Work Text:
Silver Dollar had been told more often than not by Hosea that he was a treasure. To be cherished and kept safe. He could only echo that sentiment about Hosea. That was his man, after all.
Silver Dollar isn't born with that name. He is born in a stable in the midwest, the result of careful breeding. He is a gangly foal, and he is rather sure that most of the stable's employees don't see much in him from his father, who apparently was an important stud.
He is just a leggy foal with more spunk than is necessarily good for him.
His barn name is something that makes several of the stable employees raise eyebrows. They call him a Mold Spore, and the name sticks. He grows like a weed, with fur sticking up and out, and his attitude becomes nasty when they try to put him under saddle once he turns four. They mutter about how while he got a nicer coat now, he has gotten nothing from his father. That with some luck, his descendants won't be like he is.
It is in this time that a pair of people blows into town. A pair of men slick with wit and down a horse.
The silver-haired human is a clever man. Mold Spore watches him as he tours the stable with the eye of an expert, stopping at every stable door where a horse is marked as being for sale.
"And who's this?" He leans onto Mold Spore's stable door, holding out a hand to him. The man smells like herbs and cigarettes, the dull tang of water and fish, and of blood that is under his nails. And yet, for some reason, Mold Spore likes him.
"That one ain't for sale, sir." The stablehand leans onto his pitchfork. "He's breeding stock." Mold Spore snorts, stamps his hoof. He has a bit of a hunch that the man won't take no for an answer.
"Shame. He looks like a brilliant horse." It is the first time that Mold Spore ever hears that said about himself. It sticks in his brain for the rest of the day.
That night, the sly, slick man comes back. Dressed in a manner that suggests that he works at the stable, no longer wearing the waistcoat and neckerchief that made him look distinguished. He is wearing baggy overalls, an ill-fitting, dirty shirt. That same sly grin is still on his face, and a cap hides his hair. He chuckles quietly to himself as he breaks open the stable doors, a bag with papers on his side, and a simple rope halter over his shoulder.
"Don't you worry, I won't hurt you." He holds a hand out to Mold Spore. He smells just like he did that morning. Somehow, it feels warmer now. He carefully affixes the rope halter to Mold Spore, and pulls burlap over his hooves, dulling the noise they make.
They are out of the stable before he knows it, and down the road, cobbled as it is. There would be no way to distinguish his hoofprints anymore. The man pulls the burlap from his hooves, puts off the cap, and claps on Mold Spore's side.
"Got yourself a nice horse there, Mister!" A man with black hair is looking at them both, grinning. There is a shade of hair around his chin. "What's his name?"
"Why, Mister," The silver-haired man starts, grinning back with the exact same expression, "I am not quite sure yet. I just bought him, after all."
The black haired man is named Dutch van der Linde, and the silver haired one is Hosea Matthews. Hosea's old horse, a mare named Golden Touch, had been gunned down. Hosea is a surprisingly kind man, who spoils him for quite a while at camp, all while tutting about the barn name he had been given. He is a conman, and far too good at forging the papers he stole into looking like he was bought legitimately. He also gives him a new name.
"I don't know what they called you at your stable. But you look rather handsome, my friend." A hand scratches between his ears, and he can't help the content burr leaving him. "Golden Touch ought to have a good successor in name, don't you think?" He wouldn't know much about names. "You look like a Silver Dollar to me, my friend."
"Your sense of naming never got any better, 'Sea," One of the younger men they travel with laughs. "Sounds just like a name you would give."
"So you say, Arthur. So you say. How's Boadicea?" The mare in question snorts, resting her head on top of Arthur's.
"Just fine, Hosea. How's yours?"
"Why, he's doing brilliant. I do need to get him to a farrier though. He'd benefit from it."
Silver Dollar's hooves feel a bit funny with the irons on them. But he can walk on more terrain now, and he feels rather happy when Hosea puts tack on him and rides him out the first time. The man is good at giving signals, using his spurs only slightly.
