Arthur Morgan did not intend to survive when he gave his hat to John Marston and stayed behind to gain his redemption. As he crawled towards his final resting place, he never intended to wake up again.
But he does wake up. Thanks to time travelers F...
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Trigger warning: Sexual assault towards the end of the chapter. I'll set it off with many hashtags (####) so that if that's something that triggers you, you know when to stop reading and where it's safe to start reading again.
"Marston! Morgan!" Dutch called from his tent.
Arthur looked at John nervously. Dutch rarely sounded so peeved. Something was bothering him, and when he was in one of his moods, it was best not to mess with him. Not that this was an option, as he was currently beckoning to both young men.
"Guess we better go see what he wants," John sighed. "C'mon, Arthur."
Sighing in discontent, Arthur followed John from where they'd been brushing their horses on the outskirts of camp, to the tent of the best father each had ever known.
"Pains me to say it, but we're runnin' low on food," Dutch sighed, leaning back in his chair to look at both of his surrogate sons.
"Dutch, I'm as good a hunter as anyone. I can-," Arthur began, before Dutch held up his hand to silence him.
"I ain't talkin' about leathery venison, Arthur. I need real food. Something with a little taste."
Arthur sighed. Perhaps if Dutch wanted better food, he should hire a camp cook. As it was, Susan Grimshaw did most of the cooking, and she had a lot more duties than just that. Making the gang gourmet meals was placed on the back burner when there was washing to do, water bins to fill, and two fires to tend. The camp really needed more women to help her.
"Whatchu' want, Dutch?" John asked, filling the awkward silence. "Prime rib?"
Dutch chuckled. "No. I do want some better canned goods, though. I would kill for a can of Big Valley strawberries, and maybe some candies. I'd at least like a little salt to put on the saddle scraps Susan serves me every night."
Arthur happened to be a fan of Grimshaw's cooking. It wasn't perfect, but after being raised on jackrabbits and whatever plants he could find in the wild, a little venison every night was the meal of a king to him. Still, if finding Dutch something sweet would make him less cantankerous, Arthur was all for it. "We can make a supply run, boss," he offered. "I'll take Marston into town and we can get some things from the general store there."
"Thanks, son," Dutch chuckled, reclining in his chair. "Ask Miss Grimshaw if there's anything else she needs while you boys are there. Take some money from the camp fund to pay for it."
As soon as they were out of earshot, John turned to Arthur. "Why don't he get his own damn strawberries?" Marston hissed venomously. "Even Hosea does his own shoppin'."
"He's the brains of the operation, Marston. He does all our plannin', and we're as good as hung without him. He gets whatever he wants to keep him happy. You don't want to deal with an angry Dutch. He's liable to shoot someone if he gets too ornery."
