Arthur had learned that in the end, there didn't appear to be much difference between peeling a potato and getting the pelt off an animal. For both, it took some patience and a delicate touch with the knife to carefully get the whole thing free from its skin, and not ruin the whole business. Not to mention in both cases, people felt more than free to comment on the handiwork. He'd turned a few potatoes into nothing but tiny nubbins by carving too deeply until he got the hang of it, and Sister Ursula's very patient encouraging-yet-disappointed commentary stopped.
Not that much difference in cutting meat up and cutting vegetables either. Filleting fish, that was easy as pie already. Funny thing was that apparently he could reuse some of the things he'd already been doing, particularly last year after fleeing Blackwater, into something helpful here in this kitchen. A man who knew his way around a knife could apparently be a very, very useful fellow in numerous ways, and not just deadly ones.
Anyway, kitchen duty was about all he was deemed physically fit for just yet. His Spanish had gotten a lot better these four and a half months, true, but it wasn't good enough yet to teach reading, writing, any of that, to non-English speakers. He'd taken up teaching a couple of Americans here who couldn't read or write, and that satisfied. Though it tugged on memories of Hosea teaching him in ways both fond and painful some days.
It helped immensely having something to do with his hands and his body, and not just occupying his mind. Even if he could imagine anyone in camp would have laughed themselves sick to see Arthur Griffith formerly Morgan, using a knife against onions rather than enemies, mixing dough for making those flat tortillas, and things like that.
Didn't matter. It kept him busy, and Sister Ursula was kind and patient even when he messed up. She must have dealt with any number of clueless idiots like him over the years, must have understood full well by now that even a tiny thing like plucking a chicken or grinding chili peppers for a sauce became a bit of a reward and a victory after so long spent in bed going half-crazy.
But still, in some ways it was almost harder now. Being up and able to walk around easily enough now came with its share of temptations. He felt a bit like a horse himself these days, with Garcia stubbornly yanking the reins on him every two weeks during his check-ups and scheduled torment session with El Cactus. "Refills", Garcia called that. "Refucks", Arthur called it to himself in a grim kind of a pun, and if he could translate that into Spanish, he imagined more of his fellow patients-slash-inmates might get a good laugh from it.
He'd come up with moniker due to reasoning it was about what things were when it came to sex for a lot of women. Lying there getting jabbed for a few minutes by something busily wheezing and pumping away, being uncomfortable and even vaguely annoyed, wishing it would be over, and then quickly getting dismissed when it was done. He'd heard the women of the gang laughing about their times with men among each other often enough in camp, in that way of making a joke out of something to make a shared nuisance bearable. Besides, he didn't exactly have a lengthy record to his account, and it had been so long besides. But he wasn't stupid enough to imagine he had been all that impressive either the few times he'd been with a woman. It could be different. He truly believed it. But plenty of men, randy and impatient, apparently made a sorry lot as lovers.
Well, it wasn't as though he had to worry about that. It hadn't figured into his life before, and it certainly wouldn't now. After yesterday's check-in, Garcia cleared him for a few more things, but once again warned him once again about pushing too far, too fast. Your lungs are healing well enough, but now we need to work to rebuild their strength, and your body's strength too. Slowly, Mr. Griffith. I mean it. Keep walks, rides, anything like that, fairly short. No hard physical labor yet. Stop right when you start to feel tired. It's easier to leave something undone for a while and come back to it than to recover after exhausting yourself.
After a session in the loving embrace of The Cactus, about all he wanted to do was go sleep off the exhaustion and the strange aching pressure in his chest. So there went the possibility of doing anything yesterday. Today? Maybe today he'd take Buell out again, and it'd probably frustrate the horse to keep it short, but it had to be better than the corral. That notion sparked a feeling of excitement all the same. One more bit of freedom. It was all about the little things now, but that didn't mean they weren't worth having.
Finishing another potato for dinner, he threw it into a pot of water to keep it from browning in the air. Sister Ursula glanced at it, smiled, and nodded, obviously pleased that she'd taught him enough to not have to supervise him constantly. When she headed over to the pantry to fetch something, he glanced at his fellow scullion across the water pot and the bushel of potatoes, and raised an eyebrow. She was new. It was an odd in-between stop being on dedicated kitchen duty. Hector Ferrera had moved up to a job in the stables last week, though it took him the better part of two years to get that far. Bettie Spotted Tail he barely knew, as she'd left on his second day, gone to help with the laundry next. TB was an inconsistent bastard, that much was for sure. He judged that he was about middle of the road in terms of recovery. The rest of the kitchen help were usually a rotating scheme of folks deemed capable of more strenuous work, but dropping in for a shift to help Sister Ursula out all the same.
