Chapter Text
John is switching off watch to Sean when Arthur finally returns to camp around two in the afternoon after nearly 3 weeks gone.
John wouldn't have even noticed had it not been for Sean not taking the offered rifle from his attempt to pass it off to him. That in of itself isn't too far out of the norm for Sean, but what did clue John in was his slightly worried stare near the scout fire, mouth opening and closing before he whispered Jesus in his thick accent.
That got John gripping the rifle firmly and planting his feet ready for a fire fight, but all he sees his Arthur and Kronos' sickle bobbing as they make their way from the tree line. He also notes a horse he's never seen tethered to the thoroughbred's halter. But then John sees all the red that shouldn't be there, in places too vulnerable to think of how they happened. He doesn't even realize he's started at Arthur until he bumps into one of the crates near the main campfire and has to throw out a hand to catch himself on it's edge. He snaps his gaze back up to Arthur to see Charles rushing to Arthur's side from the fold out chair he was sitting in. It's only as Charles grabs at Arthur's shirt collar, then quickly cups his jaw in clear inspection of his neck that John takes in the rest of Arthur's appearance.
The first thing other than the blood covering him is his incredible sunburn, it didn't seem like his hat helped him all too much, his face just as burnt as the rest of him. His shirt collar is undone to below his collar bone, and he's covered in sweat on top of the blood. Everywhere skin is shown is red with sun heat so distractingly bright that the massive pelt over his shoulder registers thirdly. It's black and clearly hangs over his front and back with it's length, but damned if John can tell what it is exactly. What it's done though has left Arthur's shoulders and both sides of his throat covered in gore.
Arthur's face too holds swaths of rusted blood where he clearly swiped sweat away, either uncaring or unaware of the blood he spread with each swipe.
And lastly it seems that Arthur is devoid of all extra weaponry. Aside from his pistols, and hunting knife. John spots his small armory packed into Kronos's extra saddle holsters, along with the satchel Arthur never let's leave his side looped around the saddle horn for safe keeping. He also spots the pronghorn on his geldings croup, with an assortment of pelts John can't distinguish from this far away.
If Charles hasn't shouted for assistance, it can't be too bad though. And John can admit to himself that he can't make himself approach, fear of the constant rejection Arthur dishes out make him wary of over stepping their tenuous new boundaries. Even if lately they've been mending their fences, it's still new to the both of them finding where their stakes lay, and slower to finding their middle ground. Arthur started to check up on him after Colter like he had before, and John had to hide his hopeful smile in his stew the first couple of times.
He's broken from his reverie when he notices Hosea bustle past him to converse quickly with Duffy, clearly sending the boy away. The old man places his hand on Kronos' nose and strokes up his forehead, flowing along his neck, before placing a quick pat at his shoulder. He deftly flips open one of Arthur's latest additions to his saddle, another large trail saddle bag he belts in when he goes for longer journeys and needs more storage. Hosea seems to find what he wants, a flask that flashes in the light as he gives it a shake, and immediately spins on his heel towards the chuckwagon.
A glance at Arthur sees Charles folding his arms as Arthur gestures demurely at his thoroughbred, before Charles is leaning forward to tug the pelt off Arthur's shoulder. It makes him stumble and raise his arm to his opposite shoulder, Charles too quickly reaches out to steady him, but hovers before actually grabbing Morgan's arm. Even from this distance John can see the intentional limpness Arthur is forcing the appendage into. Charles leans forward but still doesn't touch, instead shifting the pelt on his shoulder and listening to whatever Arthur is saying.
Hosea marches past John towards the two men carrying Arthur's flask and dish cloth in one hand, and the chuckwagon bucket in the other. John spins around, making startled eye contact with Pearson only to then realize he's not the only one gawking at this turn of events. Everyone knows Pearson will flay the taste buds off anyone that messes with his equipment, no matter their station, it's his work space and he's made that known by completely demoralizing everyone for touching his things. No one is safe, Dutch has even suffered the consequences of salt water soup, when after a bout of rough drunk riding he couldn't even stand to puke in the trees. Instead he grabbed closet thing to catch his sick in, Pearson's grub pot.
A quick look around sees Sean still beside him watching Hosea with a green tinge to his complexation, no doubt remembering his own ordeal of crossing Pearson. Most of the girls are craning their necks watching everyone while still managing to do their chores, Javier sitting in his bedroll at the main campfire is squinting after Hosea in concern.
