Chapter Text
His boots softly thudded against the dry grass as he dismounted from his horse. The pitch-black shire tossed its head, mane exploding into a cloud as it shook himself free from the dust that had gathered in its hair. Arthur gave the large stallion a firm pat on the neck as the beast lowered its head to pull at the parched grass beneath its hooves until Arther gently tugged on the reins. The horse let out a huff of air as they turned, lifting its large head and chewing on a mouthful of the grass as it followed along beside Arthur to a nearby fence line, just next to the gate into a large ranch house’s yard.
Arthur lifted the reins down from over his horse’s head, and he carefully tied them to the top rail of the fence with a quick-release slipknot. Reaching into his saddle bag, he pulled out some sugar cubes, and he held them out in the palm of his hand. The silky soft lips of his horse brushed over Arthur’s bare wrist, nuzzling at his arm as it searched for the sugar cubes, until finally it found them and gently plucked them from his palm.
As the horse crunched the cubes, Arther reached up, scratching between the shire’s ears. The horse nickered softly in gratitude, and Arther placed a soft kiss on the stallion’s cheek with a smile. He stepped back around his horse’s side and pulled his journal out of his satchel. A quick flick through the yellowed pages brought him to a scribbled down note of an address for a house he’d received off Micah. He checked the name, then glanced at the name on the sign outside the gate. Yes, this was the spot.
Micah had informed him of a potential job he’d heard of, from another customer in a bar he’d been drinking in, and he had told him it sounded like good money. A protection job, involving a family with a good sum of cash and jewels that needed transported to their local bank.
Recently, Micah had been acting strange. He and Dutch appeared to have grown closer, and in turn, the gang leader had become more suspicious of those around him; all except for Micah, it seemed. Arthur had questioned Micah, wondering why he couldn’t just do the job himself, but Dutch had proceeded to give him an earful for doubting Micah, so he’d taken the address and set out from Clemen’s Point that same day to find the house they’d been told the family resided in. If he was honest, he still didn’t trust the idea, but he had to have faith in his leader, as Dutch was always saying.
Arthur slid his hand down the horse’s rump, brushing off some of the dust as he slipped his journal back into his satchel. He coughed into the back of a gloved hand, waving the dust away with his other as the horse turned its head back to look at him. Arthur gently patted the horse’s shoulder with a sigh.
“Good boy. Wait here, I won’t be long.” Arthur said tenderly, adjusting his hat on the top of his head to shield his eyes from the heat of the Lemoyne afternoon sun, and he made his way along the dirt path up to the porch steps.
Climbing the steps, Arthur brushed himself down, straightening his collar, then reached up to knock on the door of the house. He took a couple of steps back, glancing around whilst waiting for an answer. Within the house, he could hear voices, and the sound of young men talking loudly amongst themselves, whilst his eyes settled on a pile of bloodied fabric across the porch. A bushy brow raised, but he didn’t get time to look closer when the door unlatched and creaked open. Arthur turned to face the door, greeted by the sight of a young woman with a food covered apron on. She had a towel in her hands and wiping them clean as she looked Arthur from head to toe with bright eyes.
“Hello sir, can I help you?” She asked, a slight Irish twang to her voice that reminded him slightly of Molly. He smiled, peering down at her from beneath the shade of his hat.
“Excuse me, ma’am. A friend of mine informed me that y’all are in need of an escort to a bank, and well... my family, we’re struggling for food at the moment, and I heard you were offering to pay well for the service.” Arthur explained. It wasn’t exactly a lie. The gang needed more money, and since Blackwater, they’d been moving from place to place, with limited supplies to get by. He just left out the fact that his “family” were a bunch of outlaws... she didn’t need to know that.
The woman studied him for a moment, looking almost confused. She placed her hands on her hips, eyes travelling to his gun belt, then down to his dirty boots. Finally, her eyes returned to meet his own with a look of recognition on her face.
“Ah yes, of course. My son had gone out to find someone for the job just the other day.” She said as she glanced down at his boots again. “Come in, but please, take your boots off at the door. I just washed the floor. Oh, and please leave your guns in the entryway. I have children and don’t want them to get any ideas.”
The lady stepped back, holding the door open with a light-hearted smile. Arthur found the request a little strange, but he figured that perhaps they were a strictly religious family, and didn’t condone weapons in the house. He knew they needed the money though, so obediently he slipped his boots off, leaving them to one side on the porch. He unfastened the buckle on his gun belt, and he stepped inside. The lady signalled to a coat stand beside the door, and so he hung his belt on there while she closed the door behind him.
