Chapter Text
“What the hell is that?”
The day had begun as normal as any day—at least, any day they ever saw. Arthur and the ladies were left in the camp, cleaning up under a gray, drizzly sky. Hosea and Dutch had left early the morning prior, staking out their next temporary home a few towns away. Save for Grimshaw killing a rattler with a frying pan and Bessie opting to use her favorite shotgun to scare away a fox, it was remarkably quiet.
Until Hosea and Dutch came back, soaked from the downpour they’d ridden through, with Hosea looking like he was coming down with a migraine and Dutch looking like… well, like he always did. A wide cheshire grin split his face in two and Arthur was certain that, if it were any darker, the man would be glowing with pride.
Hosea breezed past them, muttering to himself and pinching his brow. He grabbed Bessie and whispered something low to her; she mirrored his dismayed expression.
Dutch, however, swung down from his horse with all the bravado of a man who’d just taken down a grizzly with his bare hands. He swaggered up to Arthur, proudly pulling from his coat a shivering, wet lump.
So here he was. Staring. Dutch smiling ear-to-ear, holding the… thing… by its scruff.
It looked like a rat. Like a weird, wet rat with mangy fur and a look of unfettered hatred in its eyes.
“It’s a raccoon!” Dutch beamed, “We saved it!”
“He saved it,” Hosea clarified.
Arthur furrowed his brow.
“We gonna… eat it?”
“Eat him?” Dutch gasped, “Of course not! Why, this little feller and I, we bonded! I saved him from the very brink of a horrible death at the hands of an angry crowd, you know. I am sure you two will get along swimmingly!”
“Get along?” Arthur spat, “Thing’s gotta have rabies or something! Go put it back in the woods!”
“Arthur! I can’t believe you! Suggesting we cast out this poor, starving creature!”
“Well, I am sure some other poor, starving creature will get a nice meal out of it!”
“Arthur,” Hosea laid a steady hand on his shoulder, calming the odd rise of fury. Dealing with a stubborn Dutch was never easy; Hosea had learned to measure himself over the years, but Arthur’s temper tended to run far hotter. “It’s no use.”
Arthur groaned, “Hosea, you can’t be serious—we can’t keep a goddamned raccoon—“
“I completely agree, but there’s no point in arguing,” Hosea sank with a long-suffering sigh. He gestured vaguely to Dutch, the movement tired and practiced, as though they’d been arguing all this way. They probably had. “He’s already named the damn thing.”
Arthur stared. First at Hosea, then at Dutch, then to the raccoon pup spitting and hissing in Dutch’s grasp.
“He… named it.”
He knew that was the end of it. They both did. Dutch tended to attach himself to the oddest of things—usually his obsessions were quick, like sparks off a fire, and died off the same, but once he named things… Well, then those obsessions died off a bit slower.
“Of course I did!” Dutch huffed, somehow finding the audacity to sound indignant, “He’s a member of this gang and he deserved a proper name! Now, you’ll all give John the respect he deserves—treat him like a little brother, Arthur! You’ll see—this little man is something special!”
Dutch, as usual, was painfully wrong.
Arthur hated John.
And he continued hating John more with each passing day.
He was tasked with bathing the thing while Dutch napped, weary from the road. Turned out, the only thing John hated more than being handled by anyone other than Dutch was water. Arthur nearly drowned the little shit and earned himself a few pretty scratches and deep bites for his trouble. Annabelle had to stitch the gouge on his chin—and all Dutch said on the matter was that Arthur ought to be more sensitive.
Arthur figured he ought to sell the fucker for a nickel.
Hosea was quick to reassure him, as he did so often now, that this infatuation was only temporary—Dutch would get bored, or John would run off, and all would be well.
Hosea was wrong, too.
After only a few days in camp, it was clear that John was uncontrollable—or at least, Dutch wouldn’t even attempt to control him, claiming he didn’t want to dull the fire within the tyke. Sometime between John pissing in Hosea’s boots and him sneaking into Arthur’s tent and surprising him with yet another attack (one that, again, required Annabelle to stitch his wounds), they’d had just about enough of the goddamned thing.
Maybe, too, Arthur found himself peeved at how Dutch fawned over John. The raccoon was a terror, but that only endeared him all the more. The pair slept in the same bed, shared their meals; Dutch even took to carrying John on his shoulder like some kind of ornament.
But then John got sick, and Arthur couldn’t help but feel just a little bad, seeing how poorly the creature was doing and how gently Dutch cradled him in his arms. Even the women seemed to melt then, happily taking their turns feeding him warmed milk and porridge. Hell, he caught Hosea sitting with the thing in his lap, reading aloud as if it were some kind of actual child.
It was then that Arthur realized, his wounds aching and the blood still drying, this little monster wasn’t going anywhere.