Dollar had heard of good riders, ones that were gentle to their horses and didn't pull at their reins and bits. He never thought he'd have the honor to have one himself. When he sees the way his companions ride, he wonders where they get their kindness from. The stable had been rough. These people aren't.
Hosea has a mate, a woman named Bessie who he is madly infatuated with. He is practically prancing himself when he rides Dollar to the train station to pick her up. She is gorgeous, Dollar thinks. A kind, warm smile and hair that shines in the sun, just ever-so-slightly streaked with silver. She complements her partner well, he thinks.
She feeds him an apple soon after being introduced, runs hands that are far softer than Hosea's over his muzzle. He huffs into her face, and thinks to himself that Hosea has good taste.
Bessie travels with them most of the year. She returns to the home she and Hosea apparently have for three month a year, to make sure that the place wasn't robbed clear. She has a horse as well, an Andalusian that Hosea stole for her just like he stole Dollar. They get on just as well a their owners, and it is a nice existence for a while. The ride together.
They grow. People after people join. Dutch trades in his warmblood Empress for a feisty Arabian named The Count. Count is smaller than Dollar, but is far more recalcitrant. It doesn't surprise Dollar much, and it surprises him even less when Boadicea bites him and establishes herself as the undefeated leader of the herd.
The years pass. Five of them. Dollar is nine, and Hosea spurs him with the desperation of a dying man.
Bessie is sick. Flu. Hosea had it himself, still does. He isn't the one struggling to breathe. She is. She is, and Dollar doesn't mind that there are two people on his back. His legs are long and strong, and he eats the distance to the nearest doctor.
There is froth on his sides and maw when Hosea hitches him, and he remains outside of that office for hours.
Hosea stumbles out alone, eyes glassy and unseeing. Bessie isn't with him anymore. The cough from the flu that has plagued them both never leaves him.
The year is hard. Hosea doesn't ride him except to saloons. He is drunker than Dollar ever thought possible, the stench of the sharp water practically permanent. He isn't a mean drunk. But he is sad. His partner is gone, and he had sold off her Andalusian quick, unable to look at the mare without bursting into hot, ugly tears.
Dollar worries he will lose his human to the bottle.
And then Jeannie's human becomes a sire, Abigail a mother.
Hosea has a reason to put the bottle aside.
Little Jack makes Hosea sober, and for that, Silver Dollar will eternally love the child. He is a screaming mess, but he is a screaming mess that makes Hosea pull himself together.
He smiles in earnest again, and he takes Dollar to the farrier, he feeds him, pets him, brushes him. Apologizes. They have new members again, and they are at last learning of how sly and dangerous Dollar's human can be. He takes pleasure in the sharp wit on display.
Hosea is almost back to old form by the time the little human learns to walk. He is happy again, and Silver Dollar missed it.
The years change still. The kid grows, tugs on Dollar's tail and mane, tugs on everything and one of his first words is "horsie", said while pointing at Dollar. He is proud of that one.
Hosea is in the process of working a scam with Arthur's help when all hell breaks loose. The ferry job that Dutch had been talking about went horrifically wrong. Gunfire everywhere, lawmen. Lawmen that recognize Hosea's face, make him run towards Dollar and get on at haste. They need to run. Gods and all, they need to run.
Dollar makes it. Boadicea doesn't. The mare falls with a shriek of the damned, and it is by miracle alone that Dutch manages to pull the man onto the back of Count before they all vacate the city.
Hosea doesn't ride him up to the Grizzlies, opting to sit on a wagon instead. Dollar follows after, one of several pack-horses for them all. It isn't what he was bred for. He does it all the same.
Hosea's lungs revolt in the cold. He shivers, barely leaves the hut they holed him up in. Dollar stands in the stables, missing his winter coat, and hears more than sees that Davey Callander has died. They are missing Sean and Mac as well, and Old Boy looks like he saw the Devil himself.
It makes Dollar nervous. Old Boy was a steady horse that barely if ever spooked, and to see him nervous and haunted. He murmurs of bone-white and rot-black fur in the flurries. That Death dogs their steps.
