Birds of a Feather

Arthur

Arthur's head was ringing and full of a hundred thoughts, but he had nothing to say. They'd just parted with Charles on his way to tell Dutch their idea to camp at Willard's Rest for a short while. He and Charlotte were left alone on their journey north, her at his back atop his steed Buck. She'd also fallen quiet.

Arthur had thought all the tiredness and sickness came from the wear and tear of all the shit that had went down in the last few months. From Colm kidnapping him to getting beaten up in Guarma, to all them blowouts against O'Driscolls, Braithwaites, Grays, the Saint Denis police (twice), and of course, Pinkertons. It had been endless lately.

He'd been worried over the missing gang members and the ones that were already dead in the ground. That wasn't even mentioning the mental exhaustion of fighting with Dutch over things that they shouldn't have been fighting over.

Arthur had thought, if he pushed on and followed Dutch and got all of them out alive, there would be time to rest at the end of it all.

There would be an end alright, just not the one he was hoping for.

The doctor had been as straight forward as can be about the diagnosis. Bluntness seemed to be her manner in all things, he decided now as he looked back on conversation.

"Before we go any further," she'd said at the start, once he and Charlotte had stepped over the threshold, "you should know there's no other practicing medical professionals around here so you better be fine with what a woman's got to say. That gonna be a problem?"

Arthur had shaken his head as Charlotte helped him to sit on the edge of the bed in the room.

"Usually isn't, with you desperate types," the doctor had commented. She'd picked up a stethoscope and pulled up a chair in front of him. "What are the symptoms?"

He had wheezed and replied dryly, "I think you heard 'em."

"The coughing, the trouble breathing, yes, yes," the doctor said impatiently. "Do you have anything we can't see right now?"

"Got a tightness in my chest. Been feeling more tired lately and had less of an appetite."

"When you cough, is there any blood?"

"Sometimes," he admitted, remembering the specks he'd see on occasion. Beside him, Charlotte reached and covered his hand with hers.

"And this has been going on how long?"

"I don't know. Couple of months, if I had to guess." He added, "Blood's a recent addition though."

The doctor raised her stethoscope to her ears and the other end she slid inside his shirt, pressing it to his chest, the cold metal making him flinch.

"Breathe in," she ordered. "Deep breath."

Arthur listened, feeling the pinch inside his chest and hearing the unnatural rattling outside, even without her tool.

"Let it out, nice and slow." She moved the stethoscope to the other side. "Again."

He did so and she leaned away almost immediately when he released his second breath, apparently satisfied. She moved to the counter and started washing her hands.

"What is it?" Arthur asked.

"Please, Doctor," Charlotte implored. She squeezed his hand. "Tell us."

The doctor looked from Arthur to Charlotte and told them point-blank, "It's tuberculosis."

Arthur's heart started pounding in his ears as Charlotte began asking questions. He heard none of it. Everything was muffled, as if he were drowning.

TB. It didn't need any more explaining. It meant death, and not a pretty one.