WOLFISH ⊳ arthur morgan x reader

Ch. XXVI

You had never arrived in Rhodes in quite such a short amount of time, though you supposed most of the credit for that belonged to the white Arabian. Lobo, the poor, poor thing had almost passed out in the dust the moment you halted in front of the post office in Rhodes. You gave him a soft pat on the head and poured out some water in your palm for him to drink before wiping off your hand and deciding to get to work.

You were about to whip out a pencil and start writing the letter to the name Tacitus Kilgore, just like Arthur had instructed. That was cut short by an announcement that started with two words that very much piqued your interest.

"Arthur Morgan of the Van der Linde gang has been caught and imprisoned this morning! Read for yourself, folks, at the low price of only 25 cents!" A boyish voice sing-songed. A newspaper boy was standing a few steps away from the hitching post, waving around newspapers and promoting them to the best of his abilities.

"Ain't nobody interested in a good read no more?" He insisted, looking around with a slight frown. You were about to approach him, but found yourself stopping dead in your tracks when another man rushed past you, digging through his pockets as he power walked towards the newspaper boy.

"I'll have one." His voice sounded ragged, as if he's swallowed glass shards or sand, and his attire somehow alluded to that of an O'Driscoll that had just a smidge more of the fashion sense other O'Drsicolls quite lacked.

He wore a hat, which did a decent job at hiding his face, and his hair was black and oily, as if he'd dipped it in ungodly amounts of grease and pomade before slapping his hat on.

When he turned around to walk away, you almost gasped at the sight: one half of his face was practically torn with scars — scars that looked like they'd been caused by claws of some sort.

That was when it clicked.

"John?" You asked, rushing after him. The man froze, looking at you over his shoulder and a confused frown. This had to be him. Right? "John Marston?"

The increasing confusion in his gaze told you otherwise. Maybe you'd been to quick to act, and now you had—

"Who's askin'?" He questioned, turning around to face you. His right hand hovered above his hip, his gun, you came to realize. He was far less trusting than Arthur, that much was obvious. This wouldn't be quite as easy as befriending the other gunslinger.

"A friend of Arthur's." You clarified. "I was— he told me to— I...I need to help him."

"I ain't ever seen you in my life, miss." He answered, eyes watchful and hostile, never leaving you for one second. With a huff, he turned around, continuing his path away from you. "Arthur don't got many friends either, so I ain't inclined to believe—"

"Tacitus Kilgore." You blurted out, rushing after him and grabbing his sleeve. If this truly was John Marston, you wouldn't need to wait for the gang to find the letter. You wouldn't need to sit and watch, you could speak to their leader, ask to help and for help. John was your best shot. He stopped in his tracks, looking at your grip first, and then at your face, disbelief written on his expression.

"Who told you—"

"Arthur." You clarified hastily, not letting go of his sleeve even when he tugged at it. "He also told me about you — John Marston, his friend that got mauled by wolves. I was, well, he rescued me from a wolf too, so that's..."

He finally turned around, facing you fully, his entire attention directed at you, and you realized that he was waiting for some kind of final proof that you did, in fact, know Arthur. How could you prove that?

The story.

"Arthur's also a terrible fisher, he, he told me about that one time when your gang leader had sent him out to catch dinner, and he returned with a huge fish, only for the others to find out he'd bought it from the butcher the next day." Great, that did not sound very convincing. What else? How else could you prove that you had no ill intentions? "He also told me about-"

John waved his hand dismissively. "Alright, damnit, I believe you." He nodded towards the hitching post. "Saddle up. You're coming with me."

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

He made you wait somewhere in the periphery of Rhodes, and returned with three galloping men.

While John had been gone, you had used the time to your advantage and read through the newspaper the gunslinger had handed you before leaving.

It didn't foretell good news. Apparently, Arthur had been taken to Saint Denis, to a heavily guarded, and — to quote the overdramatized article — a 'secret' prison cell. Your best guess was that it was underground perhaps, somewhere safe from prying eyes and charlatans that were ready to help.

There was also a hanging scheduled.

In four days time.

"I'm going to assume that's her, son?" An orotund, raucous voice piped up, which was your cue to fold the newspaper and look up.

You recognized the man, of course you did. You had not only seen him on bounty posters, but through your binoculars as well, not more than a few days ago. Dutch Van Der Linde himself.

"Yeah." John said matter-of-factly, dismounting once he was not more than a few meters away. The last one in the line was an old man with soft, gentle features and wise, but equally clever eyes. That could be Hosea.

The two other men dismounted as well, though John and the older fellow stayed behind, whereas Van Der Linde approached you with a honeyed, but equally sly smile.

"And who do we have the pleasure of speaking to?" He began, tones sweet and low as he slowed in front of you, folding his arms in front of his chest in a smooth motion as he waited for an answer.

"A friend of Arthur's."

"Oh yes, we have heard all about that, miss." He paused and looked John meaningfully, then back at you. "A name would be much more appreciated."

You considered lying, and you didn't know wether you should feel ashamed or not. But you could not afford such luxury. Both for Arthur's and your own sake. "(Y/n). (Y/n) (l/n)."

The man smiled, though it was more fox-like than genuine. You felt like he could practically see right through you and all your feeble thoughts, but you hoped he could also tell you'd said the truth.

"Dutch Van Der Linde." He answered in return, then gestured at John and the older man with a wide, lavish hand movement, as if he were showing you two of the most important people in the world, aside from himself, of course. "These fine gentlemen are my associates — young John Marston, and Hosea Matthews." He paused, looking at you, as if he could read your every thought. Not for more than the blink of an eye, though. The man seemed to detest not filling every silent second with his words. "Now, is what I've heard true, miss (l/n)?"

"If you've heard that I want to help you — and your associates — break Arthur Morgan out of jail, then yes. That is very much true."

The smile on his face was something you couldn't hope to interpret nor understand.