Fire and Water: a Red Dead story

19

Arthur had led the two of them back, calling back to John whenever he got suspiciously quiet and hoping that whatever the two of them had just unleashed wouldn't follow them too far north. 

As if he had read Arthur's thoughts, John spoke up from behind him, his words slurring slightly together. "This gonna hurt us much, Arthur?" He lurched precariously to the side, nausea building in his stomach. 

"Don't know John. Reckon Dutch will move us, probably a few states away from all this." He could see the flickering of the campfires now, and he shouted a warning as he rode in, leading John's horse behind him. Everyone must have been waiting for them, anxious because suddenly Arthur was surrounded by relieved faces.

"We're okay," he assured Ms. Grimshaw, who was frowning at the bandages wrapped around his chest. "John's a little beat up, but he'll be fine. Where's Dutch?" 

"Arthur." Dutch took in his expression, and the lack of Lindon, and nodded tightly. "I take it the job did not go as planned."

Arthur joined him by the fire, watching as both Hosea and Grimshaw helped John get to his tent. "Damn fool alerted the whole building jus' 'bout as soon as I got there, I'd've killed him right there, but he had John."

"He was a far smarter man than I even gave him credit for." Dutch shook his head, gazing into the fire. "How is John?"

Arthur shrugged. "They beat him pretty bad, couldn't walk a damn straight line if he wanted to. Broke a few ribs, but he'll come out of it. Goddamn nearly always does."

He reached into his satchel, wordlessly pulling out the bonds and passing them to Dutch. Dutch glanced down at the bonds, and then back at Arthur, delight written on his face. "Oh Arthur, I was afraid we would be walking out of there with nothing to show, but I should have known better with you." He slapped his hand with the papers, laughing. "You, my friend, are something else."

Arthur accepted the bottle of whiskey Dutch handed to him in celebration, and he took a long drink. "Dutch we can't stay here no more, Pleths is dead. Ain't nobody gonna jus' roll over and take that."

Dutch nodded, sitting back down beside him. "I know son, Hosea and I was talkin' about moving back up north aways. It's nowhere we want to go, especially right now, but it'll take the heat off of us."

Arthur nodded. "Okay, sure. Whatever you do Dutch, I'm there wit' you." 

"And I am very appreciative of your dedication Arthur." Dutch patted him on the shoulder with the bonds. "Now, I'm going to go give these to Hosea, he's always been better at handling these things than I have." He started to move off, stopping by Pearson's greasepit of a tent to instruct him to begin tearing down camp. 

Arthur took another pull from the whiskey, before handing it off to Pearson, who looked none to pleased about having to move again.

"Mr. Morgan," he said accepting the bottle, and Arthur wished the man just called him Arthur. 

"Pearson. Need a hand?" The man had comfortably settled into the role of their chef, rolling in blood and grease most of the time. He regaled any one who had half a mind to listen about his debauchery in the navy, and Arthur did his best to put the man off whenever the urge suddenly came over him to start waxing nostalgic. 

"Ah, I'll manage." He shoved a box roughly to the ground, throwing bits of cans and twined wrapped meats together. "You go take a rest, you look nearly dead."

Arthur slowly moved off toward his tent, not before checking in on John again. He knocked on the post holding his tent off the ground before sliding in. John was slumped up on his cot, Grimshaw's mystical salves smeared on his face.