Chapter Text
A thump, a jostle—that’s all it takes. Arthur blinks to as his head bangs against a wooden wall. His sight gradually clears, first black then dark blue-grey, his mind trying to piece together his thoughts. Hands softly flapping behind him, his arms fail to bring them to his face, a rope reminding his wrists that they are bound. Unable to wipe the haze from his eyes, the rumbling of the floor serves as a supplement to an answer for his whereabouts. Arthur knows he’s moving, knows it’s night, and, by the brisk chill that’s settled into his bones in his stupor, knows that he must still be in the mountains. He stretches his mouth, letting the cotton-feel out as he reviews his memory.
They’d made it in one piece through the heat and cold of Nevada, well into the Sierra’s – those of them left, anyway. Hosea’d been right about the law not giving chase, leaving the desert to deal with the gang and too scared to face the elements themselves. He’d been right, too, that winter would see them through with what little rain it gave; though, there were some freezing nights that had them begging for hotter days. But that cold was paltry when held next to the snowy mountains of California now halfway through the season. Another bump in the road shakes him, aches his back, almost brings Arthur down fully onto the floor of the wagon he’s been able to make out as his cage. There’s a shout of complaint he can’t rightly understand from the front where they’re headed. The wagon tilts down forward with it. That’s right, he thinks.
That’s what happened. Dutch was screaming over the blizzard that they should’ve gone east like he said, Micah echoing his sentiments as the rat often did; though, the billowing snow gave some relief in the sense that not all his words rode with them through the wind. That same solace, however, was the reason Arthur didn’t hear, didn’t see. They were on them like wolves on lame game—and they were like lame game. Low on supplies and light, barely enough to keep their caravan connected. But enough for trouble to find them.
It started with a shout at the back. John, he thinks. Indication that more was on them than the weather. He envisions them in his mind as he picks at the rope and tries to make out the stature of the drivers of the wagon as he can now see enough to watch their waltzing shadows on the canvas, a lantern held high somewhere out there for guidance. A conestoga wagon turned tumbleweed by way of extra layering on the front, it seems. Perhaps the back is open. He’d be remiss not to check, but as he turns to look a hand covers his mouth from behind. He tries to kick, but his legs work as well as his arms, rope bound there, too.
A “Shh” settles sharply in his ear, a signal to stop. Arthur obliges.
Cold steel meets the space between his wrists. There’s a good few moments of tugging down as he feels the blade release the tension in the twine, and he takes the time to continue his thoughts on his evident capture. There’d been eight, maybe nine, blitzing through their gang as if they were racing the whirling flakes of snow. By the time he’d turn around atop his horse he’d already drawn his pistol and downed two before setting forward—but that was all he remembered. Why?
Arthur’s hands fall slack, and with newfound autonomy he brings them forward to rub off the soreness the rope has left. He turns, not sure whom he’s expecting, and is glad his surprise is hidden beneath the dark cover of night as to the identity of his liberator.
Sadie turns the knife in hand, butt end to Arthur. She gestures to take it. He does. Where she moves he doesn’t see right away, his gaze focused on his feet as he cuts the last of his bindings. Out the corner of his eye it is easy to note the large crates looming against the back of the wagon. Covered or not, there’s little likelihood in their removal without alerting their captors, so Arthur turns again to find where his companion has gone and spies her graciously searching for seams in the fabric of the forefront, unbothered by the figures that move against it.
Adrenaline spikes in his limbs so fast that Arthur almost forgets himself as he stands, but he makes right the heaviness of his steps in time to avoid a blunder of the devastating kind. Sadie doesn’t notice his almost misstep, gesturing to the man to meet her opposite, clearly having found what she was looking for. He goes, assessing what she has seen: a ramshackle sewing job that begs the question of why there’s an added cover at all, for it surely does not serve the purpose of certain separation the way a prison wagon’s wall might. Still, it hides enough to allow them both to make a silent plan.
There’s two out front by count of the shadows, and there’s two of them here, ready and capable to strike. Ever since they picked her up from that cabin in Colorado ransacked by O’driscolls and left it to burn, Sadie’s carried that fire right on with her as a final keepsake for her dead husband, intent on doing right by him. Whatever reservations Arthur had about women fighting proper – few as they were – Mrs. Adler sent those up in flames as well. Arthur knew better than to doubt, though he’d be lying to say he didn’t notice or minded her brashness; even still, brash or not, it was just them now, far as he knew, and it had been her to save him from figuring out an escape. So, he needs to trust her implicitly—and her him.
By sway of the light, they can tell the one on the right is carrying the lantern—the one near Sadie. After a gesturing of hands, the plan is clear: tear down the cover and take those closest to them, respectively. Arthur makes a mental note of trying to make sure the horses leading the wagon don’t fret too much, but, without knowledge of explicit whereabouts, it’s a spitball of a plan. First and foremost, escape is the priority. Sadie takes the knife back before they go, if only for the reason that Arthur will need both hands to take the reins, as he’ll be dethroning the driver. They each grab a generous tuft of canvas cloth atop the haphazard seam and, with one final nod of affirmation to the other, tear down the wall.