Until Javier suddenly leans forward in a half-up motion to stand, John hears Hosea call him over instead. John quickly tosses the rifle into Sean's chest, making the kid fumble as to not drop it and heads towards Hosea.
Charles gives Arthur's shoulder a pat before heading down the small mound, nodding as he passes. John can now tell it's likely a bison pelt with the small bit of horn he glimpsed all rolled up in the fur.
Arthur swings his head and shoulders in an over dramatic eye roll before taking the flask from Hosea's hand and raising it to his lips for a sip. He only just manages to catch the rest of whatever mother-henning Hosea is inflicting on him to elicit that reaction from Morgan.
"-s I mean it. And I better not have to check."
Hosea puts down the bucket of water to then dump the wash cloth in it, before they trade off flask for cloth and Hosea lifts the hat from Arthur's head. Arthur's shaking his head but dutifully wiping down his face from the visceral that covers him. Hosea turns to John as Arthur is bending down to dunk the cloth back into the bucket, returning to his ministrations.
"John my dear boy, I could have sworn we had raised you boys to-" Hosea cut himself off and shoves Arthur's hat and flask into John's chest. John laments in the sudden irony only for a half second while juggling his brothers belongings into a proper hold, because he sees why Hosea has palmed Arthur's jaw so suddenly.
The mans covered in fading bruises along his collar bone hidden under all the bison blood, and at first glance the edge of a small cut under his shirt and along his neck. But Hosea's hands run down Arthur's neck to raise his shirt collar eliciting a small grimace from Arthur as the dried cuts reopen. Two large deep butcher's knife clean groves travel from the top of his left pectoral to the back of his left shoulder, the skin is also covered with extensive bruising ending near his triceps. The clear impact being nearly directly between his pectoral and arm pit, dangerously close to his ribs and heart.
"Arthur! What happened?!"
If Hosea had lungs like he used to, John knew that would have came out shrill, but in the moment all it came out as is a hoarse whisper. Despite his obvious discomfort Arthur smirks and gently places his hand under Hosea's elbow, and glances at John before answering.
"It seems me and Marston are playing, 'What the hell's gonna try to eat me next?'"
Hosea coughs out a concerned laugh and shifts his hand out of Arthur's way as the brute continues to clean what he can see. John feels a moment of pity for whatever wolf tried to take a pound of flesh from Arthur Morgan. Before Arthur promptly makes John choke on his own disbelieving laugh.
"It was a cougar, it came at me while I was on the trail, had to duck into some hermits front lawn. I didn't even think someone was livin' there, what with the boxes all about the place. But it was a perfect place to get my sights on the cat hunting me. 'Til he started up his hollering, hermit was tryin to get me off his property. I told him I was being stalked and I just needed a moment then I'd be off his land. But the fool pulled a shotgun on me, and I was already hurting from Phthisis setting her boundaries."
Arthur had started taking deeper breathes as he spoke, fighting to smooth his voice in the wake of his painful rubbing. He gestures to the darkest part of his bruise near his arm pits to emphasis his point before continuing with a soft hitch in his sentence.
"I shot the gun from his hands, but that seemed to be what the cat was waitin' on."
He dunked the rag in the bucket again, before placing it on the buckets rim, and unbuttoning his shirt to take his arm from it's sleeve. Revealing another laceration on his forearm, hidden from view by his rolled sleeves, it was deeper and jagged compared to the ones on his shoulder. After pulling his arm fully from it's sleeve with slow movements Arthur let the rest of his shirt hang from his waist. He turned to Kronos behind him a few paces and began unwinding his satchel from his saddle horn, John and Hosea both shared matching pained expressions at the small breathes Arthur was puffing in from simply reaching above his head.
"I heard it charging me, but all I could see was the man already holding his gun again, pointed at me. I know he saw the cougar, I know he did, and he didn't care one bit."
Arthur finally turned back to them, without his hat to hide under they both saw his deep set frown and sad eyes while he pulled out a small bottle of rum and a metal tin of some sort from his satchel. He passed both to Hosea to put the strap loosely on the horn again, he stooped to retrieve the rag, exchanging it for the tin from Hosea.
