… said that?” Dutch asked quietly, tongue numb.
John turned to face him again, the anger now somewhat subdued. “Yeah,” he confirmed lowly. “Then I punched in the nose.”
And as the feeling began to bubble over and threatened to strip him of all facades, Dutch finally understood what it was he was feeling.
Shame.
He felt ashamed that he had been so blind to so much for so long. He was embarrassed that he had allowed for this behaviour in the first place – because though he had been foolish, he was far from being a fool. He knew who Micah Bell was and what they were risking by riding with him, but Dutch had convinced himself that they could use him for their own gains. That they could play Mr Bell with his own game.
He was ashamed that, after all that had happened and all that was yet to occur, he had just been a pawn in Micah Bell’s game – a game that was close to checkmate.
Dutch suddenly stood up from the log as John watched with surprised eyes. He looked down at his son, words buzzing at the tip of his tongue but not yet ready to be enunciated. His mouth opened and closed like a gaping fish before he finally choked out, “I’m sorry, John.”
He did not wait for John’s reply and instead started back towards the camp – back towards-
Arthur’s tent, where Hosea had finally exited through the canvas flaps, somehow appearing more worn down than before. He had been waiting by the front of his own quarters, watching for the moment that Hosea slipped out for a quick smoke. Now was his chance.
Dutch stood and promptly walked up to Hosea, who glanced up at him through lidded eyes. “What’s going on?” He asked, desperate to no longer be naïve to the happenings within his camp. All the anger from their heated argument a few hours prior had since dissolved into a tense unrest – an unrest that had only been exemplified when he had watched Hosea mount Silver Dollar before they galloped hard and fast out of Clemens Point.
Hosea had returned about a half-hour ago but had moved so swiftly that Dutch had no chance of stopping him before he returned to Arthur’s side. His expression had been so haunted that Dutch wouldn’t have dared to stop him even if the opportunity had presented itself.
When the man hadn’t yet uttered a word, Dutch grabbed Hosea’s upper arm, feeling his heart race like a rabbit in the presence of a dog. “‘Sea… please,” he pleaded quietly.
This time, Hosea didn’t flinch away from his touch (though a small, whispering voice told Dutch that he was just too exhausted to fight). “Arthur suffered convulsions, Dutch.”
His hand recoiled as though Hosea’s touch had scorched him. “Con-convulsions?”
“The doctor had tried to pass it off as a penance for masturbation at first,” Hosea explained, deadpanned and flat. “Superstitious fucking arseholes. After telling them that, they eventually came to the conclusion that the wound and infection was likely putting a strain on Arthur’s body, causing it to react. ‘Like a body being exorcised’, they said. Simply gave me some potassium bromide and sent me on my way.”
Dutch swallowed. Convulsion? He had seen one such instance when he was a boy – a man on the streets had collapsed into a fit of incontrollable shaking. He was swarmed by a crowd of bystanders and was swiftly taken to a doctor’s after the episode had stopped. It was a fearful sight, one that he thankfully hadn’t witnessed since.
He wetted his lips which had grown uncomfortably dry. “Will he… be alright?” He asked tentatively, feeling vulnerable as his eyes shifted listlessly around them.
There was a pause long enough for him to glance back up at Hosea, who was watching him with an exhausted expression. “We don’t know,” he answered simply, the words laid thick.
Hosea started to walk past Dutch, who was struck dumbfounded. Just as their shoulders aligned, he muttered, “We ain’t sure if he’s going to survive the next twenty-four-hours. If you have anything to say to him, I’d suggest doing it soon.”
Then he stepped away, leaving Dutch to stew in his words. He turned and watched Hosea walk away, stomach rolling and throat stinging from the familiar burn of bile. In fear of embarrassing himself, he started towards the pier, footfalls as unsteady as that of a drunken idiot. The air was cooler there, too – less constrictive – which would be a small consolation if he were to be-
“-sick. Don’t know who he thinks he is, swingin’ his fists around like that.”
Dutch blinked and glanced up. He was sitting on his cot within his own tent, one elbow resting against his thigh as his palm held up his heavy head. The other arm rested lax against the bedroll, a smoking cigar hanging loosely from his fingers. Before him Micah stood leaning against the map table across from the bed, arms crossed and hat shadowing his eyes. His temples pulsed as he grinded his teeth. Most notably, though, was the swollen dark-purple bruise across the bridge of his nose – his horseshoe moustache still had flakes of dried blood from the nosebleed.
“Well, Mr Bell, you’re still fairing better than others,” Dutch murmured as irritation set ablaze beneath his skin. He brought the cigar to his lips and inhaled deeply, feeling the thick smoke pool within his lungs.