This new girl had introduced herself as Sarah Landry when she started a few days back. Harder to tell with half her face covered, but from her smooth, unlined dark skin and her eyes, he thought she looked quite young, only about eighteen or so. "We almost got today's potatoes beaten, but who knows about tomorrow?" he quipped. She chuckled in polite acknowledgment, ducking her head while still peeling her potato. Avoiding his eyes, as most colored folk did to whites. He forgot that sometimes still, different as it had been in the gang. New enough to this kitchen, but clearly she had her share of experience at cooking from the ease with which she'd jumped right into it. "Don't worry," he told her, "Sister Ursula don't bite, not that I seen." He leaned in, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial tone. "With trusting anyone around this many implements of mayhem," nodding to the various knives, mallets, and whatever else, "she's got to be an OK sort." He wouldn't tell her that he'd known a cook with a temper on him. He still wasn't sure what would have happened between Sadie and Pearson had he not intervened, though his money, then and now, would firmly have been on Sadie to emerge the victor.
It still struck him strangely sometimes to look at himself. How much he'd changed, how the cocky, disinterested tough act had felt so damn ridiculous once they got here, like a threadbare pair of pants that didn't stop his ass from hanging out for the whole world to see. Being cared for by people so kindly, especially ones who saw how weak and sick he was, it would have felt slightly pathetic to try to swagger around casually throwing out comments with deliberate barbs as he had for so long. He supposed it might have been different had it been only him and Sadie, but this place had forced him to watch his mouth until that habit replaced the old one. Strange to say, he didn't find he missed it all that much. He could still joke, especially with Sadie. But it could be a lighter, more playful dry wit most of the time, though he certainly kept his tongue sharp for when it was needed. But overall, he could be milder, could be kinder, and not be seen as weak or foolish or unmanly for it. It suited this place, and some days, it actually felt like it suited him. So here he was, not feeling obligated to show this girl half his age just how hard and aloof and uncaring he was and unsettle her, instead joking with her about Sister Ursula and kitchen duty to try to put her at ease.
He couldn't see beneath the blue-and-white checked cloth tied around her nose and mouth, but there was no genuine humor in her eyes. He thought about Tilly's telling him years ago, back when she'd been about this girl's age, When you're a Negro girl in this world, Arthur, you learn real fast to not ignore a white man's jokes, but you don't want to smile too much at them neither. He decided to hell with it, he might as well be honest and try to put her at ease. "Look, Miss Landry? I know you got no reason to trust me on sight. And maybe I ain't saying I'm a good man. I'm--trying, anyway. But whatever my sins, those don't include the business of pestering women, of whatever color. You tell me you'd rather I shut up and mind my own damn business, well, that's that."
She took that thoughtfully, carefully, much like Tilly would. Pulled another stripe of peel off the potato in a long curl over the blade of her knife, finishing it and slipping it into the water. She reached into the basket for another potato. Then she finally spoke up again. "You a married man, Mr. Griffith? Think I seen you walking out through the gate with a woman couple days ago."
"Yeah, I am." He smiled wryly. "Though if you're asking to see if you're safer from me being a nuisance, I reckon you're smart enough to know that 'I do' don't stop some fellas messing around. And I could tell you Sadie would skin me alive if I did, and that'd be true. But I'd rather you believe it's that I got at least a few scruples to claim, and that I ain't a man for running around on my wife cause I care for her, not that I'm afraid of her wrath."
That got a more genuine laugh from her. "Well, all right then. I appreciate the straight talk, mister."
"How'd you end up here?" Now he was curious enough to ask. hearing people's stories made for some interest in this place, and he and Sadie had needed to discuss theirs to keep the story consistent.
"It was a long trip, sure. My daddy had to sell his watch to get Momma and me here," she said with a low sigh. "Heard about this place from my Aunt Harriet out near Armadillo. Daddy, he back home still minding the place. Though we hope he's gonna come here in time."
"Where's home at? Not Armadillo, I guess." Her accent was Southern, but from further east than New Austin. He had a sneaking suspicion exactly where, but didn't say it.
"Lemoyne." She confirmed it for him. Now he listened twice as carefully, though he made himself keep peeling that potato like a man without a care in the world.
"Lemoyne, huh? What, was you living in St. Denis, Eighth Wonder of the World? Or so I hear."
"Bless you, no, sir. We all was just country folk. Got a place in Scarlett Meadows. Why, you ever been out Lemoyne way?"
