Chapter Text
Two years later
The mid-morning air of the desert was already sweltering. Dry. Dust billowing up under the beat of hooves as they traveled west. The warm sun angry, boiling, in front of them as they followed the winding road.
“I'm telling you,” John huffed indignantly, “I didn't believe it either, till I saw it myself.”
The best Arthur could manage, already drained by the stifling heat, was a roll of his eyes.
And to think the day had started out routine enough. The pair of them heading out from the humble homestead they'd built these past months, up to Tumbleweed. Intent on getting supplies, only to be distracted by Marston's latest fantasy.
“And I'm tellin you that there ain't no goddamn whale in the desert,” Arthur growled, shaking his head. Far as he was convinced, they were on a goddamn fool's errand. He’d seen plenty of things, but a damn whale in the desert? All the time they’d lived here, he hadn’t seen so much as a fish, unless they pulled it up themselves. And there certainly weren’t no whales to be found.
He should have dismissed it. Should have chalked up the man's nonsensical rambling up to nothing more than drunken shenanigans. Way he carried on about it, that was the only explanation. But Marston wouldn't let it drop. Refused to let it settle.
That's why they were riding away from Tumbleweed, a damn half-day out of their way. A tattered map clutched tight in the man's hands as he led the way. A smirk on his face as he laughed.
“You're gonna eat your words soon enough.”
“If there is a whale, then I'll eat my damn hat,” he snorted indignantly.
“Gonna hold you to that,” the younger man laughed, pushing Old Boy into a run. Arthur followed suit with Dakota, the pair of them leaving dust in their wake.
The sun held overhead, hanging in an open blue sky. Rays reflecting off brown rolling hills in the far distance. Arthur relishing in the tepid wind that raced by as they rode on.
He loved the desert.
He loved the life they’d built here.
He didn’t think he would. But he did.
After they left Beaver’s Hollow all those years ago, he figured they’d end up wandering, indecisive, til they all dropped dead. They started west until they had found sanctuary within the openness of Big Valley, just minutes from Strawberry. Him, Hosea, John and his family. Living idly amongst the trees, near the river. They’d mostly kept out of towns, save for checking the post or having a meal with Jimmy. And Jimmy was always surprised to see him, always overjoyed, always welcoming the company. He told the same stories, lived the same life; he was steady. Arthur liked that now that he, too, was steady.
And when he wasn't keeping company with old friends, he was wandering. Hunting, fishing, providing—a role he never seemed to outgrow. Though he relished in it, took comfort in the routine.
It had been good, for the most part. If one ignored the clashes with the O'Driscolls that hid up that way as well, though the gang had all but dispersed on the account of Colm's demise.
That was sure something, too. Seems the man had been caught by Ross. Strung up in a public display within Saint Denis. The news shared with happy vigor about the campfire one sodden morning as Hosea passed around the paper that had been fetched from town. Arthur had spent a few good minutes staring at the article before tucking it away. Unsure of how he was supposed to feel.
If nothing else, it was another chapter in his life, done and over with. Sadie would be happy, if she ever heard the news. Dutch as well— though Arthur was certain he would have liked to see the man swing.
Dutch… He just couldn’t shake the man from his thoughts. Every single day it seemed, since they had parted. A strange sense of guilt festering inside of him, though he didn't deem to share that with anyone. Not even Hosea. He didn't want to muddle new memories with old, a silent promise that things would be better long as they kept looking forward.
A promise he felt as though had been rightly kept.
Regardless, they stayed in Big Valley through the winter. None of them keen to push through snow, waiting for the promise of spring instead. Waiting for another promise as well; Dutch's letter. For a time, Arthur didn't think he'd hear anything. As days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, those whispered words of 'give him time' turned into 'he moved on' and Arthur had all but given up hope. Had tried his damndest to put the man out of his mind. Until the morning it'd come.