By the time the driver turns to see the disturbance, the lantern has fallen, its flame gone in a flash, left behind in the snow uphill either gone or soon to be, just like the man who had been holding it. As a strong pair of hands grip his throat he feels the spurt of blood hit his cheek, settle into his stubble, an unseen river now flowing down his companions neck from where Sadie’s knife had been lodged. He tries to call out, but everything below his brain feels cut off, choked by the makeshift tourniquet affixed to his jugular. No, he won’t go like this. With all the strength left in his legs, he grabs the hands that grab him and pushes forward to tumble off into the trees that line this narrow mountain path down.
Arthur is not ready, fatigued and back still aching from something from before. He falls over the lip of the wagon bed with the man he’s assaulting, hearing the horses winnie and the carriage buckle aside, those sounds muffling as he’s lost in the snow. It only takes a moment before he breaks from the pale blue flakes into the paler moonlight, his eyes luckily able to see having been in the darker cover of the wagon. He watches as his old cage careens over and off the side of the road, the clarity of the scene signaling his brain that the storm has subsided in their time of capture. Or that they’ve gone far enough to be without it. Off in the distance, a pair of horses’ silhouettes run off into the trees, lost to the wilderness.
“Sadie!” he shouts, trudging through the powder onto the slightly less dense wild road. There’s no response or movement, and he turns to find the groaning driver trying to pick himself up, limbs messy amongst the unstable ground. Arthur helps him, turns him over, his coat tightly ruffled in his hands. The adrenaline pushes through whatever protests his back is giving, and he sends out one strong punch into the driver’s jaw. “Who you working for!?” he demands.
The driver spits, blood or snot who’s to say – it’s the same black mess underneath the moon’s cover. “I ain’t saying nothing ‘till I know Chester’s all right.”
Crinkling his nose, Arthur grimaces at the man’s concern for his companion. “Don’t you worry about your friend; he’s fine. What you need to worry about is my questions. Now tell me: who sent you?” he tries to soften his growl, “Where're you taking us?”
There’s a turn of protest, but it’s clear the man underneath him is more a boy unused to fighting. “I felt his blood on me; I don’t believe you.” There’s a tremble in there.
“Listen here,” Arthur starts, pulling the driver’s face close enough to his that the heat of their breaths could melt the snow in their beards if not for the cold, “I’m only going to ask you one more time, boy, so I need you to answer real careful if you wanna see your friend Chester again: who sent you?” An involuntary whimper drops from the driver’s mouth, and Arthur knows common sense has won out.
There’s a pause and then: “Some man. Colm O’driscoll, he said his name was. Said he liked our wagon, said it could be useful for a job—please, sir. I don’t know much more than that, honest. He had so much money, my brother and I we couldn’t say no, we need it, and the-”
“Shut up!” Arthur interrupts him with another punch - though, softer than the first, for what it’s worth. “I ain’t asked you for your story, kid. Where are you taking us?” He shakes him. Another whimper.
As the stuttered breaths of the driver are collected, a third person speaks to both their surprise. “Horses are gone and the wagon's busted. Other one died in the crash, it seems,” Sadie says, walking up to the two.
Arthur’s glower at her pierces the dark veneer of night’s cover, but before he can say anything the younger man is already squirming furiously underneath him, trying to break his grip. “You bastards; you fucking bastards,” the driver cries. “Colm was right, you pack of bloodthirsty murderers. I’ll kill you, god damn it. I’ll-” But his voice cuts short, a startled gasp as the hands above him are replaced with smaller ones, and whatever he has to say thereafter is lost to time, metal making way for iron as it runs over his throat and into the snow, his mind gone to find the family he’s just lost.
Arthur steadies himself, still surprised by Sadie's separation of them and furious at her actions. “Why the hell did you do that?” he barks.
She drops the body, looks back to him. “Why the hell didn’t you? He was an O’driscoll; you heard him say Colm’s name.”
“I was trying to get information,” he says, temper cooling as he meanders onto the road.
“He wasn’t gonna tell us nothing, that much was clear.” She follows him back and looks down the road to the wagon. “Don’t know what he could say anyway, given how lost we are now. Besides, the only good O’driscoll is a dead O’driscoll—isn’t that what Dutch says?” she coos almost knowingly, understanding their leader’s ire matches hers in regard to these men.
Outside of her vision, Arthur shakes his head at the words of his mentor and quiets that maybe he had something more to give had she not interrupted with news of his late brother. He looks back up the way they’d been coming, up to the sky, then down to his feet. Even still, she was probably right; whether they were facing east or west they were more than just a little lost. Without a map or heads or tails of what happened to the rest of their gang, what were they to do? He drops his forehead into his hand and sighs. They’re fine, he tells himself, and then he remembers that maybe Sadie knows more of the attack. “Hey, what you-” he starts, but is cut off by-
“Arthur!” Sadie shouts, but not before a bullet sounds off near the wagon and finds its way into the meat of his thigh.
The ground meets him once again before he can do much else besides let out a pained shout. He hears Sadie run off as he winces into the earth, unsure how much time is passing. His question is answered when he feels her inspect his leg, a thing he silently allows, and soon she grips underneath his arm and hoists him up.
“Wasn’t as dead as I thought, I guess,” she offers him like an apology, situating herself like a crutch. “Bullet passed through.”
Arthur grumbles, body and head torn about every which way with exhaustion. “We gotta get going,” he says. And without really knowing where they’re going, they do.