Dollar hopes that if that is in fact the case, that Hosea doesn't die. He doesn't think he could bear it.
Every time Hosea creeps closer to the stables to brush Dollar down, he can hear the chest-rattling coughs. The old man moves slowly, bones rickety. He ignores the O'Driscoll boy in the stable when he comes to visit Dollar and murmur low about how he doesn't understand Dutch anymore. The language falling from his tongue is rusty from disuse. A language not spoken since Bessie died.
Dollar rubs his snout against Hosea's cold face, blows air against wrinkling skin. Hosea sighs in return, calloused fingers scratching through coarse fur.
"You miss her too, don't you?" He hums low. "She would have had words with Dutch by now. We wouldn't have ended up here. In this horrid cold." Dollar burrs, rubs his muzzle against Hosea. Makes him laugh lowly before dissolving into shoulder-shaking coughs. "Just you watch, we'll both be with her before we know it, Silver Dollar…"
The group is packing up, at long last. The time within the cold was too much from the start, Hosea growing weak. When they finally get to move, Hosea still isn't too happy, grumbling into Dollar's side about how Dutch is a hotheaded idiot lately. That Blackwater going wrong was a death knell for them all. His gaze lingers on Davey's grave as he says this.
When the men return from the train robbery they apparently went on, Hosea is still stewing in frustration. But camp is nearly packed. They can leave.
The Overlook is a place that Hosea remembers with fondness. He was there with Bessie before, back when he still had Golden Touch as his mare. But he can see why they liked it. It is a green place, the grass soft and fresh. Ever so often, they get to walk down to the river to drink from the river.
One time, Hosea rides out with Dollar, and they return with a large, black shire. A gentle giant, for all that Hosea calls him a brute. When Arthur returns without the mahogany bay, Hosea easily gifts the horse to Arthur. He is named Bukephalos on the ride they take together.
Dollar likes the shire. He is calm, a good companion.
They both get to watch their humans being happy with one another, out in the wilderness. Hosea doesn't eat when Arthur comes back with two rabbits, his stomach still churning. Illness made him weak. His fast makes it worse. Dollar wishes he could tell Hosea to eat. As it is, he gets to observe Arthur and Hosea face against a bear that ought to belong into Hosea's stories and stay there.
Hosea is, at his heart, a conman. Silver Dollar is very aware of it, and it amuses him deeply. To watch Hosea at work is to see a man who is a master at his craft. He spins webs better than any spider can, gestures, sets people up in such a way that often don't know that they have been robbed until Hosea is already halfway across the state.
It is similar this time. They are at Emerald Ranch, a name deserved. The grass is green as can be, and Dollar can easily pick up rumors from the surrounding livestock, hears of the way the ranch owner locks up his own daughter, of the burned moonshine lady who was here the year before. He hears a lot, and he is sure Hosea would be much invested in it all. As it is, he is more occupied with the deal with Seamus, a deal Arthur nearly ruins.
Again he is hitched with Bukephalos, and watches as Hosea runs one of his distraction schemes. The air is good for the man's lungs. He can talk without coughing again. When the two men barrel out on a no doubt stolen stagecoach, Silver Dollar easily undoes his own hitch, pulls Bukephalos' off as well, then starts to gallop after the coach.
It wouldn't do to be caught by the no doubt pursuing ranch owners.
Hosea is at camp a lot more than he used to be before. He doesn't ride out often with Dollar, instead favoring to sit more with little Jack, trying to teach him how to read and write. Dollar wanders the edges of camp ever so often, head high and pointed towards Hosea, ears pricked up. He likes hearing the low murmur of his voice, so gentle with the child.
One time he catches him arguing with Dutch, about the way they had treated the O'Driscoll boy. The boy's horse had joined them, and Taima's man had taken the tack off to reveal slowly forming saddle sores. It had made Dollar wince.