It had been near two pages in length about the allure of tropical life. Dutch's ramblings casting a smile over his face, lessening the anxiety that had so clearly wormed its way inside. They had made it. They were safe. And that knowledge had helped Arthur to focus on something new.
Had forced him to do something he hadn't much thought about. He'd sat down with the others. Had made a plan. Something they all agreed on, and the next morning they had cut out west, trailing through Tall Trees and across the river, out into open wilderness. Traveling ever west until they found a spit of land long forgotten along the San Luis River.
Only then did he write Dutch back, telling him of the change, advising him to redirect those letters of his towards Tumbleweed instead. It'd taken a while before they'd heard anything; though Arthur suspected it took time for letters to travel across the ocean. He could swear he heard the man's voice, echoing in his head as he traced over the written words. A small part of him found it comforting.
Not as comforting as the warmth of the day. A geniality he didn't ever feel he'd be deserving of. Life out here was free; about as free as they could ever hope for. The land open, untamed. Quiet. Save for whispers of new gangs grabbing a foothold in the area. Seemed that news of disbandment of the Van der Linde Gang made quick rounds, encouraging other fools to fill in those gaps.
They were easy enough to avoid; he and John taking care to skirt around ramshackle fortresses that were crumbling in the wind. They were about the only ones who ever went out; Abigail keeping at home with Jack, and Hosea waving off most offers of travel.
His leg never healed right.
He could walk well enough without help, though there was a steady limp to his gait. And Arthur knew he hurt more often than not, ever more so when rolling thunderstorms graced them. Though he kept those pains to himself, never one to complain. Arthur did the best he could by him, bringing an adequate supply of medicine and tonics back with him whenever they made the trip north to town.
As for John; well, John had his own battles.
New scars atop the old ones, almost mirrored on the opposite side of his face. Flesh that healed in a gruesome manner that left him even uglier than he'd been before. Arthur supposed it was most likely a blessing in the fact that Marston wasn't vain; the man hardly seemed bothered by his state, shrugging off the whole ordeal whenever it was brought up.
Though looks were hardly the root of the problem for him. His sight was.Blinded, or damn near it in the one eye. John had confessed this much to him, late one night when the pair of them had settled down out in the open desert. Their conversation grim, drifting back to darker times.
Arthur hadn't much of a response for that. No grand speech or eloquent words to settle the man's anxiety. They'd gone to sleep with heavy thoughts, only to rise the next morning acting as though those words had never been shared in the first place.
Arthur hadn't the wherewithal to bring it up a second time, and far as he could tell, John was fine with it. Not to mention he wouldn't even know, seeing as it hadn't slowed the man down at all.
In fact, there was a mischievous twinkle in his eye as he turned back around, waving him on. He pulled Old Boy off the road, cresting a small hill, Arthur right on his heels. Slowing to a stop as it came into view.
Bones.
Picked clean and large; similar to the bones he'd found scattered amongst the Heartlands long ago. Situated clearly and undeniably impossible to mistake for something else.
It was a god damn whale.
“The hell?” he breathed.
“Told you there was a whale,” John smirked near him, absolute smugness rolling off of him.
He shifted uncomfortably atop Dakota, stunned. Torn between a desire to deck the bastard, just to wipe that look off of his face, and to apologize for doubting him in the first place. His voice thin as he shook his head. “Can we… revisit the whole 'eating my hat' thing?”
“You are really something,” John rolled his eyes as turned Old Boy around.
“I'm something?” Arthur scoffed, following him on out, stammering over his own words, having committed the leviathan to memory, “I… well… Shit, well I ain't the fool that dragged someone half a day away to prove a point.”
“Well if you’d’a just believed me to begin with, there wouldn’t’a been no point to prove,” John was ever eager to remind him.
“If I’d’a listened, then I’d be a bigger fool than you— you ain’t exactly known for truth-telling, now is you?”
They bickered still; seemed as though that was one thing that would never change. The desert was filled that day with endless amounts – the only sound to cut through the still, death-like silence in those long hours it took for them to reach Tumbleweed.