Hosea starts to wring the rag of water, then begins dowsing the rag in rum. He places a guiding hand on Arthur's unmaimed shoulder pushing him to take a seat on the chair Charles had vacated. Arthur fidgeted with the tin in his hands, turning it's lid like a dial before he continued quietly, "I knew I needed to shoot one of them, n' I figured, Marston survived wolves, it won't be easy but it was better chances than point blank buckshot from the shotgun this feller had. So I chose him, I don't even remember where I got him, just that as soon as I shot him I turned for the cougar. All I saw was it's glowing eyes, I tried to move and I guess I did alright because it didn't manage to pin me."
Arthur chuckles before he bends to swipe a thick stick from the ground. Lifting one side of his hip from his seat to grab his bandana from his gun belt.
"It sorta, scrapped across me and it's own weight carried it too far n' fast, we both ended up on the ground. I don't rightly know what happened after that, just that when I woke it was to those two napping above me," if it could be done, then Kronos and the new mare swishing their tails at the same time felt like a mock salute, "Phthisis legs were covered in blood I thought I was gonna have to put her down 'til I realized I was also covered in it. That cougar lay only a few feet from me, it's head nothin' but mash, I was layin' in it's blood. I-I think she stomped it to death. She was fine, I cleaned her, n' gave her a good look over and couldn't find no new wounds."
Arthur put the stick in his mouth and sank his teeth in testing it's firmness, before nodding at Hosea and twisting his pointer fingers through the bandanna tails to grip the rest, taking one deep breath in and then releasing it slowly. Hosea doused his shoulder and chest in the rum right before Arthur was set to breathe in, making sure Arthur had no air to shout with before delving the rum soaked rag into the rake marks for deeper cleaning. Arthur's arms bulged from pulling the bandanna taut between his hands while he choked on air he couldn't inhale, Hosea finished cleaning his shoulder and chest. He dunked the rag back into the bucket, and started wringing it out before re-dousing it in rum. Letting Arthur get his breathing under control before he started on his forearm.
John could never get this down like these two had, he always messed up his exhale, Dutch and Hosea would miss time the dousing in response leading to him yelling himself hoarse. Even years after his first near death he couldn't stand to be touched while hurting. The thought alone of anyone, no matter who, caused his breathing to wobble. His dark thoughts were interrupted before they could truly spiral, by Hosea asking where he even found her.
John stopped watching Arthur's struggle for air to really look at the mare, and bristled as he took in her sorry state wholly for the first time. John couldn't even tell what she was, her rustic coat was missing large patches along her rump, flank and possibly her face, but with her matted dreadlocks he couldn't be sure. She had either white speckles or infected sores along her muzzle, and clear boils from burns near her nostrils and eye. With an open scab on her knees and gaskin down to her hock. She made quite the sorry sight, he'd guess she was some sort of paint under all that hurt, but horses have always been Arthur's thing.
"W-was pulling a wagon for some local in-breds, live near Annesburg." he gasped out, "Was on my way back from getting that moose n' I hear screaming from the trail. Two of 'em had tied some woman up and were takin' her who knows where. Killed 'em, didn't even think bout it. Hopped in the back to free the woman, but soon as she was free she rolled out of the cart screaming from me. Was so caught up in her and tryin' to call her back so I could least get her back 'ome, didn't notice that one of them corpses she was back there with was another kinfucker. Got me in the arm with his knife," he lifted the forearm with the deep gash Hosea held, rum at the ready to treat, "Was gonna try to go after the her once I'd dealt with that piece o' shit. But then I see Phthisis for the first time as I was 'bout to cut her free for the woman to ride. They hadn't even taken her halter or saddle off from the previous owner, just threw everything over top it. And when I cut her free, she didn't startle or stomp she just stood there," he swallowed "even after she was free, it were like she just didn't care no more."
John shared one sad look with Hosea, before the old man placed his hand gently on Arthur's injured shoulder in comfort saying softly, "You saved her, so she saved you."
There was no doubt from anyone in the gang about how much Morgan cared about animals, tame or no. Looking to hurt or just live, the man went out of his way to greet any creature he saw. For him to have saved a woman, and then forgot her to instead focus on the mare said a lot about how distraught he must have been in that moment. And John could agree that if this was how she was faring after a week and a half in Arthur's care, and she still looked so downtrodden and beaten, she must have been fit for a renderer when she was first saved.