He is using his time in camp to teach Ennis how to be more of a menace. The young stallion is down, unhappy with the way Sean is gone. Quite possibly dead, even. It takes until Taima, Boaz and Brown Jack canter back, with Gwydion and his strange, strange man in tow. Sean lives, and Silver Dollar can see the way Ennis perks up. They'd have him back by the end of the week, he just knows. The loudmouth has been sorely missed.
Even Hosea thinks so, a thin but earnest smile on his lips when he brushes Dollar down later that evening.
Sean is loud. But Dollar happily watches him fool around in camp, even if Hosea has to be angry with him a few times. Sean is a sorely missed breath of air in their midst, and for all that Hosea grumbles, when the young man leaves on a job with Arthur, John and Charles, Hosea mutters that he missed the man. A boy, really.
Hosea… is not all that healthy yet. The cough still tears his lungs, and he worries himself sick. Sicker. Worries about Dutch, about Arthur, about them all. About the Pinkertons that find Arthur and Jack down by the river. It makes Hosea angry.
When they are told to pack up in a hurry, with Strauss having a hole in his leg, John rattled and Dutch with steel in his eyes, Hosea finally tacks him up again. Arthur and Charles find a new place, down south.
It is another place that Hosea had been to before. A place he visited with Bessie. With Dollar. He hadn't missed Lemoyne much.
The air in Lemoyne is warm and syrupy, makes Silver Dollar think of the way mud and silt collects on the edges of rivers and lakes. Thick, sludgy, too deep. The air sticks everywhere, and he never quite manages to get the dirt out of his coat, no matter how often he wanders away from the hitches and into the waters of Flat Iron lake.
When Hosea comes up to tack him up, he raises an eyebrow at the way water still sloughs off of Dollar's coat.
"You're a rascal, aren't you? Going swimming all on your own. Be careful or the catfish will get you." Pah. Catfish. Silver Dollar would give them the old what-for, a good hoof to the head would solve the issue easily. "Now, how do I get you dry before we go and find a nice fishing spot…" Toweling him off, most likely. Dollar neighs loudly, throws his head. Drops of water fly through the air, and strings of wet mane hair hit Hosea in the face. The man sighs, shakes his head. "Oh Silver Dollar…"
"You good there, old man?" Arthur is laughing, holding a hay bale. "Looking a bit wet there!"
"Arthur, do be so kind and focus on the haybales and not my state of being."
They do eventually ride out, Dutch and Arthur with them. Bukephalos keeps craning his neck, the big old shire having a grand time exploring the area around Rhodes. It has been long enough that Dollar can't help but follow his example, eyes taking in the red clay, the color a dim thing he can't see all that well yet easily resembles the blood that the men come back with all too often.
For a while, Count and him are left by Arthur and Bukephalos, the large man riding off in pursuit of a train and some convicts. They exchange looks, huff. Of course their simple fishing trip will be derailed. Derailed, but not ruined. Their riders direct them towards the sheriff's office, get hitched while their owners walk inside.
They can both hear Dutch spin a yarn that Hosea weaves into a tapestry. Silver Dollar huffs proudly when Count muses on that, that their two riders complement one another like that. One man to spin the yarn, one man who works with it with mastery.
Of course their two owners match. They both know it. Know of the quiet, hidden kisses stolen in moonlight and fog, away from prying eyes. Their riders break and build together.
When Arthur comes back, they fill Bukephalos in before the whistle comes. They are going to the lake still. Watch the three men row out.
A soft breeze ruffles all their manes. It feels peaceful. It feels like the calm before the storm for Silver Dollar. He has seen this sort of silence before. Before the flu grabbed Bessie and Hosea tight and only left one of them behind. But maybe, just maybe, he is too pessimistic. He sighs, drops his head down. Things would come as they were. There was nothing to do but wait and hope. He would carry his Hosea out, no matter what.
The air is maybe not the best for Hosea's lungs, but it is better than Colter. And if nothing else, Hosea thrives with the con he is putting together. A con that Dollar gets to hear about, a con bigger than any he had tried before.