Arthur Griffith of course knew not the first damn thing about Lemoyne. He'd never lived there, never breathed that thick-as-cotton air, never cursed the mosquitoes, never been convinced he'd die in a cellar there butchered by brutal men, never seen those eerie swamps at night, never watched Dutch van der Linde drown the most powerful man in St. Denis and feed him to a gator, never waved farewell to Colm O'Driscoll right before they sprung the trap of the gallows in Guiteau Square, never lost Hosea and Lenny and Kieran and Sean. God, how he wished those months in Lemoyne could be wiped away so cleanly as that. "Can't say as I have. Grew up in New Austin, but when I was a bit older, we up and moved to California. Working out there, running horses and the like. Did a bit of time as a deputy once when the need came up." He and Sadie had agreed on that story. He sure as hell wasn't going to steal Jake's life and claim to be from Tumbleweed, easy as that would have been. God knew she'd had enough of that man taken from her. "Hunted bounties after that, and last one I did before coming here, I got down to Florida. Might have passed through Lemoyne, but afraid nothing stuck if I did."
"Better that way," she said with a nod. "Things gone crazy in Lemoyne last summer. Some big outlaw gang apparently came on in for a time. Other gangs hurrying in to fight with them, lots of Pinkertons looking to get them. It got so you was real careful out on the roads, especially if you're female."
"Sounds like trouble." He indicated the dark red kerchief tied around his own face. "Do fellas in masks make you nervous after all that, then?" Jesus, he hoped none of the gang had robbed them. Though most folks in Lemoyne, aside from the St. Denis swells, the Braithwaites, and the Greys, seemed to live a pretty hand-to-mouth existence from what he'd seen. He could at least say he'd never seen her before, so she would have no reason to stare at the masked man peeling potatoes across from her and recognize him.
She shook her head, starting to look up from her peeling more and more, looking at him more directly. "We got no fuss from them. All the trouble, that was further south more towards Rhodes and St. Denis. Only thing we ever seen was a colored boy about my age. He actually gave us a few bucks when he asked us some directions. Momma said he seemed too nice a boy to be an outlaw."
He couldn't help it. Closed his eyes a moment, and because he knew she couldn't see it, he smiled, fondness and grief all knotted up within him. Ah, Lenny, of course you done a thing like that. You always was a good kid. Good to hear at least one person who'd encountered the gang last summer and hadn't had their life ruined by it. Though TB would do its best towards wrecking her life all the same. "That's rare, from my experience. There's plenty of outlaws out there where meeting them ain't nothing nice." The O'Driscolls. The Lemoynes. The Pozners. The Quimby-Thompsons. The Murfrees. Four violent yahoos calling themselves a "gang" without any name he'd known or cared about, who'd robbed a cabin in Wyoming, killed a woman and a little boy for the sport of it. Even the Van Der Lindes, in the end.
"I suppose. You met your share of outlaws as a bounty hunter?"
He gave a casual shrug. "Met a few, sure. Right from when I was a kid. For a while out west, folk just about couldn't throw a rock without hitting some fool with a gun fancying himself a big bad outlaw." Those had been the early rough-and-tumble days, when their little family hadn't needed to scrap and fight for big scores with the big gangs. The whole business had been small and nimble and smart then. Things changed in the last five or six years of the gang, especially. They'd all changed along with it.
Fortunately she seemed to take that at face value and moved on. "How long you been here, Mr. Griffith?"
"Oh, a bit over four months now. You?" He reached into the basket, grabbed the last potato, and set to work.
"Five weeks." He nodded at that. Seemed like he saw folks all the time popping up who'd been there for a while, but given they were all on bed rest to start, that wasn't surprising. It was only when they started to emerge beyond that stage that any socializing happened. There had been a few who got here, and never left their rooms again--at least not alive.
"Guess you caught your TB in time that you're already on light duty. Me, I'm a stubborn ass. Left it too long. I got a full two and a half months of bed rest to start, then another month spent mostly writing letters for folk and teaching reading to them as don't speak Spanish yet. I been in here with Sister Ursula a month now."
She let out a low hum of sympathetic acknowledgment. "Bad off, you was."
He nodded in reply. "I was. Barely made it here, truth be told." It still unnerved him how close he'd come.
"So you teach reading? In English, I mean? I ain't so good with the Spanish. I'm learning, but..."
"Yeah, I know how that goes with the Spanish. Why, you aiming to learn to read?" She ducked her head, nodded shyly. "Didn't get a chance to learn till I was fourteen myself. Ain't never too late to start." Hosea had told him that, somehow sensing in that way that he had that Arthur had needed to hear it, that he wasn't hopeless and stupid and too old to make up for lost time. "Well, being as you're gonna be stuck here a while, you might as well come out of it an educated gal. We meet on the southern rooftop, 8 in the morning until 10. Courtyard's better in the afternoon, but the roof's nice in the morning. I got my own Spanish lessons up there after that."
