Fire and Water: a Red Dead story

8

Besides a slight fever and a cough that lasted all winter long, Dutch was no worse off from his misadventure in the blizzard. He was the butt of several jokes during those long winter nights, and he brushed them off with a frown and exaggerated sigh. 

Winter bled into Spring, short dark days, turned into longer brighter ones. 

Arthur had begun running jobs on his own, small robberies that brought in a modest pay. He was proud of himself, and his ability to keep the camp running. Annabelle sat down and taught him how to play poker, how to really play poker. She taught him every trick and tease that a cardhustler could ever know, and then he wandered on down to the saloons, hustling the local drunks out of their money. 

He was twenty-one now, a far shot from where he was when he was seven years ago, and yet not so much. 

He still had moments of panic, less intense, and less blinding of course, but they raised their ugly heads and he felt the weight of fear more than once. 

He had turned his blinding flashes of anger into a tempered steady rage, only allowing it to strike up when necessary. 

He felt incredibly loyalty to this gang, to the people that had plucked him out of that dusty town, and had given him another chance to live. They had shown him how to live, how to read, how to shoot. He couldn't throw that all away, no matter what they said. 

Even after seven years, Arthur still felt indebted to the people that had saved him, still feeling that no matter what he did, it would never quite pay back the life debt he felt he owed. 

He was returning from the town, letter from Mary in front of him, allowing Boadicea to lead the way back. She had written fewer and fewer, and he was confused. This letter had come six months after the other, and while it could be due to the long winter months, he figured that trains could make it through snow just fine. She wrote to him about Jamie, who seemed to be growing up just fine, and about her father who didn't seem just fine. What she didn't seem to write about, was herself. He frowned and folded it up, placing it inside his shirt pocket. 

They had been here for an extended period of time, and while Arthur had enjoyed the stability, he knew they were going to make the move soon. Dutch had become quiet, a sure tell sign he was planning something, and every night Arthur could glimpse the burning red of his cigar as he sat by the fire. 

He didn't really want to move, he'd struck up a sort of friendship with the men he'd been hustling cash from every Wednesday when he went to go play poker. They didn't suspect a thing, poor fools, drunk as they were, just knew that he must have been a godddamn good poker player. He smiled briefly. If they only knew. 

"Mr. Morgan." Ms. Grimshaw's voice rang through the camp, and he grimaced. Damn, what now. "Help me with the dishes?"

She put it as a question, but he knew better than to decline. Sighing he swung down off his horse, detouring first past the contribution box, a more recent addition to the camp since Arthur had become more independent and added some more money to the camp funds, and joined her at the basin. 

"Ms. Grimshaw." He plunged his hands in, scowling at the burning water. That woman liked her water hotter than hell. 

"Where you've been?" She handed him a plate, and he scraped the dried remains of whatever was on it onto the grass before dunking it into the relatively clean water. 

"Jus' in town, doin' some hustlin', got some good money this time round." He was proud of tonight's haul, he even had dinner in town, something rarely done. "Gotta letter too." 

"From that Mary girl?" Ms. Grimshaw's opinion of Mary had lessened considerably over the years, but for Arthur's sake she tried to keep cordial when referring to the "bitch" as she privately referred to her.