Micah looked to Dutch with brows furrowed in bemusement. “You talkin’ ‘bout Morgan, Boss?” He asked lowly, a slight smirk upon his face. It was supposed to be reassuring, but all it succeeded in doing was make Dutch’s lip twitch. “It was a bullet to the shoulder – I’m sure Mr Morgan will be jus’ fine.”
Slowly, Dutch stood from the cot, butting his cigar onto a small tray by his bedside. He took a step toward Micah, who watched him warily – as one would watch an agitated snake. “They don’t think he’ll survive the day, Mr Bell,” he stated matter-of-factly. As Micah opened his mouth to reply, he interrupted, “Though I’m sure you were aware of that.”
The man seemed to grow a shade paler at the implication. “Did Marston run his damn mouth again?” He snarled – and his scowl would have been more exaggerated if it hadn’t interfered with his banged-up nose. “I told ya to keep an eye on him, Boss. Marston’s been goin’ ‘round spreadin’ fear and doubt among these folk – about you, too. I think the boy needs-”
“What he needs is to be listened to,” Dutch intercepted, demeanour still cool and collected. This seemed to rub Micah the wrong way, as he gulped and stood straighter. Regardless, Dutch turned away from Bell and instead looked out into Clemens Point – the storm had since passed, leaving a pungent and swampy terrain in its wake. Still, the campfire crackled and danced, offering warmth to those in need. “I have been reflecting, Micah,” he said distantly, gaze shuttered off and private. “And I have attained the comprehension as to what has been taking place right underneath my nose. For the first time in my life, I recognise that I have been acting a fool.”
Micah huffed, sceptical, at the statement. “You ain’t never been a fool, Dutch,” he said. “You’re a great man, jus’ a man ahead of the times.”
He paused for a moment, eyes dulled in contemplation. “I wanted to be a great man,” he muttered. “Ever since I was a young boy, I wanted to bring change – revolution. My father was a cowardly man – would have eaten shit from a plate if you offered it to him. I have always believed that complacency is the sibling to sloth, and all it ever did was act as a stepping stool for injustice. I never wanted to be complacent.”
His hands had a slight tremor as he reached into his pocket and removed a pack of cigarettes. He took one between his fingers and brought it to his lips. His face illuminated momentarily underneath the subtle warm light of the lighter’s flame, which licked the tip of the cigarette. He inhaled, the smoking cig creating a blanketing fog within the tent. “I am ashamed,” he continued, voice low as it carried through the silence of the clearing. “I realise I have been complacent elsewhere. My family, Mr Bell. I have built this gang during my lifetime of rebellion – people I had met who had suffered at the hands of this country’s corruption, and people I have since mentored and watch grow.”
Dutch finally turned to face Micah, who had an inexplicable expression upon his face. “I have been blinded by power and egotism. I thought… I had so strongly believed that rebellion lived through grandeur acts of individuality and revolution.” He took a long drag from his cigarette, brows furrowed as he exhaled through his nose. “I was wrong. To truly revolt against this country’s deluded notion of ‘civilisation’, is to live a life under your own pretences with those you love and care for.”
There was a brief moment of quiet before Micah shook his head. “I… I don’t know where you’re gettin’ at…” he said with uncertainty. “Everythin’ you’ve done has been to send a message, Boss. Think of all the glory-”
“There ain’t no glory if it weren’t done with a purpose,” Dutch pronounced. “And I don’t think I have acted with purpose for a long while, Mr Bell.”
Micah scoffed. “Actin’ against Cornwall… tryin’ to rob the rich blind… ya tellin’ me that was without- what, purpose?” He replied adamantly. “Don’t be doubtin’ yourself.”
He hummed. “Perhaps I was convinced that there were a rhyme and reason as to why I had done what I had done. But perhaps… I had done them to prove I still have worth.”
His words sat heavy between them, floating like a boat on water. The familiar feeling of shame returned like a roaring inferno within his stomach. It was uncomfortable, and he shifted on his feet as the flames of shame grabbed at his heart with its scorching touch.
Micah was stood still, mouth opening and closing as he searched for the words to say. But Dutch knew there was nothing to say.
“Alas, though I have done great things, I am not a great man, Micah,” he continued, dropping his cigarette and snubbing it with the sole of his shoe. “But… I would like to be. And a great man would not forgo the concerns of those closest to him.” He looked at Micah in the eyes. “I think you should leave, boy.”
The man swallowed again, the dark bruise over his nose stark against his white face. “Now, Boss, I don’t-”
Dutch looked away again, feeling his left eye twitch with irritation. “I don’t want you here no more, you understand? I’ll give you an hour to pack up your things and leave.” Then, he dropped his voice an octave and muttered, “But – if I see you here again, I’ll shoot you my damn self.”
The shock dissipated from Micah’s face, leaving instead an expression of unadulterated hatred. His eyes burned with rage as he glared at Dutch, jaw ticking. “Well, I see those spineless arseholes have gotten their way with ya,” he sneered as he stepped to exit the tent. Before he exited, he stepped up to Dutch’s face and murmured, “Now I see why you’re their leader.”