Now she must have been smiling, because he could see the sparkle of it in her eyes. "It all right by you if Momma comes to learn too?"
"Sure."
She seemed younger now, closer to her actual age, alight with excitement. Though that might have been the first spark of something solid to look forward to since she'd arrived here. Glancing down at the completed potatoes, he asked her, "You see where Sister Ursula went?"
"She went to find me." That was Sadie's voice as she came into the kitchen from the shady corridor leading out to the courtyard. "There's a shopping trip, and it's my turn to go. Nice being one of the folk they'll let out on the roads." She held up a list in one hand, waving it lightly. "You up for a trip to town, Arthur? I asked Dr. Garcia about it."
"Him and The Cactus are still busy making friends, huh?" It took the man several days to do all the pneumothorax treatments every cycle with all the patients still here, and a handful of others who'd been released but had to keep living nearby and coming back regularly for another round of it for a couple more years, until Garcia was totally satisfied their lungs were all right. Sounded like that would probably be his future, if he got that far. Mexico would be home for a while, it seemed.
"Just about. He says you're OK for it, so long as you keep your mask on, you don't do too much of the driving, and you ain't lifting anything heavy at the store."
He put the kitchen knife down on the table and stood, stretching his back out lightly, cramped as it was from his being a tall man hunkering down over those potatoes. "Well, hallelujah! I'm graduating from chopping vegetables to shopping?"
She quirked an eyebrow at him, and from the smirk on her face, he sensed what was coming. "Well, honey, I think we can both agree now, ain't cooking work?"
All right, he could admit he'd deserved that one, just as much as she'd deserved his quip throwing her own words at her about veggies and shopping. Though now he had to sympathize with Sadie back then at Clemens Point. When a simple trip to town was an escape and a real treat, that said something about life. "You been holding that one back all this time just waiting to use it, ain't you?"
"You know it. So, you coming or not?"
"Coming right along." He shrugged and looked at Sarah. "Potatoes are done, and no Sister Ursula, so guess as senior kitchen hand I'm in charge, and I'm saying you're free to go." Sarah shook her head, giving him a dismissive wave of amusement, getting to her feet. Heading for the door, he nodded to Sadie. "Give me five minutes to change."
"Fine. I'll be waiting with the wagon."
Heading up to their room, he changed his shirt for one less covered in water and potato starch, and hung it up on a hook to dry. It would do for tomorrow's kitchen work still, before he would put it in the canvas bag labeled "GRIFFITH" for his and Sadie's laundry. He hesitated, then reached for the gun belt still hanging on its nail from where he'd put it back last November when they'd arrived. He'd heard plenty of talk about some bandits out on the roads of late, and one load of supplies had been stolen a few weeks ago. Just a few idiots, most like, but no point being unprepared.
It had felt strange for a while to go without the familiar weight of those guns, but he had no cause to wear them around the convent. Being a man who didn't need a gun strapped to his hip felt better and better the more he got used to it. Now it felt almost strange to buckle them back on, though he noticed with some pleasure that he'd gained back a fair amount of weight. He had to buckle the belt rather looser than last fall, away from those last two holes he'd had to punch himself to make it still fit. He'd seen that change too with his clothes, but that was a gradual thing, not a sudden contrast like this. No kidding himself that he didn't still look a thin, tired, and ragged mess, and his face in the mirror when he shaved still confirmed it, but at least things were improving.
Heading downstairs, he found Sadie waiting on the wagon seat as promised. Climbed aboard the wagon himself, instinctively wanting to reach for the reins, but he held off. "Your driving improved at all since last we went out?" he teased. "Pretty sure you ran right over some poor bastard that time."
She snapped the reins briskly and set the wagon off, reaching over to give a playful shove to his shoulder. "Didn't ask you, mister." Though as they headed through the convent gates, she glanced over at him, giving him a smile. "Nice to be out, I bet?"
He smiled back, though of course she couldn't see it beneath his mask. He'd be a good boy and keep the kerchief up, because here in the desert, inhaling any kicked up dust could be hell on his still-grouchy lungs. "Yeah. It's real fine." She kept silent for a few minutes, letting him just look around and get a look at things, since he'd been left staring at them from the rooftop for months.