Arthur gave a sad tilt of his head before biting back down on the stick, John looked away as Arthur took in a deep breath to look at the mare again. Duffy had returned at some point and was tryin' to approach her, at John's back Arthur was choking on air again. Duffy was ghostly pale and determinedly trying to avoid looking their way while he attempted to win over Phthisis with sugar cubes.
"Arthur said she's a kicker O'Driscoll." the man's face pinched, but it was the only indication he heard John. John turned back to Hosea and Arthur to ask ,"Why did she kick you?"
Arthur leaned back on his hunches clearly tryin to get his breathing under control while Hosea rubbed his hands in the bucket at their feet.
"I tried to brush out her matted hair, she did alright at first, but I must've not had a good grip on her tail. It was a mostly glancing blow since I side stepped. Winded me," he chuckled softly, "'sides we both learned something from the shared hurt. So I suppose it was a trade off." He glanced down at his sleeve like he was thinking about putting it back on, but one look at Hosea shaking his head decided that for him. With a huff Arthur stood and made his way over to Duffy and the mare, slipping the other shoulder of his shirt off so that it hung from his waist.
"First time she showed a piece of herself to me, she huffed at me like I was the one that kicked her, she likes peaches Kieran. Only just got her used to me, s'why I took so long. Had to take the long way home after selling off that pelt. Them fools at the stable in Van Horn figured where she came from an' told me I ought to shoot her. That them in-breds had drained her, heart and soul an' that killin' her was the right thing to do. Lucky I didn't shoot their asses." Arthurs face had grew redder from more than just sunburn, rage creased his brow, a magnificent scowl over taking his face. Phthisis's ears pinning back had him taking a deep breath in search of calm. Once his face cleared of anger he slowly and gently rubbed Phthisis's nose affectionately, avoiding the smattering of healing boils.
"Liked my money just fine when I wanted to buy the medicine, didn't give me enough for a full treatment since they didn't think she'd make it, or didn't think I would, hell I don't know."
Arthur opened the tin he was carrying, passed the lid over the hitch rail to Duffy, who placed it atop of the hitch post and slowly, but gently applied the ointment to the mares numerous facial sores. Arthur shook his head while he made his way around her, dabbing here and there while Duffy switched his attention to unloading Kronos's hunting haul instead. Untying the ropes that kept the numerous pelts over the saddle seat in place, and the first knot of the one tied to the saddle loops holding the sheep over Kronos's flanks. Duffy took as many as he could carry over to the chuckwagon.
"Had to take the long way home, through New Hanover so I could get more medicine from Valentine's Stable. Last time I went through Dewberries they were still waiting on oats for Christ sake. While I was there I figured I may as well do some hunting for ya'll. Had already got some boar n' wolf pelts while I was north, some other smaller critters too, Pearson's been wantin'. The pronghorn as rations and whatever the hell else Pearson wanted the whole thing for. Because if we're really 'bout to rob Valentine's bank I weren't bout to go all that way back for a bison when I'm wanted, skinnin' them is rough enough as is. And I wasn't gonna put nothin' on Phthisis so," Arthur trailed off into silence. Duffy returned taking Arthur's satchel from the horn to hang on the same post as the lid to his ointment sat, then he was lifting Kronos's saddle to stow with the rest.
John mouthed Phthisis at Hosea in the quiet while they waited for Arthur to finish or hide, Hosea tilted his head and smirked. John squinted at Hosea, but the man didn't let onto the names meaning. Rolling his eyes since John never really was one to listen to folk tales or care enough to remember the books Arthur hoarded like gold when they were both younger and finally realizing they could own their own things. John sighed before nudging Morgan's elbow with the flask he was still holding. Arthur grumbled into the mares flanks, earning a deep sigh from Kronos and a nicker from Phthisis.
"What was that?" Hosea laughed out.
Arthur tossed his head back in a deeper sigh before snatching the flask from John's hand, taking serval gulps and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
"I carried the bison from the Hanover's plains to camp? M'sorry it took so long I didn't want to hurt her while she was still so sore with any gear or weight."
Hosea's exclaimed 'you did what!?' was drowned out as John felt a wave of vertigo wash over him trying to work out the distance. Arthur had to at least been in the Heartlands to get bison, and while it was only a day and a half's ride on horse back, on foot and through all that terrain? That was several days alone negating the breaks Arthur would have needed also carrying the pelt. With a crippled shoulder, and newly acquired mare in tow, it was no wonder he'd taken himself down to the bare minimum on his person.