Micah stormed from the tent, fists clenching and unfurling habitually as though his body had been prepared to strike. Dutch simply watched him leave, feeling as though the vice grip around his chest had loosened just a bit.
But it wasn’t right. No, things weren’t right just because one thing had been corrected. Because… because Arthur was-
“-so proud of himself. Look at him.”
He lazily spun his head to glance at his right. Arthur was stood by the water, holding a large bass between two hands, the fish still wriggling to escape free. The boy was grinning from ear-to-ear, holding the catch out so that Dutch and Hosea could see. Dutch chuckled, the laughter rumbling from his chest and erupting from his lips like a bubble rising to the surface.
He leaned his head towards Hosea, their faces mere inches apart. “Of course he’s proud, Old Girl,” he mumbled, a faint grin tugging at his mouth. “I think that might just be the first proper fish he’s ever caught.”
Hosea threw his head back as he laughed, the corners of his eyes crinkling. Dutch knew that if nothing else, he would spend the rest of his life-
“-listening to me?”
A blink brought him crashing back to reality. Hosea was as pale as a sheet and- oh shit, blood. There was blood on his hands. Where had it come from? Was he-
One bloodied hand suddenly grasped his. He glanced into Hosea’s eyes, which were blown wide and red-rimmed. “Dutch, come back to me,” he pleaded, his voice unsteady as he held his hand tight. “I need you here.”
Dutch swallowed and looked down. On the cot – smaller than he had ever seen the boy – was Arthur. On the right side of his torso was a circular wound that was sluggishly oozing thick rivulets of dark red blood. There were a needle and thread in Hosea’s hands and bloodied cloths scattered about the bed.
He remembered… it was Arthur’s first official robbery with them. They had targeted the saloon in Armadillo, brazen and overly confident. Whilst Meander hadn’t been a threat whatsoever, his hired goons had been, and their oversight had caused Arthur to be shot during their escape.
With a deep albeit slightly shaky inhale, Dutch straightened and ignored the turmoil within his stomach. “What do you need me to do?” He asked.
Hosea gave him a weak but reassuring smile as a ‘thank you’ before asking him to fetch more thread from his tent. Dutch did so without hesitation but couldn’t help but pause before entering Arthur’s quarters again.
Though his hand was stained with the boy’s blood, Hosea was running a thumb against Arthur’s pale cheek, his face softened with endearment. “You’ll be alright, son,” he spoke quietly, just above a whisper. “You’ll be just fine.”
And right then, Dutch knew that their bonds ran deeper than those of mere gang members – no, they truly were a Curious Couple with an Unruly-
“Son, do you trust me?”
Arthur, now at the ripe age of twenty-one, no longer had to look up to catch Dutch’s eyes. He glanced over, a mischievous glint in his eyes, before a smirk stretched the corner of his lips. “‘Course, Dutch,” he replied easily, as though they were simply discussing the weather. “You know I trust you.”
Dutch grinned back, and together they walked into the building, loaded firearms holstered by their hips, ready to-
“-wreak havoc,” Dutch murmured, though his tone was light and his eyes were slightly squinted with a smile.
Hosea huffed a breathy laugh. “Awh, Dutch,” he said, finger idly tracing the rim of his whiskey glass. “Just look at ‘em, will ya? Those are brothers if I’ve ever seen ‘em.”
As he was told, Dutch raised his gaze towards them where they had been sitting side-by-side near the campfire. At the outskirt of their camp, by the shore, were Arthur and John, who were yelling and shouting up a storm. Arthur had poor, scrawny John thrown over his shoulder and was threatening to toss him into the water. John, on the other hand, was relentlessly hitting Arthur’s back with his fists and was threatening to read his journal aloud. The songbirds had since flown away from the commotion.
Dutch scrunched up his face in scepticism. “It don’t look like they’re very fond of one another,” he commented as he watched Arthur hold John’s head just above the water.
Hosea hummed before he placed his head upon Dutch’s shoulder. “Maybe,” he muttered lowly before turning his head, so his mouth was just inches away from the crook of his neck. “But sometimes, affection manifests in ways we don’t fully understand.”
His lips gently pressed themselves against Dutch’s soft skin, his breath warm against his-
neck were all stood on end and goosebumps raised across his body, accompanied by a bone-deep shiver. With trembling legs, he took a seat on the rickety stool by the cot.
This was his first time inside of Arthur’s tent since his return from the O’Driscolls. The air within the room was thick and heavy with a stench of infection and alcohol. Though he had conjured up images of what Arthur could possibly be suffering within his mind, nothing had prepared him for seeing it with his own eyes.