As soon as he entered the house, the smell of cooking filled his nostrils. Meaty, with vegetables, and the smell of pastry had his mouth watering. He glanced around him. The house was certainly clean and well kept. He could understand the no boots request now.
“Follow me.” The lady requested as she headed out of the entrance hall and through a living room, into the kitchen of the house. Arthur nodded, eyes scanning his surroundings as he stepped through the house behind her. There were no signs of young children in the house, but the sounds of men’s voices came from another room upstairs. Now inside, he could hear them more clearly; they all sounded Irish. Must be the rest of the family.
“Have a seat. I just boiled some water; would you like some tea?” She asked, grabbing some mugs from a cupboard as she motioned to the chair at a large wooden dining table in the centre of the kitchen. He pulled back the chair, sitting down stiffly. Leaning back, he removed his hat and set it down on the table, running his leather gloved hands through his golden-brown waves.
“I’m okay ma’am but thank you.” He smiled as he spoke, watching as she tipped a mix of herbs into a mesh bag.
“No, I insist. You must be parched.” She spoke, grabbing another bag and taking a spoonful of herbs from another jar. “It’s my own blend.”
Arthur had to admit, he was thirsty. It was a hot summer afternoon, and his throat was dry as the dust in the pastures he’d travelled through on the way to the house. More to the point though, he was famished, and the scent of the cooking food was doing nothing to help hide the fact from the world around him. His stomach growled emptily, causing the woman to turn and glance his way.
“Sounds like you’re stopping for dinner, too.” She teased, causing Arthur’s cheeks to flush a sun-kissed shade of red. He placed a hand on his stomach, shuffling in his seat in embarrassment.
“You’re too kind, ma’am.” He said softly, then proceeded to remove his gloves, placing them on top of his hat.
“Please, call me Deirdre.” She smiled, turning to pour some hot water from the steaming kettle into the mugs. She added the bags, one in each mug, and carefully brewed the herbs. She glanced his way again while stirring the tea, a flirty look in her deep brown eyes. “And what do I call you, handsome?”
“Um... A-Arthur.” He stuttered slightly, kicking himself mentally for his sudden bashfulness. He hated to admit it, but this lady was beautiful. She had dark auburn hair that was loosely coiffed on the top of her head, a few curls falling free around her face. She had a soft spattering of freckles across her cheeks and the bridge of her nose, and her green dress hugged her curves, cinched in at the waist thanks to the apron strings that accentuated her ample bust and buttocks. He wasn’t particularly interested in women anymore, not since Mary, but he could still appreciate a beautiful one.
“I was just cleaning up after dinner. I made a meat and vegetable pie. There's plenty to go around.” She explained as she removed the herbs from the tea, sweetening them with a little honey then setting his down on the table. “My husband is away with work, so we have spare. Let me go get you a slice.”
He took the mug with a thankful smile, bringing the steaming drink to his lips. He sipped it, watching as she stepped out of the room into what he assumed was a pantry, pulling a face at how sweet the tea was as soon as she left his sight. All he could taste was the honey... perhaps she’d overdone it slightly. It left a bitter aftertaste in his mouth, but it wasn’t entirely unbearable, and he was thirsty, so he figured he’d just drink it anyway. He frowned down at the mug then set it back down just as Deirdre entered the room again, plate in hand.
“Here, it’s still warm.” She explained as she set the plate down in front of him, picking some cutlery out of a tray on the counter to give him. She then sat down at the opposite side of the table, watching intently as he studied the meal.
The pastry was perfectly golden, the beef inside still slightly red in the centre. It looked delicious.
“You’re too kind.” He added as he took the fork and knife, cutting into the crisp pastry.
“It’s the least I can do for the man who’s come to help my family move our money to some place safe.” She smiled, leaning back in her chair as she brought her own tea to her lips and took a sip. Arthur popped a fork full of pie into his mouth, wondering to himself if her tea was just as sweet as his own. His brows raised though when the taste of the pie hit his taste buds. It was delicious, rich and full of flavour; if a little bit salty, but he didn’t mind that. He was used to eating dried, salted meat after all.
“About that...” Arthur said after he swallowed, washing the mouthful down with some more of his tea. “When did you want to do this, and where would we be headed?”