Because Kronos was so laden with gear and pelts the camp wanted, Arthur had no room to put the bison that he wanted on his thoroughbred. Causing discomfort to his already traumatized mare was beyond out of the question for Morgan.
Instead he'd rather force himself to carry that weight for miles as his own pragmatism and stubbornness finally held hands with his non existent selfishness in a self destructive dance with his health. Instead of the previous humor at his condition, Arthur being burnt to hell and back suddenly made John's stomach writhe with guilt.
John and Javier were the ones requesting the wolf and boar hides, his tent and the campfire were wearing on the both of them, they just wanted some padding and insulation from the cold ground. Honestly, John had thought on their next resupply into town he'd just buy them from a local trapper. He put the requests in the ledger merely as a warning for when he used camp funds to buy them, so Strauss wouldn't think anyone was skimming cash.
But John knew that wasn't Arthur's way, or his luck. He was the one to sale his pelts to others, never to buy them for himself. The man has always breezed through camp, returning from Christ knows where, to head straight for the ledger. Dropping whatever money, and random items he'd gained before reading over camp requests, slouched over the book while leaning on the barrel.
He always goes to Pearson, and reports to Dutch or Hosea. The order to all that fretting is never the same for every return, but making his rounds around camp to check in with everyone is always the last thing he does. Sometimes he rests near the main fire with folks, listening to stories or singing along quietly, rarely is he ever the one to tell stories.
But lately after his personal rounds, John sees him heading to his cot and promptly passing out, only to be woken shortly before his watch come morning by Arthur chopping wood or dropping rations for Pearson to make breakfast with.
"John. Clear off the rest and take it to Pearson. Oh and grab some ointment from my bed roll while your over there." Hosea barked, snatching Arthur's hat from John's loose hold. John jumped at the order and hurried up to grab the first knot to untie the sheep from the gelding's rump, careful to keep the wax sheet in place so it didn't bleed on the rest of Arthur's haul.
"No need John, me and Phthisis been sharing." He waved the ointment he'd been putting on Phthisis with his good arm.
"Ignore him John, see if Charles has anything for sunburns too."
"'Sea."
"Arthur, I don't want to hear it, finish that water now."
John takes the sheep onto his shoulder and trudges down to Pearson and Charles at the chop table where the bison belt is partially unrolled, horns set aside.
"String that up will you John? Haven't got the space just yet."
"Sure, Charles, Hosea was wondering if you had anything for his sunburn?" Charles walks around Pearson to help John lift the sheep to be strung, taking a moment to think, "Not at this moment, I can grind something up quick though."
They both grunt as John quickly ties the legs up, "He'd like that, thanks."
Nodding Charles turns back to Pearson, but the cook waves him off. Without a word he strides to the crate with his herbs near the campfire, John makes for Hosea's roll to quickly find his tinned rub under the book on his side of the tent.
Alcohol to be drunk, not poured onto wounds, was sure high on John's agenda when he was sore with pain after the wolves, so he swung by the crate near the dishes to snag a beer before heading back to Hosea and Arthur. Grimshaw was up with them as was Lenny, waving Arthur closer as she sits on the rock to his side, before pointing Lenny towards the lake, he nods as he bends to grab the bucket handle heading towards the shore.
Arthur scoots his chair close enough to Grimshaw to lay his arm in her lap while she digs a sewing kit out of the folds of her skirt.
Hosea's watching them, eyebrows pinched in thought until John comes up to his side offering the tin to him, he takes it before putting his hands back on his hips. John pops the cap off the beer, then offers it to Arthur, he takes it with a nod of thanks.
Duffy has finished untacking Kronos for the most part, but seems hesitant to untether the mare from the gelding's halter. John waves him off, digging a peppermint out of his pocket, to offer to Kronos. The thoroughbred shuffles closer to lip it out of his hand pulling Phthisis along slightly, the rope taut between both horses preventing separation. Petting the thoroughbreds forehead John debates heading to bed now, or after supper. He knows he'll have to raise early the next day for watch again before he can follow the lead he has in Valentine, but he doesn't know how it'll all pan out. He's never against more sleep lately, still healing from the wolf encounter, so he's leaning more towards turning in early.
"Damn Morgan, your horse lays a beating on you and you return the favour? Didn't know you had it in you."