He was writhing on the cot, cheeks flushed with fever and hair damp from sweat. His chest heaved short and uneven breaths – desperate to continue – and his eyebrows were furrowed. The bandage around his shoulder already had splotches of yellows and reds and were soaked with perspiration around the edges. And even with the bandages, he could still see the streaks of red that spread from the covered wound.
Dutch swallowed drily, lips parched and cracked. He was rigid where he sat on the stool, back rod-straight and hands upon his knees. He continuously diverted his eyes from Arthur as though to give him privacy.
“We ain’t sure if he’s going to survive the next twenty-four-hours. If you have anything to say to him, I’d suggest doing it soon.”
Hosea’s voice echoed within his head, reasoning with him. He pressed his lips together and looked to Arthur once again, this time truly recognising the dire condition his son was in. Tentatively, he reached out his hand and took one of Arthur’s. It was hot to the touch and slightly clammy, but Dutch was quick to clasp it between both of his hands. He brought Arthur’s knuckles up and pressed them to his lips.
“Arthur… my boy…” He whispered, voice thready and weak. His vision became blurry as he watched his son gasp for air, face pinched in pain. He kissed Arthur’s knuckle bones and wished that the flush upon his cheeks were from embarrassment rather than from fever. “Please…”
His voice died within his throat like a flame starved of oxygen. He ran a thumb over Arthur’s hand, which had become tough and calloused over time (nothing like the hand that had once reached for him).
“I’m…” Dutch shook his head faintly and squeezed his eyes shut. A warm teardrop fell from the tips of his lashes and onto Arthur’s fingers.
“I’m so sorry, son.”
The sun had since risen from the East, its light warm and mellow. The birds had yet to stop their morning chorus as they sung merrily from the treetops, celebrating another day that the sun has risen.
He threw the butt of an extinguished cigarette from the cliffside. He watched as it descended before it became too small to see. A gentle breeze brushed against his face like a breathless whisper, the air cool and carrying the ripe scents of lush flora and dampened soil. For a short moment, he contemplated just pushing himself from the cliff’s edge – to drop from the earth until he, too, became too small to perceive.
Uttering out a quiet sigh, he idly spun the gold ring around his finger. He was not sure how he could face his gang again – his family. He felt like a wolf wearing a dead man’s clothes. It was his fault that she had died… her blood was on his hands.
He was watching the distant ground below him again when footsteps approached him from behind – careful, tentative, barely audible. He did not turn to watch as someone took a seat beside him, dangling their legs from the cliffside the same way he had. He needn’t look, as he already knew who it was.
They sat in a crushing silence for a few minutes, with only the rushing of water and the calls of wildlife to fill the gaps. He listened as his visitor struck a match and lit the tip of his cigarette, the potent stench of tobacco instantly permeating the air.
“Y’know, when my pa was hanged, I thought my life was over.”
Finally, he turned his head, his gaze falling upon the side of Arthur’s face, who was absently watching the skyline ahead of them. Dutch’s brows furrowed as his frown deepened, perplexed by the boy’s sudden striking up of conversation.
“The streets – they ain’t all too kind to orphaned kids,” he continued. His hands were clutching the cliff’s sharp edge, knuckle bones white where the skin stretched over them. “I had been starvin’ and near beat to death.”
Arthur turned to face Dutch. There was something inexplainable within the boy’s eyes – they glimmered as though reflecting a dying star. “That was until you found me. You and Hosea – y’all saved my life.”
The tension in Dutch’s face receded, his expression falling slack. He swallowed against the rising lump within his throat that threatened to suffocate him despite it all.
Arthur wetted his lips as he quickly diverted his gaze. The kid was never one for conversations that involved deep and heavy emotions, and thus Dutch was all the more honoured that Arthur had initiated it on his own.
“Jus’… don’t forget who you are, Dutch.” He said.
The words were like fresh water poured across his hands, washing them clean of the dark red blood that had stained them. His eyes stung as Arthur extinguished his cigarette on the rocky edge before standing. He watched from the corner of his eyes as the boy paused, the gravel skittering underneath his boots.
“‘Sea made somethin’ for breakfast,” he added lowly. “Though it stinks of somethin’ awful.”
Then, Arthur walked away back to camp, leaving Dutch with his thoughts.
But it was as though his sea of thoughts had been parted – even if for a moment. Like the sun smiling through the gaps in the clouds, he had been granted a moment of clarity. Of peace.
Because there were folk who had his back. Who wanted to help him despite all that he had done. Because there was breakfast waiting for him, made by somebody he loved.
And for that reason, perhaps he would be okay.
Dutch finally stood from his spot on the cliffside, feeling his spine pop into place. His legs felt weak as he turned and started back towards the campsite. His head was heavy from the drink and his heart was grieving, but he would be fine.
Because for all that he had done wrong, he had also done a lot of good, too.