To fool two families at once was rather different. When he is riding out with Dollar, fishing rod in his bag, he talks. Talks about how he isn't quite sure yet what to do with the moonshine they confiscated, about how he worries about them all. the way that they seem to lose their way. About how he thinks Bessie would've known what to do.
They both miss her dearly.
Sometimes, Dollar wonders how Hosea got into some of his escapades. In this case, to the moonshine and to meet up with Catherine Braithwaite, so that they can sell their own moonshine back to her.
Dollar noses at Hosea when the man tries to leave camp, and gets some scratches behind his ears for his trouble. "You go and stay, boy," Hosea murmurs into his mane. "Don't fancy them finding you. Go on, back to camp proper with you. The forest ain't no place for you." Dollar huffs in annoyance, but does as asked. He'd learn all the gossip either way, no matter how.
And so he does trot back, grumbling the whole time, but easily escaping and evading the folks that are a bit too happy with the idea of stealing him away, seeing him as an escaped horse. He isn't an escapee. Oh no, not at all. He is too good for that. He is Hosea's, and with that comes being clever.
He hears of the saloon escapades when Arthur and Hosea spill back into camp, stinking of the swill they sold, crowing loudly about their success. He doesn't like the stench.
Hosea's yelling is, without fail, loud. And right now he is telling Dutch that he is being a moron. That he ought to go out, to search for Arthur. That three days of not being there was strange. Especially without warning.
And then Arthur returns. Weak, pale, bleeding. Sick. Silver Dollar smells the sour stench of sick and sweat and waste, and he hopes that this is not the day he sees Hosea fall to the bottle again. Bukephalos spins the tale of the O'Driscoll boys capturing Arthur, of torturing him. Of a shotgun blast point blank. Of a shoulder barely cauterized and of Arthur escaping quietly.
Hosea's son is dying. Dying sick and slow and delirious, and it fills them all with fear. Fear that keeps Bukephalos from eating, that frightens Baylock into silence, that makes Count run with Dutch until it looks like they were the ones tortured red. Silver Dollar does none of that. He stays steady. Because one of them has to. Because if he doesn't, he fears Hosea will turn to the bottle once more, with yet another grave to his name and his own soon to follow.
Despite the protests of Miss Grimshaw, Silver Dollar wanders into camp, and lies down next to Hosea's bedroll, his heavy bulk sending up small clouds of red dust.
A tired gaze faces him, before a weary, wrinkled hand finds its place in his mane.
Arthur takes weeks to recover. But he does recover. He doesn't die, he doesn't perish, he lives, lives, lives. And that means Hosea does not drink. He stays with Arthur, squeezes his hand and stands with him as he gets used to being outside of bed again. Dollar stands with Bukephalos, tails swishing gently, and exhales in relief.
Their humans would be alright. Battered and bruised, but alright. The first time Arthur saddles Bukephalos up again, Hosea is there as well, saddling Dollar, and they ride out to the lake shore they visited what feels like a lifetime ago.
Dutch isn't there, but it is peaceful. Arthur is tired, but he is alive. And that alone is worth it. Dollar, taught how to find them by Boaz, drops a wild carrot into the man's lap before prancing away.
He cherishes the laughter in Hosea's voice.
The job for the Greys in Rhodes goes wrong. Too wrong.
Sean lies bleeding on Ennis' back, the blood staining the other horse's fur a deep russet it never should have been.
Hosea takes charge fast. Is the reason people get out of their stupor, is the reason someone gets Ennis to the herd, is the reason people mobilize.
It takes hours before someone untacks Ennis, and even longer for people to let Sean rest. But Sean is alive, and that is important.
Hosea is wrung out by the end, tired and sallow under the eyes. But the horrors aren't over yet.
Little Jack Marston is taken under their noses, under the hands of Branwen's boy. Branwen's boy who is far too beaten up and apologetic.
Hosea, tired as he is, swings into the saddle. Silver Dollar wants to kill whoever took the little one. They ride.
Catherine Braithwaite, the woman who owned the moonshine, is the one that did it. Silver Dollar flinches not from the fire, not from the gunshots. These people deserve death. His hooves fly high and crack skulls.