Arthur says nothing, doesn't even give any reaction that he heard the blonde. Charles pestle and mortar in hand coming up the mound looks at the back of Micah's head in tame disgust, passing him to stand beside Arthur. John really has no idea what this fool has done to earn a place in the gang, by Dutch no less, when he spits in the face of all his mentors preaching's. It drives him in circles trying to understand it, so he's stopped trying, the headache is so much worse when the source can't help but to pick fights while in camp.
Hosea shakes his head but says nothing to Micah, instead thanking Charles quietly for his help, Charles face softens when he nods at the older man. John rests his hand on Kronos' forehead, turning his body slightly to face Micah.
"If you think Arthur of all people did this, you really are as stupid as you look."
"Oh Scarface, mad that you won't be the only invalid in camp now?"
John feels his lips curl, pulling up to expose his canine. Arthur tilts his head in their direction, "Don't start. Just hush up, both of you."
Micah advances on them, posture aggressive and voice loud, "Or what Morgan, you'll bleed on me?"
"Shut up, go take yourself for a walk."
Micah gestures at both of them, "The first sons of Dutch, oh, I'm so scared." Micah draws out the end adding a slight swoop to it for effect, before he jerks his arms over his heart in an over dramatic fashion. Gasping dramatically and acting like some dime damsel, and while normally John would find this funny, he's feeling too pricked with guilt over having a hand in Arthur's dumbassery. Phthisis tosses her head and shuffles further from Micah and closer to Kronos, but only marginally hindered by the rope as she is.
Micah leans his shoulders forward and shouts, "Not!" before throwing back his head and bending at the waist to guffaw, going to set his other on Phthisis's neck for balance. Her ears pin back right before she turns to get her hind legs closer for a kick, Micah jumps back, accidentally giving her the room she needs to turn fully. Pushing herself into a tighter turn with her rump facing Micah trying to get close enough to him, her leg shoots out lighting quick, but her already tight tether to Kronos stops her just short of contact. The vicious action bodily yanks Kronos away from John where the horses bump into each other as they try to keep their thrown balance. Micah stumbles onto his ass, tripping over his feet to avoid the hoof, but quickly jumps to his feet hand going to his pistol. His gun clears the holster - suddenly Arthur is rocketing past him to kick Micah dead center in the chest, sending the man back onto his ass and rolling some distance. Arthur's gun is drawn in a blur of flashing gold but he leaves it at his side, looming over Micah whose spitting the dirt from his mouth.
"Holster that before I kill you." Arthur's normal slow drawl has crisped into deadly precision in his anger. The needle from Grimshaw's work catches the light as it hangs from his forearm, slowing into a sparkling twirl in contrast with Arthur's absolute stillness. Micah leans forward on his hunches into sitting, rolling his shoulders back as he looks up at Arthur in a clear challenge. Forgoing all attempts at seeming like they aren't watching, all gang activity ceases, the camp descends into graveyard silence, collectively holding their breathes in uncertainty.
"What the the hell is going on out here?!" Dutch bellows.
Arthur makes no move to defend his predicament, still as a statue, waiting on Micah's next move. John realizes his hand is gripping his cattleman, slowly relaxing his hand he slides his eyes to Dutch, certain that he'll have to explain.
"Just a small disagreement, isn't that right Mister Bell?" Hosea says back a ways, hand resting above his holster.
Micah's face twitches between expressions quicker than John can place as unfamiliar with them as he is, before he shrugs from his position in the dirt, "Sure old man, sure."
"Disagreements are to be solved with words, not guns in this gang, you know that better than anyone Arthur. What is wrong with you?"
Being between Micah and Arthur, John can see Arthur sneer before he simply holsters his gun. Raising his injured arm to inspect the new trail it's left, running along the outside of his palm and dripping down his finger tips. Arthur glances at his gun likely; to make sure there's no blood he'll need to clean, before he shakes his arm out in Micah's direction carelessly. John is satisfied to see Micah catches some on his jacket cuffs, his nostrils flaring in suppressed rage.
He's entirely missed the squabble that was happening at their backs but Arthur turns his back to Micah and John sees a dark promise take light in the blonde's eyes. It makes John focus intently, he can't force his gaze away from Micah, too tense now to let the man go unsupervised just yet. Doesn't think Micah wouldn't put a bullet in Arthur's back given the chance, too impulsive to care when slighted to the degree of minutes ago.
