The Angel Butcher of Rio Bravo: An RDR2 Story

xiv. Marriage and horses

John.

Two cups of steaming coffee in hand, John wandered to the lean-to, only to find neither Abigail nor Jack there. He looked about himself, taking in the camp in varying degrees of wakefulness, many of the women still in their nightdresses - though, that was as much a function of the oppressive southern heat as it was the hour. Beyond them all, on the rickety dock that jutted out into the lake, stood Abigail, her arms around herself as if shivering, despite the humidity.

"Coffee," he said by way of greeting, taking measured steps over the warped wooden boards of the dock; the lakewater murky, its depth indiscernible even this close to shore.

"Thanks," she said, taking the cup from him and wrapping it in her delicate fingers, venturing a careful sip.

"Where's the boy?"

There was a flash of happiness across her face, that he'd thought to ask. "With his Auntie Tilly, on the bay side."

John grunted his approval, not that he had much of a say. He took another cautious step so that he stood beside her, drinking from his own coffee.

Abigail peered at him, started briefly. He looked into her slate-blue eyes, the same as Jack's, concerned. "Sorry, John, it's the scars. Still getting used to them."

He ran a self-conscious hand along his cheek, tracing the wolf-drawn fissures in it. He'd been so long without a mirror, he'd forgotten, too.

"They don't look bad," she added hastily, granting him a tiny smile, which faltered. "I bet Tine likes them."

"Don't start that," he warned, his cheek heating under his lingering fingertips. Behind them, they heard Pearson booming away about some encounter he'd had with the O'Driscolls, and John did his best to focus on the trembling woman - his - before him.

"I'm sorry," her tone was genuine, and her eyes brimmed with tears; never John's strong suit. "I just- you're always out, now, and it's always with her, and..." Dutch and Arthur's voices could be heard, joining Pearson's, if echoed and garbled over the lake's surface.

John's eyebrows raised, and he pulled Abigail towards his chest, holding her there, surreptitiously looking over her head to the commotion on the land. "Nothing- nothing's happened between her and I on them trips, Abigail, I swear it."

"You ain't lying to me, John Marston," she said, somewhere against his sternum, but he felt her body expand and release, a sigh of relief.

Now Hosea joined the discussing men, his hands on his hips. John quipped: "Honest as the day is long."

"That ain't a saying," she pulled out of his embrace to bat at him, but she kissed his nose, after, an apology he knew he didn't quite deserve.

He broke away from Abigail, giving her a half-hearted salute before making off the dock. "Got to see what all the ruckus is about."

John wedged himself into their huddle just as Dutch said, "I'm as skeptical as any, but do you think there's even a slim chance it might work?"

Arthur scoffed "No shot" at the same time Hosea uttered, "absolutely not," the two united in their disbelief.

"What might?" John asked, feeling left out.

"Parley with the O'Driscolls," Pearson said excitedly, his eyes darting from one to the next, sensing John as an opportunity to win them over. John followed Arthur's lead, though, narrowing his gaze and spitting onto the ground.

"I think that's a no, Simon, but with thanks," Dutch said gingerly, patting the cook on the shoulder. He left the group, shoulders slumped, and the men watched after him for a few moments.