When the humans enter the house, Dollar paws at the ground, gnashing at the bit.
And then they bring her out. Catherine Braithwaite, a scornful woman that Dollar hates. He wants to break her bones under his hooves, smear her over her pavement.
Hosea screams at her. Tears at her hair, makes her crow about having sold the boy like common cattle. He sees her get up with the gait of a broken woman, walking back into her burning house. Dollar hopes she does not die quick. He wants her to burn and suffer.
Maybe he is akin to his owner. A man, affable and pleasant, right until someone threatened his people. His herd.
In the distance, he hears the howls of the Braithwaite woman as her house collapses around her.
They move further into the depths of Lemoyne, into a house called Shady Belle. It is here that they manage to retrieve the child. Dollar doesn't know how. He just knows that the child is back, that he is happy, healthy.
That Hosea is laughing loudly, spinning the child before putting him back to his parents followed by whining over his back. It makes Dollar nicker in amusement, and in a moment where he pays no attention to them all, Dollar sneaks up behind Hosea, only to lick a long stripe over the man's neck.
The screech of surprise fuels much of the laughter around the fire.
Kieran is absent, as is Branwen. At the moment, Dollar isn't too worried. The boy and horse had gotten more comfortable and adventurous lately. Instead, he focuses on Hosea, on the way the man starts to slowly wheeze again.
The thick, soupy air of the swamps of Lemoyne isn't too good for him. But he keeps caring for Dollar, and rides him into town here and there, his hair always impeccably slicked up, and Dollar brushed spotless. Saint Denis is a horrible place, Dollar thinks, but he memorizes the streets all the same. Hosea is snooping, asks around, learns of the mob that rules the city. Of Martelli, of Bronte.
Of the bank. The national bank of Lemoyne, secure and rich. Silver Dollar knows his human. He knows that there is a plan brewing in that silver head of his.
Hosea's all dressed up when Dollar sees him next, in a suit that makes him look like a man on a mission. Dutch, Arthur and Brown Jack's boy all with him. It isn't a bad look on Hosea at all, Dollar thinks. It suits him, and it takes him a while to place the suit.
It is one he had worn before, when he went out to dance with Bessie. Now his man walks without her at his side, off to a party with Dutch and his son at his side.
Dollar awaits the inevitable show once they return. No doubt there would be interesting stories to be shared. He shares hay with Bob that night, hears the way Brown Jack and Maggie bellyache about not being able to ride out with their humans. Dollar rolls his eyes a bit. It has happened before, it would happen again. All so eager to help, all so eager to see the show. There was value in waiting for the story to come to them.
And oh, does it come. There are talks of a trolley station, of a poker game, of the bank. Of the way that they could go soon. Of the way that they could see the west again.
That night, Dollar catches Hosea and Dutch, long after the rest of camp is asleep. Ring-adorned hands grasp tight in silver hair, wrinkled, weary fingers press the younger man against a wall. Hosea would always miss Bessie, Dollar knows. But he knows just as well that the woman knew her husband, and her husband's proclivities. That she permitted it, too. The way he is clinging to Dutch now, on a silent, dark night, says it all. He cannot speak. Their secret, their deviance, is safe with him.
Kieran returns nearly dead. With him, O'Driscolls come. Dollar does not flee, he dashes into the fray. His hooves trample men that try to get up, breaks their hands, legs, knees, makes them scream. He cares not for the bullets whizzing past, turns his own frenzy at the panic into something productive. He is bred for war, and this is war entire.
He sees Bob's woman butcher the invaders. Butcher dripping red, tears spilling. A monster of her own making, he hears her howl later. A monster of O'Driscoll make, cursed to live this way. He tells Bob to watch for his woman, to make sure she does not walk to the alligators without intention of return.
His own human comes out of the building later. Kieran will live, Hosea mutters, relief stark as he brushes Dollar down and washes off the blood.