Getting to his feet, Micah's gaze slides to John's before he spits. In an unnecessary show, he spins his pistol into its holster before swaggering up to Dutch's side as he argues with Hosea still. Both men getting frustrated with each other is never good for anyone, but coming between it is even worse. Micah's anger has transformed into mild glee watching the older men argue like possessed house wives, John shakes his head before checking on the rest of the camp.
Most of the gang has dropped what they were doing entirely at this point to watch this tantrum, turned show down, turned melt down. Javier has moved closer, mirroring Arthur's previous stance, pistol in hand by his hip. John spots Charles still beside Grimshaw but with his bow in hand, a arrow notched but resting between the grip and his index finger. Sean and Karen stand side by side, rifles pointed down now, but no doubt had been ready for anything before. Lenny has made his way back to them as well now with the fresh bucket, his rifle is no longer slung on his back, but held by the stock in his other hand.
John would bet they were all ready to drop Micah, it's extraordinarily rare for Arthur to draw a weapon on a gang member, the man rarely even touches his armory while in camp. At most he cleans his weaponry at his tent or on the communal table when everyone else is, to avoid getting singled out by Grimshaw. John can count on one hand the times Arthur has drawn on anyone camp side, and John himself is the one that holds most of those fingers, thanks to his pre-teens years when he first joined, and Arthur's own bull headed youth.
Most of the gang tends to draw weapons on each other at any minor grievance, being outlaws it's just how they taught themselves how to survive. That learned behavior only dampens in camp, but is never truly gone, John himself has drawn and been drawn on by damn near every member at least once. Everyone learned or knew better than to pull that on Arthur, as an enforcer to the gang, it was nearly akin to drawing on Hosea or Dutch. Oh people had ignored that, ignored that he was also like a son to both men, and learned the hard way not to. Arthur didn't need his mentors to defend him, but some members are thicker in head than others, Bill being the one to push boundaries sober or drunk early on. He came away with the worst injury to date, and doesn't take to needling Arthur as hard as he first did.
Arthur would rather deescalate any conflict with words or sheer presence instead, he doesn't need a weapon to back himself. Everyone works with each other in the gang and by that standard, everyone has seen Arthur work, anyone with bluster found themselves reassessing views on him after. And though he's no Dutch, everyone listens when he speaks, even seeking his opinion or aid before anyone else as the veteran gun. Being the enforcer isn't something John knows Arthur relishes or even gloats about. Doesn't even think the man takes pride in the work he does, the hierarchy he holds, or feeling of protection he carries on his shoulders.
But if anyone were to get away with killing another gang member without orders, it'd be Arthur, even if Arthur himself doesn't realize it.
Because Arthur is, well, Arthur. The man holds himself so lowly that he's blind to the trust the rest of the gang has for him, that he's garnered for himself solely by being himself. Barring Hosea, Arthur is the most dependable man in camp with any issue a member has. Dutch may be their leader, their savior, the one everyone respects enough to trust in the future laid out in grand plans or heists. But it's Hosea and Arthur that tend to the collective morale, to keep the minds of all those in the gang hale and whole as best they can. As years have passed Hosea has taken a step back from fire fights, focusing more cons and the gangs wellbeing. His life style and age has taken it's toll, laid him out for days on end more and more. Members leading a steady cycle of visits while he rests, and during those periods where he cannot take visitors, Arthur takes on the mental weight of all the souls in camp, even Hosea's.
When Hosea recovers enough to walk the camp, Arthur takes his to leave it. No one begrudges him for leaving for a few days to do whatever he does that makes him come back looking relaxed and rested, even if he usually returns with a new horse they don't need.
The both of them have worried more and more over the last few years, leading to some truly awkward fights in camp, mainly between Hosea and Dutch as Arthur plays middle man. John knows something happened while he was gone to push the three of them to a point he no longer understands them as he did. Had to relearn them on his return, like he never knew them to begin with. In the quiet moments John feels guilt. He knows in some way that it's his fault; he was what caused this friction, and since only Hosea treats him as he used to, he has very little doubt to it's truth.
"We can speak on that later, for now I need to finish with Arthur. Take Mister Bell with you."
Dutch's eyebrows furrow down in annoyance to be dismissed like some ignorant child, turning his glare to Arthur. Dutch opens his mouth to start on his tirade of orders, but snaps it closed to blink before concern blankets his expression, "Son, what the hell happened to you?"