“Saint Denis.” She explained, leaning her elbows on the table as she grasped her mug between both hands. She watched him closely as he ate more of his food, taking large mouthfuls like he hadn’t had a good meal in days. She honestly wasn’t far from the truth; he’d been so busy lately, trying to get a steady income for the camp, that he’d hardly had time to care for himself. He looked rugged, unshaven, and his clothes were dusty and stained. He smelled of sweat and horses, but that wasn’t unusual for men around these parts.
“I was going to wait for my husband to return, but I received a letter informing me he’d be away longer than expected. So, my sons and I are just going to have to go ourselves. Our rent is due, and we need to visit the bank to pay it. My father died recently and left me a sum, but I don’t feel safe keeping it in the house. There are bad men around here, Arthur, sir.” She explained, watching as Arthur almost inhaled a mouthful of his food at her last sentence. He took another drink of his tea, nodding as he patted his fist against his chest, clearing his throat.
“You’re not wrong.” He finally spoke after he’d stopped trying to choke himself, then resumed eating as though nothing had happened. He continued to eat in silence, listening to the woman as she told him about her father, and he quickly cleared his plate. He could have gone for a second helping, but he felt blessed that she’d even offered him one to begin with.
“That was delicious, ma’am.” He complimented her cooking as he downed the rest of his tea. A few loose leaves had escaped the bag, and he left them in the bottom of the cup, studying them when the front door opened.
“I’ve found some more for you to dry!” A male voice boomed in a thick Irish accent as he stepped into the kitchen, gloved hands full of a large bunch of long-stemmed pink flowers. The man stopped, looking up when, out of the corner of his eye, Arthur came into his line of sight. The man was unkempt, more so than Arthur. He looked like he hadn’t washed in weeks, his unshaven face skinny and dirty, and a set of uneven, yellow teeth in his mouth. Some teeth were missing. He glanced from Arthur to Deirdre, who met his gaze with her own soft brown eyes. There was a glint in her eyes that he couldn’t quite put his finger on.
The man watched Arthur closely again, his beady eyes not leaving the outlaw as he set the herbs down on a table across the room. Arthur’s brows furrowed in confusion as the man turned and left the room, stomping up the stairs without a word.
“Excuse my son, he doesn’t play well with strangers.” Deirdre explained as she grabbed a towel, pacing across the room to wrap the bundle of flowers up in the towel. Son? The man looked to be about the same age as Deirdre, something that he couldn’t help but find unusual, but he didn’t mention it... perhaps the man was adopted and had special needs... he didn’t see it as his place to ask. Arthur cleared his throat, rising to his feet as he cleared up his plate and mug into a pile. He felt like he’d perhaps outstayed his welcome now.
“So, when are you wanting to move this money?” He asked, quickly diverting attention back to the topic at hand. He reached for his gloves, studying Deirdre as she bundled the flowers up safely so they were completely covered, then carried them to the pantry door. She disappeared into the pantry with them.
“How about Wednesday? Gives us chance to get our bags together for the journey.” She suggested, calling back out to him from the pantry. He slipped his hat back onto his head, pacing over to the door she’d gone through.
“Wednesday sounds good to me. I’ll meet you back here after sunrise, so we can be sure to have plenty of light.” He nodded, smiling down at the woman who turned to face him.
“Why, Arthur, you don’t have to go yet. I haven’t introduced you to my sons.” She gasped, seeing he was getting ready to leave. He felt a pang of guilt twist his stomach, leaving a slightly uncomfortable sensation in its wake, and he stepped back to let her back through the door.
“Ma,am, I appreciate your hospitality, but I really must be going. I have to get back to my home before sundown.” He explained, trying to find some reason to be on his way.
She reached out an elegant hand and took hold of his as he fiddled with his leather riding gloves.
“Wait, just one moment.” She pleaded before pacing over to the hallway the man had left out of. She leaned her head out of the room, shouting up a set of stairs, “Boys! Come down here and meet Mr Morgan!”
Arthur passed his gloves from one hand to the other, slowly heading across the kitchen towards her, when he lifted his head, looking straight at her with wide blue eyes. He’d... never told her is surname... how did she-
The sound of heavy footsteps thundered down the stairs as the back door of the house flew open, and the click of guns priming behind him caused him to freeze in his tracks. He dropped his gloves, lifting his hands to the sides of his head as he turned his head, peering over his shoulder to see three men, green bandannas pulled up over their faces, shotguns aimed directly at him.
“Shit...” He swore under his breath, looking back to Deirdre as she stepped back, and four more men stepped into the room, including the man who’d entered not long before. All four of them also pointed guns at him, one of them pushing Deirdre back out of the room. She smiled, a knowing look in her eyes as it quickly dawned on Arthur that his had been a set up all along.
