The Angel Butcher of Rio Bravo: An RDR2 Story

xxiv. The same or worse

John.

Tine's betrayal reverberated throughout the camp. It hung on the air, lived and relived through whispered conversations between the Van der Linde gang members, a tremor in the cadence of Dutch's voice when he spoke of what their next move might be.

The deaths of Sean and Kieran, Jack's kidnapping, the Pinkertons in their last camp: all of those had been upsetting to their leader, John wagered, judging by the way Dutch had pinched at the bridge of his nose at night, forewent dinner for a pensive cigar, was prone to snap at those who tested his patience. But this was something different. Tine's disappearance - with the trolley money, no less - had shaken Dutch's confidence.

So too did Arthur's prolonged reaction to her absence. He went from being Dutch's reliable gun, his right hand, to a sore drunk overnight. It was John, then, who was pulled away from rekindling his relationship with his family to Dutch and Hosea, to talk over the job they were planning to rob the Saint Denis bank, and talk over it repeatedly.

John was with them, again, leaning tiredly against one of the posts in the gazebo that stood off to the left of the big manse in Shady Belle. Hosea knelt in front of a map on its worn wooden floorboards, Dutch pacing around the large sheet of paper as if a new approach with assured success would present itself to him, if only he were looking at it from the right direction.

From the corner of John's eye, he saw Arthur stumble from the other side of Pearson's wagon, the neck of a whiskey bottle clutched in his fingers. He made his way haphazardly towards the gazebo, slamming into the post opposite John and pausing to take a messy swig of the booze.

"Arthur," Dutch said, his tone already one of warning.

"You should head on up to sleep, son," Hosea said, despite the evening's early hour, a concerned kindness limning his reedy voice.

Arthur merely laughed, wavered on his feet, supplied himself another gulp of whiskey.

"Reckon that's enough, now," Hosea said again, holding up a cautioning hand. "Whiskey ain't going to bring anyone back." No surprises on who "anyone" meant, to John.

Arthur's eyes narrowed, and an ungainly rock of his big torso forward put his nose right into Hosea's. "Bet you're right pleased by this, old man," he scathed, eyebrows knit together, a longer-than-normal beard on his face coupled with the stink of alcohol on his breath alarming to John, his older brother always in eerie control of his faculties, before.

Hosea only looked stung. "I'd never want to see you hurt, nor this gang fail," he said, a tremble in his voice. "You know that."

Arthur held his gaze, still wavering where he stood, then gave a squinting glare to each of them, spinning on his heel and stumbling back towards the house. A long silence followed him, the three men in the gazebo staring after Arthur's completed progress into the front entrance of the manor.

Unable to bear the quiet any longer, John said, "I ain't ever seen him like this."

Hosea started, looking from the door to John. "He were like this when you first left," he said quietly.

John opened his mouth to speak and let it hang there. He knew Arthur had been mad at him, but, he'd thought, only because he'd failed to emulate his perfect likeness. He didn't think he could have affected him like this, nor Tine.

Would she have stolen the money? Maybe, thought John, if he were being truthful. He didn't think she'd do it without him, but who in the gang could he say that to? And, it was more than possible she'd taken his reunion with Abigail badly to heart. He sat with a guilt he couldn't bear to name to the others, and news of Arthur's reaction to his own disappearance years before only troubled his thoughts further.