A Red Dead Redemption story.
A seasoned bounty hunter, you've buried your past beneath the weight of your work. But a brush with the notorious Van der Linde gang unravels everything. Amid bullets and bloodshed, you discover love and a sense of belon...
A/N: I just thought I'd say a quick hello and thank you to all these new people reading - hi!!!
idk how it happened, but, #1 in #arthurmorgan (vomits, screams, dies) has brought a lot of reads I was NEVER expecting.
I wanted to make clear I am no writer, aspiring or otherwise. So if my writing seems a little bit same-y or lacking in ideas - that's why.
I love this damn game and I have sooooo many ideas for future fics if I decide to write another! I just want Arthur to live his best life :(
Thank you to each and everyone of you who is reading, I hope you're enjoying it as much as I am writing it. Anyway, enough from me, leave a comment, I'm more than happy to simp over Arthur with anyone!!! Enjoy! X
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The saddle pants you thought you firmly retired sat tight on your thighs, the worn bell bottoms cut slightly above the golden spurs that jingled as you crept towards Carmody Dell, flicking away the cigarette you shared with Hosea. Your white linen blouse covered by a brown leather Valdez vest.
Sliding your Cattleman out it's holster, you peaked through the brim of your black Stalker hat into the window of the farm house. Seems quiet, you reaffirmed your decision to break cover, entering the wooden door to property.
A small lantern provided orange ambient as you discretely raided cupboards, searching for the money Seamus had mentioned that was sowed away in the house.
Picking up a bottle of Fine Brandy, you were stumped. "Where the f—" Common sense clicked in your mind as soon as exasperated, slipping your sidearm safely into it's holster hanging from your gun belt.
You crept back towards the grand cobbled-stone fire place, nestled underneath the staircase that lead to Seamus' soundly-snoring cousin, by marriage.
Reaching your arm into the fire place, your finger tips traced over the edges of the dollar bills that sat cradled into the wall of the chimney. A small puff of black soot following your hand as you grabbed the stash, sneaking out the door towards the stagecoach Hosea was sat on top of.
"Up y' come, miss (y/n)—" Hosea held his arm out for you to haul yourself in the driving seat next to him.
"Y' jokin'?! I can't steer one of these things?" Questioning Hosea's decision to let you take the reign's, "it's easy! H'ya!" He whipped the Belgian Draft's into a trot, signalling them to pick up speed.
Trundling over the Heartland's, adrenaline pumped through your heart; keeping you alert for any witnesses to the robbery you and Hosea had successfully pulled off.
Releasing one hand off the reigns, you chucked the money clip into Hosea's lap. "Ha! Nice, you found the stash." Hosea flicked through the notes, "one hundred.. and.. fifty, well done, (y/n)!" The elder praised your efforts.
"I was shakin' like a shittin' dog." You chuckled, Hosea wheezed a laugh at your remark. "Y' did just fine—pull into the stable just here." Tugging the reign's up towards your chest, the Belgian Draft's slowed with a grunt, easing their way into the secluded stable.
"Y' back in one piece." Seamus uttered, closing the doors; giving a final look around the periphery to make sure the operation remained discrete.
Seamus placed another forty dollars into Hosea's palm, "Here, just as promised, that goes for any future endeavours."
"Remember—" Seamus flicked his eyes between the pair of you, "Discretely." Hosea interrupted Seamus finishing his sentence for him.
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Mounting Onyx, yourself and Hosea made trail south-west over the darkened Heartlands. The midnight moon provided a stark white contrast, illuminating the trodden dirt path that your mounts followed. Your mind wondered to Arthur, he'd been out of camp for the last few days, tying lose ends that frayed across New Hanover. Constantly trying to gather enough money in pursuit of the gang's freedom.
Tonight, you made your contribution to the ledger; hoping you'd proven yourself worthy of being second-hand woman on opportunities in the future. You'd grown of tired of washing linen and pealing vegetables, knowing your true calling was wielding revolver's and showering in bullets.
Reaching the hitching post, the camp was in disarray. Grimshaw balling order's at the girls, Pearson and Charles taking down tents. You knew peace at Horseshoe Overlook had drawn to a close.
You and Hosea hitched your mounts, storming over to join Dutch and Arthur, examining a map spread on to the wooden table in the middle of camp. Closing the distance, you noticed a white valley hat peaking just over Dutch's shoulder. Micah, your heart thumped, remembering the words he hissed at you whilst hogtied to Caliban.
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"D'ya think it was a set up?" Arthur started, "God knows, but we need to get out of here, and fast." Dutch rolled the map up with haste tucking it under his arm. "Arthur," He bellowed, "take Miss (y/n) and Mr Smith—Check out this 'Dewberry Creek' Micah told us about."
Micah snaked his eyes over your form, feeling your skin crawl in disgust. "Well, well," he hissed, "Ain't so helpless now—are we, Miss." Swaggering over to you, Arthur cut him off.
"Shut up, y' piece o' shit." Arthur growled, "C'mon—Charles." Gesturing you to following him; calling Charles on the way to his steed.
Rage filled your (e/c) eyes as you shot Micah the most hateful stare you could muster. He shrugged you off with a husky chuckle as you hauled your Pump-action Shotgun over your shoulder. The three of you rode out hard towards the boarder, aiming to find a new settlement to keep your gang safe.
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"This is too far south, Arthur." Charles' soft tone murmured over the thudding of horses hoofs. "I don't think we gotta choice," The cowboy tried his best to ease the woes of his friend. Charles was soft spoken and wise for a man not to dissimilar in age to you.
"What happened?" You questioned the Gunslinger, not letting up on pace. Caliban's whipped his head in distaste, causing Arthur to calm his moody steed.
"Agh—Marston and I met Dutch and Strauss in Valentine," Arthur recalled, "Cornwall set us up." Arthur grimaced, visible anger pooling his usual calm expression.
"Huge gun fight, we had to shoot our way outta there." Silence fell between the three of you once more, as you pushed further through the foliage to reach Dewberry Creek.
