Bards Crossings • Arthur Morgan x Reader

𝐗𝐋

Huddled tightly into a row boat, sandwiched between John and Lenny, you were nauseous with regret. Cautiously agreeing to Dutch's revenge driven d-tour, he pleaded for a gunslinger as good as yourself to join them in paying a social call to Brontë.

Arthur quietly rowed, streamlining across the swamp. Dutch tightly gripped Brontë, squirming like a fish caught on a hook. After gatecrashing Mr Brontë's quiet evening, sniping all of his guards and committing at least two federal crimes, you and John looked on in terror as Dutch's eyes lit up at Brontë drowsily corresponding with his surroundings.

"Stop here, Arthur." The Leader commanded, halting near a dock deep in the Bayou swamp-lands.

Standing from your seat, yourself, Arthur, Bill, Lenny and John could only look on as Dutch hauled Brontë to the side of the boat. He slapped him alert, cackling as he did.

"Ah, hey big man, we gotta ransom you or what?" Dutch snarled at Brontë's delirious eyes widening to meet his.

"You're pathetic." Brontë scoffed back.

"Oh—I am? 'Cause from where I'm sittin' you're the one who's deserving the pity, my friend." Dutch knelt down on one knee, gripping the ropes tided around Brontë's torso.

"All your money, all your men.." A callous smile arched Dutch's lips, "weren't no match for a bunch of bumpkins, was it?" Looking back at the five of you.

"You are nothing, you do nothing," Brontë spat, "you mean nothing and you stand, for nothing—me? I run a city!" The Italian fumed, "and when the law catches up with you, you will die, like nothing!" Adrenaline burnt in your arteries.

Frightened, you turned to Arthur; his eyes fixed on Dutch, awaiting his next move.

"I posses things, that you do not understand." Insulted, Dutch's dark tone vibrated through the fog descended on the Bayou.

The Italian scoffed again, "you don't even possess your own men—a thousand dollars to whoever kills this man!" The five of you crowded around Brontë', blinded by unity to a cause becoming more distant by the minute.

"What're y' gonna say now?" Dutch cocked his neck.

"Y-you're even bigger fools than him!" Brontë shuffled further into the sides of the boat, "the law, they will find you, t-the dogs, they're on their way now." He writhed desperately to be free.

"Ah—yes," Dutch grabbed Brontë's neck, "they're good.. at sniffing out.. filth," you looked on in horror as Dutch thrust Brontë's head repeatedly into the water, overpowering the Italian's attempts to scramble free.

"Filth.. that needs.. to be disposed of." The Leader let out an odious roar as he dunked Brontë for a final time.

Scrambling of limbs turned into twitches, the current of the Bayou swamp became still once more. You watched as Dutch hauled the lifeless corpse of Saint Denis' most prominent figure into the depths of the murky bog.

The five of you passed glances between each other, willing for the other to address what you had just witnessed.

"Jesus," Marston furrowed his brow, curling his lip in disgust.

"Which part of the philosophy is that? Feeding someone to the 'gators?" John probed further.

Dutch stood, breathless. Sweat moistened his forehead as he gathered himself, "the part that covers weakness."