Chapter Text
"I through the ample air in triumph high
Shall lead hell captive maugre hell; and show
The powers of darkness bound. Thou at the sight
Pleas’d, out of heaven shalt look down and smile;
While by thee rais’d I ruin all my foes,
Death last, and with his carcass glut the graves..."
- John Milton, Paradise Lost
The gunshot cracked through the canyon, echoing off the vertical, grey rocks. Arthur looked calm – relaxed, if not a tiny bit winded. He let out a sigh as he watched the O'Driscoll drop. The man hit the dirt hard, clutching his stomach, his breath gurgling gasps. Arthur stepped over him without looking down, boots crunching thick gravel. Behind him, others were still twitching.
"You—you're him," a dying man choked, torso smearing blood across the dust as he tried to crawl away from his doom. "Morgan."
Arthur wiped his empty revolver clean on his thigh before holstering it.
Up on the ridge, the rest of the Van der Linde gang watched in silence.
Normally, they'd be a part of the fray. Normally, they’d all take positions, cover each other's backs – each one fulfilling a role; Arthur would fulfill one role. Normally.
But the posse had arrived late - and with thier gunpowder wet from the river. And to top it all off, they'd taken the wrong path – no way to get their horses down off this hill without going all the way around. So after arriving with the battle half-finished, blood already strewn across the hillside, the Van der Linde gang had just watched.
It had all happened so fast.
Very few had ever seen the blonde enforcer work solo. Even for those in the gang. But John knew how he worked. Hosea knew. Dutch knew. Sometimes, though, they needed a reminder. Like this.
Arthur had a higher bounty than Dutch. For a reason. And no one had ever had a bounty so high since Jesse James.
Javier whispered under his breath as he crossed himself.
Arthur was looting a body, fingers rough and sure, his hat tipped low over his eyes in his normal, casual way like he hadn’t just turned 16 men into corpses using one tomahawk, five bullets, and his old hunting knife.
"Reckon I should pay him back that money I owe him," Bill laughed nervously.
No one answered.
"Come on… get back here, mister," Arthur's smooth rumble came clear through the air. He grabbed the final O'Driscoll's leg and pulled him back, easy.
Screaming.
Muted gagging.
Arthur's hands were around the man's throat.
Flailing.
Slowing.
Silence.
Stillness.
A sigh. The blonde stood.
Arthur glanced up then, likely sensing the eyes on him. He wiped his forehead with his sleeve, smearing brown and red, and offered the posse a half-wave as if this was just any old Tuesday, because for him, it was.
The blonde was walking toward them now, gait heavy, grabbing on the roots in the hillside and climbing up with ease, ignoring the meters of valley behind him that he'd just painted red. The others shifted, but Dutch stayed rooted in place, watching Arthur’s face. Looking for… something, for any sign of cockiness or pride, but there wasn’t any – just that same quiet exhaustion Arthur always carried.
“Took care of it. Y'all can head back,” Arthur said as he reached them, nodding back toward the bodies; his voice was rough, matter-of-fact, “If they really wanna get the jump on us after a job, they shouldn't travel in such large groups. Figured they’d’ve learned by now.” He thumbed a chunk of something red off his cheekbone and flicked it away.
Their leader dismounted and stepped up to the blonde, letting his hand rest heavy on the back of the man’s neck; Arthur tilted his head a bit at it, like a dog puzzled by its master’s touch “That’s mah boy,” Dutch laughed, hearty. “You did good, son.”
The words curled that tiny smile onto Arthur's lips – that little bit of shine in his eye – but it twitched away just as quick as it formed. The blonde looked to the ground, hat covering his face, brows furrowed at the dirt. Complements from Dutch were rare, especially these days. “Just doin’ my job,” he mumbled.
Dutch laughed again, heavy, deep, like soup and bold letters and the deep red of his vest.
The atmosphere around the posse seemed to lighten, if only a bit.
Javier punched the enforcer on the shoulder, grinning. “Man, I'm glad I've got el Diablo on my side.”
Arthur huffed with a mild frown, shaking his head. "Don't start."
Dutch caught Arthur’s wrist when the blonde started moving past – the older man’s gaze sharp. “You’re bleedin’,” he informed.
Arthur glanced down at his shoulder where a short gash seeped through torn fabric. He rolled his shoulder, testing. “Ain’t deep,” he affirmed, pulling free. “Hardly noticed.”
Hosea cleared his throat. “Let’s move. Before the law decides to show up.” The others murmured agreement, already turning their horses back to the slope. The elder eyed Dutch, but quickly switched his focus to Arthur, "Where's your horse, son?"
The blonde grunted in acknowledgement, walking up to Silver Dollar, “Abnoba's down a ways. Take me to her?” Hosea nodded and took the large man's hand, barely needing to assist as Arthur easily settled on the back of the silver stallion.
The gang rode on, the rhythmic thuds of hooves on land familiar. Settling. Home.
Hosea pulled to the rear and allowed some purposeful distance from the posse.
"You alright?" He asked, voice low enough that the others wouldn’t hear.
Arthur grunted, eyes fixed on the horizon.
Hosea’s sigh was barely audible. "Dutch is…" he trailed off, like even he couldn’t find the right word.
Arthur spat behind them, watery red hitting the dirt. "Dutch is what?"
Hosea’s mouth pressed into a thin line. "Different," he settled on, glancing ahead where the raven-haired man rode at the front, a king's relaxed posture, "lately."
Arthur sighed. "Ain’t we all," he dodged. But he knew. He knew Hosea was right. Something was off with Dutch. Had been for a while. They just didn't wanna voice it.
"Be careful, son."
"All I know is 'careful', Hosea. I'm not the one to be worryin' about."
"You need more red herb?" And Arthur didn't want to have this conversation.
"No," he clipped. "Got more than enough."
The awkward silence sat heavy between them until he couldn't sit with it anymore.
At the next turn, Arthur tapped his pseudo-father's arm, "Abnoba's just down that way. I'll catch up." He slid off the stallion's back before it came to a full stop. He could feel the man's eyes burning holes into his back.
***
It was early evening by the time they’d reached camp.
Arthur chopped some wood and sat at the stump, cleaning his revolver with methodical care, the motions ingrained deeper than muscle memory. The knife in his lap was still faintly streaked with red and rust-brown. He really should get a new one. Unfortunately, he was as sentimental about the damn thing as his old gambler. Why, though, he never really understood.
The whiskey tasted like kerosene, but Arthur drank it anyway. He could feel the burn all the way down, settling heavy in his gut. Javier was already starting to spin the yarn, 'Demon of the North' and 'El Diablo' carrying across camp. Arthur sighed. He never quite understood why all the men did it; he supposed it must be a part of the human condition – to want to make yourself a legend, to want to leave your mark on the world. Hosea, Dutch, Bill, Javier, Uncle, they always regaled old times, told stories about themselves like they were writing a damn book. Arthur, though, he'd rather go on unknown. Was used to that, the anonymity. He preferred it that way – after all, he weren't a normal man…
Well, now he just felt miserable.
The blonde looked down at his dark red forearms, sleeves, pants; he finally slipped away from camp. No one stopped him, but a few watched, silent.