Hosea throws up his hands at Dutch's slow uptake, grumbling and shaking his head as he looks to Miss Grimshaw pinching the bridge of her nose. John bites the inside of his cheek to keep himself quiet. Charles shoulders tense as Dutch moves closer but his grip loosens on his bow, lowering it back to the side of the rock.
Dutch intercepts Arthur before he can rejoin Grimshaw, taking Arthur's elbow to inspect his arm. Arthur shakes his head quickly to assuage Dutch of his worries, his nose wrinkles and his eye brows come down thoughtfully. He raises his free hand to the back of his head, his expression souring, before he checks his hand. It comes back covered in fresh blood, with flakes of dried, Arthur stares blankly down at his hand before making a soft huh noise. Micah scoffs, but is ignored as Dutch is quick to use his hold on Arthur's elbow to turn the man so his back is facing Dutch. The atrocious bruising all along his back and shoulders is concerning alone, but now there's a trail of fresh blood that has run down Arthur's neck and back. It looks to have been bleeding for some time too, but caught on his collar during his trek. Dutch is quick to place his hand along the back of Arthur's head to feel for swelling, his searching ends with him gingerly parting Arthur's hair to take a look at the injury.
Dutch hisses at what he sees, "No stitches for this, but it's pretty deep. Did you black out when it happened?"
Arthur purses his lips like he's debating lying but Hosea cuts in, "Yes he did, now I need everyone to clear out so Miss Grimshaw can see to him. As I said we can speak later."
Dutch's hand slide from Arthur's hair to his shoulder as he peers into Arthur's eyes, Arthur refuses to meet them at first. He ducks his head, before looking at Dutch's raised eyebrow. Whatever Dutch sees leaves him quirking his lips before he leans forward to whisper to Arthur quietly. He gives his shoulder a pat and turns with a flourish, waving his arms in a grand shooing motion, "Okay back to work people, we can all poke the bear at dinner! Where he will be sharing his wonderous tale!"
Dutch keeps pace with the others, herding them further away, giving them back the scout fire and quiet of before. Arthur sits back down with Grimshaw, she tuts at him before taking the needle back in hand to continue sewing his arm closed. Hosea pats the back of John's arm before gesturing at his tent in clear dismissal. John glances at Arthur before starting down the small mound where Micah stands motionless, mustache twitching around his lips, his eyes so intent on Arthur he doesn't notice himself being observed in turn.
Then Dutch palms his shoulder and Micah seems to come back to himself, rounding his shoulders to meekly crawl from the hole he dug himself in. They walk back to Dutch's tent speaking lowly and John can only shake his head in disgust as he passes to his own to sleep.
- - -
John wakes to the quiet of a sleeping camp and tiredly dresses in the dark of his tent. When he's sure he's bundled comfortabley he steps from his tent and ties his flaps closed, but his eyes catch a out of place gleam near Arthur's space. Inhaling John pulls his gun from it's holster fearing a intruder getting past Bill on watch. Lowering himself slightly to slowly advance John realizes that it's Phthisis's exposed skin catching on the moonlight, she's leaned up to the outside Arthur's wagon, her neck and head just barely visible. When John gets close enough, she lifts her head to poke it through the awning and crates, lipping at Arthur's hair and the bandanna that covers his eyes. Clearly more asleep than awake, Arthur groans and blindly pats at her chin murmuring reassurance. John leaves them chuckling intent on coffee before his watch starts.
Tilly sits at the fire in her night gown, John thanks her for making the coffee he can smell as he grabs a cup by the chuckwagon. Joining her on the log, she looks at John as he sits, before she's smiling softly at Arthur's tent.
"We didn't have the heart to move her, she's been there since he went down shortly after you." she flicks her cigarette into the fire before raising with a quiet laugh, "How he sleeps through us, I'll never understand."
John rolls his shoulders in a lazy shrug. It's far too early for conversation, but Tilly is his little sister in all but blood and after nearly a decade she's used to John's mannerisms. She shakes her head at him fondly before wishing him a good night to head to bed herself.
The sound of crunching raises his head and he sees Kronos slowly making his way to Phthisis, if John didn't know better he'd think the thoroughbred was attempting to sneak. Taking a few steps before stopping and swiveling his ears before he repeats the process until he's next to the mare shifting his feet to get comfortable before dropping of to sleep, side pressed to hers.