"What am I to do with you, my friend?" Hands massage his ears. "Don't go dying on me just yet, you hear? You need to stop running into firefights. You're worse than Arthur."
Dutch returns with a bleeding head from a robbery, throws off Hosea's attempts to make him sit and recover. There is revenge on Dutch's mind. Revenge and the drive for money. And so, Hosea watches him. Watches and plans, works over maps and blueprints, curses quietly under his breath until he has a workable end result.
"You be good for the others," Hosea murmurs into his mane, wearing a suit yet again. The usual bright red neckerchief is gone, replaced with blue. Dollar misses the light grey spot in his sight. He noses at the bow tie Hosea wears now, up until a hand flicks his muzzle. "Be good. We need you later." So they do. He walks with Charles and Taima, walks until they all get hitched. The tension is large. Something is going on. Something isn't right.
Then the earth shakes. It wasn't supposed to be this loud. This large. Something has to be… Hosea. Hosea. Silver Dollar tears at his reins and hitch until they give, until the knot unravels, and barrels through the streets.
Silver Dollar's sight swims. he can hear shouting, hears the law crow about having caught one of them. The more valuable target. His hooves grind on cobblestones, his irons giving him traction as he slides to a halt. The men that entered camp, the Pinkertons, are frog-marching Hosea to the bank, a pistol at his side.
No. No. He can't lose him too. Hadn't it been enough he had seen Bessie die, and nearly lost his human then? In the corner of his eyes, he sees two horses. Left and right. Rot-black fading into Bone-white and Fire snaring Blood-russet. A color he never ought to be able to see. He had heard Old Boy before, the old Halfbred whispering into the snow-bright dark of Colter. Howling whispers in his ears. They pin back.
He will not let them take Hosea. The horse to his left huffs. Unshod hooves strike the cobbles. Dollar walks. Forward, slowly, unseen, untaken. The men stop, yell their taunts. Silver Dollar sees where this is going to go before it starts. And he runs. Hooves clatter against the stones as the man that held Hosea pushes him forward, raises his gun, aims, zeroes in, twitches his finger -
The gunshot is deafening.
Silver Dollar screams and rears.
There is blood on the cobbles. The people in the bank yell in agony, in grief, and Dollar feels his legs grow weak, but he stays standing. Bucks and rears, throws his hooves until the law and pinkertons flee, leaving him there to crash down next to Hosea, Hosea who bleeds.
Dead things stop bleeding, Dollar had learned a long time ago. His nose hits Hosea, again and again, tugs at hair, tie, fingers, everything. He refuses to believe it. The sluggish flow of red had to still mean something. It had to.
There are steps behind him, and the snarl that leaves Dollar is something barely fit for his throat. The steps fall silent. He will not turn. If he looks away, Hosea could disappear.
"Hm. Stalwart, aren't you?" He doesn't know the voice. But then, the steps resume, disappearing.
And Hosea's hand twitches. Clouded eyes focus on Silver Dollar, and with a laborious groan from abused lungs, his man pulls himself into the saddle, still spilling red.
Silver Dollar swings himself up, tall, runs.
Silver Dollar runs, hounded by Rot-black and Bone-white, faster than he ever ran before. He does not stop in the streets.
He thunders through blockades, past the swamps, through a slaughterhouse's backyard. He runs, runs, runs, hooves sinking into marsh and muck until he tastes blood in his throat. He runs faster still, tears past Sadie and Bob, into camp.
Hosea's breath is shallow and barely there. But he beat the specter, beat it fair and square with heaving flanks. He doesn't know who untacks him. He thinks it's Kieran.
He only knows it is Sadie who later ties him to Bob as they move to Lakay. Him and Count both.
Somehow, they lost half their people in a single robbery.
Hosea lives. He has issues breathing, but he lives, and that is what counts for Dollar. When Susan lets the old man out, she doesn't protest when Dollar trots over and brushes his nose against Hosea. He is birch-pale, the circles under his eyes dark as the abyss, but he is alive.