It was a lonely, pitiful place. Half the shops sat abandoned, buried in layers of sand not cleaned off from the latest of storms. A glimpse of the future, if Arthur knew any better. Even so, the place was a far cry closer than Armadillo, and near perfectly suited for their purposes, so they continued to come. And would do so until they couldn't.
They split off soon as they arrived. John tended to the store, while Arthur saw the post. He picked up the few spare letters that had collected there. He recognized Dutch's handwriting, as well as Hamish's. It'd taken far longer than Arthur had wanted to admit to finally write the man as he promised. Guilt had finally done him in; Hosea as well. Prompting him until Arthur reached out. Something Arthur was grateful for. Reading Hamish's letters of all that was going on back east was almost therapeutic in a way. It made it feel as though he hadn't truly absconded into the midst of nowhere. And as dreary and miserable as he had been over there, there were parts he truly missed.
Not to mention that Hosea wouldn't have it any other way. The older man seemed almost giddy to read his letters as well. Had written his fair share in return, a keen smile on his face all the while that left Arthur guessing to what in the hell they may be talking about.
He tried to read one once. Only to be threatened with a painful death if he even thought about it. Hosea made a point to hand his letters to John afterwards. For 'safe-keeping'. Or so the man claimed.
Little did he know that he simply beat the fool up and took it for himself, soon as they were far enough away from the homestead. It'd grown routine enough now that John simply handed the shit over without so much of a threat. Though it hardly provided anything of interest.
The truth was, the two were simply boring. Long winded tales of hunts they'd done or some other mundane shit that was highly uncaptivating. He'd stop reading them after long, though John still continued the habit of passing them his way.
“Got anything good?” John wondered, meeting him outside the post.
“One from Dutch,” he shrugged, pulling himself into the saddle. They set off, intent to leave Tumbleweed behind them.
“Anything new?”
“Not really,” Arthur elaborated, sharing the contents of the letter. “Still doing good; enjoying life. Says we made the wrong choice, as usual.”
“You tell him, 'bout the ranch?”
“Sure,” he nodded. Although it could hardly be called a ranch. A busted down hovel that had been roughly patched, rotten fences from the previous owner. The place had a lot of work left before it could resemble anything close to a ranch.
Not to mention livestock.
The closest they had were a smattering of horses, all of which had been taken from Beaver's Hollow. Still, he reckoned it was something worth boasting over. A piece of land to call their own. A dream they had long in the making.
“He have anything to say ‘bout it?”
John sounded indignant; Arthur couldn't blame him.
“Course not,” he rolled his eyes. He didn't expect any sort of praise from the man. It would be nice, he had to admit. But he wasn't going to hold his breath. “Look, John—you ain't done this for him. Remember that.”
“I know.”
“You done this for yourself; for your family,” Arthur pressed.
He sighed. “ I know. It's just...spent all those years trying to please him, trying to do what's right, and now, here we are doing what we talked about for so long...and he don't have the decency to say a damn thing when we finally get somethin’ good.”
“You can be bitter as you want, John. Ain't gonna change things. Right now it's you, your family...us. Just...be happy with that, alright?”
“Course, I'm happy,” John agreed, “being here? Lot better than were we were.”
“Ain't that the truth.”
“You?” the man wondered, watching him. He turned, meeting his gaze, John elaborating at his questioning glance. “Are you happy? With all this?”
Was he?
The thought sat heavy in his mind, sorting through thoughts both painful and kind. He'd been through a lot of shit. Had suffered, needlessly, at times. But these past years had been more wonderful than he ever thought possible. More than he thought someone like him could ever deserve.
They hadn't heard any whisper of the law. Neither had they any signs of the Pinkertons. None of the posters in town called for their heads, and they were free to move about the country. Coming and going as they pleased; no more hiding. No more fighting. No more surviving.
They were living.
A wistful smile played on his face as he patted Dakota's side. The answer easier to come by than he thought possible.
“Sure am.”