“Morgan. You’re coming with us.” One of the men spoke from behind the green bandanna, and Arthur knew in an instant that the O’Driscolls were behind this. Of course they were... but how did they know about the tip Micah had given him? Arthur didn’t give it a moment more of thought; he knew he had to get out of here, and he was severely outnumbered. If he could just get to his guns...
Arthur moved quickly, reaching down to the wooden dining chair at his side. He wrapped his hands around the back of the chair and swung it, launching it across the room behind him with a twist of his body. Guns fired, and he ducked, throwing the table onto its side and sending plates and cutlery smashing to the floor. He ducked down behind it, hearing bullets bounce off the wood or bed themselves into it, followed by a pained cry and crash as the chair hit its target, knocking one of the O’Driscolls off their feet. The shotgun fell from the man’s hand, bouncing across the floor of the kitchen, and landed just out of his reach. The men started shouting scrambling about the room as they took cover. Taking his chance, Arthur lunged out from behind the heavy dining table, grasping the dropped shotgun. Bullets flew past him as he rolled across the kitchen floor, sliding into the pantry and slamming the door behind him. He pulled the shotgun to his chest, checking it was loaded as bullets cracked the wood of the pantry door. He sat with his back pressed against it, pushing with all his might as the O’Driscolls tried to kick the door open.
“You don’t stand a chance, Morgan!” One of the men shouted through the door, when a shotgun pellet cracked through the wood of the door just to the side of his head. He flinched as the wood splintered, the pellet whooshing past his ear, then cocked the shotgun. He scrambled to his feet, stepping back as he aimed towards the door.
Suddenly, with one loud bang, the door flew open. The second it did, Arthur opened fire, shooting at almost point-blank range into the chest of the O’Driscoll who had kicked the door open. Blood splattered as the shot went straight through the man’s chest, lodging itself into the chest of another man stood behind him. Like dominos, the two men fell, landing on top of each other with a heavy thud and a pained cry, choking as blood bubbled from their lungs.
Arthur stepped over their bodies, grasping a large knife off the kitchen counter as he passed, making a run for the back door as more bullets flew his direction. He had to get his guns and get out of here. Micah had a lot of explaining to do.
He shut the door behind him, pulling a pile of crates in front of the door from the porch out back, then leapt down the stairs to the ground below. He felt stones cutting into the soles of his feet as he sprinted around the side of the house but stopped sharply when the sound of voices came from around the corner. He pressed his back to the wooden siding behind him as the other O’Driscolls rounded the corner.
He reached out, grabbing the one closest to him, and pulled him off his feet. The O’Driscoll staggered but kept his balance until Arthur plunged the knife into his chest, burying it up to the handle. The O’Driscoll dropped the revolver in his hand and fell, clutching at the knife. Arthur kept hold of the man, using him as a shield as he grabbed the revolver. He lifted it up, aiming to the O’Driscolls that were now running for cover behind barrels and buildings behind the ranch.
Arthur shot, dropping the dying man to the floor as he ran to get into cover. The bullets hit their targets, taking down two more men as he dashed around the side of the house. He could hear the remaining men following close behind as he jumped up onto the porch of the house. He shoved the front door open, grabbing his gun belt off the coat hook, pulling the whole stand over with it in the process, then ran. He didn’t even give his boots a thought as he leapt back down the stairs of the porch, sprinting across the yard to his horse.
The stallion was pulling at the reins, tugging on the knot in response to the commotion, trying to buck and rear up. Gunfire followed as Arthur threw his belt over his shoulder, yanking the slipknot free from the fence. He tossed the reins back over this horse’s neck. The horse snorted, pawing at the ground as it turned to flee, just as Arthur grabbed onto the horn of the saddle.
A loud bang, followed by a searing hot pain in the back of his thigh, nearly had his leg collapsing beneath him, but he just managed to pull himself up into the saddle as his shire started to run. He grasped onto the horse’s mane as he doubled forwards, eyes pressing shut as the agonising pain ran up his leg like a lightning bolt into the small of his back, and down into his foot. He managed to find the stirrups despite the pain, opening his eyes in a squint as his shire’s enormous hooves thundered across the dry dirt ground, away from the house. The shouting of the O’Driscolls left over quickly faded behind him, leaving nothing but the thundering of his pulse in his ears, and the pained gasps of his breath to accompany the ringing in his ears.