"You took me away from there, didn't you, boy?" Dollar huffs in response, nips at Hosea's hair. Things seem… alright for now.
Then Charles rides back into camp, panic on his usually so calm face.
"Mister Matthews!" Crack. "There has been a storm." Crack. "Their ship sank." Splinter. "I'm sorry." Shatter.
Hosea breaks.
They are gone. And the only reason Hosea doesn't hurl himself after them is because he has people to look out for. In a vain hope that they all live still. He is not strong enough to lead, and so Sadie and Charles do what they can. Hosea tries to plan, to figure out how to get John out of jail. He can barely leave bed, the even thicker air giving him issues.
They are down five of their guns from being lost at sea. Sean is still recovering from losing an eye. Lenny broke an arm the same day Hosea nearly died. Three of the herd are starving themselves, sick with worry.
Silver Dollar watches with churning in his stomach, tries to make them eat. Keeps an eye on Hosea. Hosea who doesn't fall to the bottle yet, by grace of wanting to get John out alone. By grace of little Jack clinging to him.
Then… then they return. Sick, skin peeling and angry red, but alive. They live. By the grace of a God Silver Dollar doesn't believe in they live.
One by one, their lost brethren return.
The first night after moving camp yet again, Hosea clings to Dutch with the fervor of a man drowning. Dollar isn't sure if it is enough, from what he catches of conversation, but it is enough to keep Dutch among them down below and not the clouds above. For now, at least.
Arthur is sick and only getting sicker, Dutch does not order John retrieved, and it takes Hosea's feeble yelling to make him look contrite for it.
Silver Dollar hears them. Hears their argument. Hears the poisoned honey Micah drips. Baylock ought to teach his boy manners.
Dutch fears rats. Fears that John talked. Hosea slaps him for it. Throws him out of their shared tent and cries into his hands. The next time Dutch walks past the horses, Silver Dollar snaps at him, makes him yelp and squeal.
Things are coming to a head, and Silver Dollar isn't sure for how much longer they are going to live like this. Things are spiraling. And sooner or later, they will break.
The question is, Silver Dollar muses, whether they will come away well or not at all.
Count throws Dutch into the dirt. It was long overdue. Dollar and him had talked, about how Dutch seems to have gone… strange. Strange and queer in ways he never had before. Harried and afraid, impulsive in ways he hadn't been before.
The fall seems to rattle him, Count unwilling to carry him anymore. Count, whose willingness to carry him had always stood in as a sign for how he could make even the most hard-headed of them friends and allies, make sure they were taken care of.
Now that sign is gone. And he seems broken for it. Broken enough that Silver Dollar can see Hosea pick up the pieces. Broken enough he can take the man back, talk with him.
Silver Dollar doesn't know if it is enough. But for the first time in weeks, Dutch leans into Hosea again, the hardness in his eyes fleeing under tears that soak into Hosea's injured side. He watches, Count at his side, as they hold to one another like men on driftwood asea.
"We need to stop running, Dutch."
"We can't. They'll follow us to the ends of the earth."
"I can't do this no more, Dutch." Dollar sees the way Hosea presses his forehead against Dutch's. "I'm old. Our sons nearly died." A gasping breath. "Don't make me run. Please."
"I won't. I won't." Desperate hands in Hosea's hair. The rings are gone, Dollar notes. As lips crash, he lowers his head. Things are getting better again. "Please don't go."
"Never." Hosea's voice is a hollow whisper. "Not if you listen."
"I will. I will if it makes you stay. Don't leave me, Hosea." Dollar turns away with a satisfied huff. Those two would find their balance again. A balance for them all.
Silver Dollar had seen the way Hosea had broken after Bessie. How he had broken when Dutch had been gone.
Now, as the man saddles him up again, he can see the glimmers after. The still broken, still tender flesh under the usual immaculate facade. The way it heals, peppered with bruise-purple marks on Hosea's neck.
The sunshine that fills Beaver Hollow feels less oppressive than before. It feels like hope.
A hope that Silver Dollar missed and welcomes back with glee.