He had seen almost nothing of this journey between Chuparosa and Las Hermanas the one time he'd taken it before. Garcia refused to let him ride the rest of the way on Buell, especially after that first Cactus session, insisted on having Arthur lie down in the back of his wagon on a blanket. Worn out as he was, he'd actually fallen asleep back there amidst the rattling crates of supplies, and woke only when he felt Sadie's hand on his shoulder when they got there. He'd gotten up to their newly-assigned room and then knocked out a full twenty-one hours of sleep, so she told him. From her too-steady voice when she told him, he'd gleaned that she'd been worried he wouldn't wake up at all.
So this all was new, and he couldn't help drinking in the sights of the Nuevo Paraiso desert with delight, the wide open expanse, the bluffs and canyons. Plants and animals, some familiar enough, some strange and new that he'd have to look at further sometime. It called on some vague memories of Armadillo from his early years. While they'd been out in the desert during his years with the gang, they'd certainly never been over the border like this. Hosea, being from the eastern New York mountains, and Dutch from near Philadelphia, seemed to be more interested in the north when they could.
"Here." Jolted from his sightseeing, he turned back to Sadie as she handed over the repeater. "Never a bad idea to add to the pantry while we're out. Keep your shooting from getting rusty besides. You shoot anything too big to bring back whole, I'll handle most of the skinning and dressing."
"Got it, boss." He couldn't resist laughing, shaking his head. "Going from feeding a huge gang to feeding a huge convent of TB patients. Some things don't change much." Though Micah would have considered both situations full of uselessness. He shoved that thought away with effort. Never mind it. He didn't want that bastard wrecking a fine day like this. Hefting the repeater, seeing it was well maintained, he asked her, "Chuparosa got any gunsmith that you seen?"
"Yeah, why?"
"I ought to see about these guns." He indicated the revolvers in their holsters. "The one's got a bit of a catch, got to force it. Maybe I'll see if he's got something better." These guns were old, badly maintained Army surplus, even if they were the best the tribe had for sidearms. Truth be told, he'd been too exhausted to worry about it in Wapiti, but it made him nervous now. Dutch had taught him plenty of crooked and bad lessons, but the ones about guns--how to shoot, how the right gun could make the difference in those fractions of seconds and those few feet between life and death--those still felt sound.
She gave him a sidelong glance. "I know the life we was living, we had to be particular about having good guns. But you planning on shooting many folk that you got to worry about it now?"
Did she really think he would slide back into the old life as easy as that? "Not planning on seeking out a killing, no. But if them bandit attacks have happened enough that they got to warn us, I aim to be ready, not trying to use no damn revolver with a bent hammer. Best way to get killed in a hurry is to either get reckless or be unprepared."
"That some more of that profound outlaw wisdom I missed?"
Well, if she wanted outlaw wisdom, he'd give it to her. "You're lucky you wasn't killed, charging right in at them O'Driscolls as you always were. That how you go hunting too?"
Her mouth tightened in a sulky line he recognized as a warning sign. "No."
"I wasn't in a place to say much about it, or tell you how to do things. But--look. You almost got killed, more than once, cause you got so caught up in the fight. And…" And he understood why, or at least thought he did. He'd been something like that furious himself, that full of pain, and that nonchalant about survival. But the depth of that love and rage in her had awed and frightened him. It had ebbed out of her after Hanging Dog, but he had to know if she aimed to be like that again. He couldn't bear it if she threw her life away now.
Spotting a jackrabbit, that provided a welcome distraction. The first shot missed, but the second proved true, his aim quickly coming back. She pulled the wagon over, and he jumped down, grabbed the kill. Better to wait until they were back at Las Hermanas for small game like this, but he'd make short work of it then. He'd skinned enough rabbits last year for it to become close to a mindless routine. Stowing it in the wagon, he climbed back on the seat, and they continued.
Her temper had eased, and she looked at him calmly now. He let her speak up first on it, wanting to read what she was thinking. "It ain't like we're living that life anymore."
"No. Just...I remember. Before we set off for Rhodes, and there I was making my big speech at you about wanting to go out running with the men, for everyone's benefit." He heard her snort of laughter. "Look, there was a certain, uh, demeanor I was keeping up in camp. You must have seen it. Dutch and Susan expected me to do my part, keep folks in line. And you was definitely upsetting the order of things."
"Oh, I seen it. Oldest brother of the family for sure, you was." She laughed in earnest now, eyes closed and head tipped back in the spring sunshine. "That 'big and tough' talk worked on the men, Arthur, but I'm afraid us women weren't that fooled by you. Besides, I seen how you dropped the act about thirty seconds after we got out of camp."
"Well, you dropped the 'outraged and ornery' bit yourself."
"Ha, you think that was an act! I let go of it cause I got what I wanted. I got a break from Pearson barking at me like I was some shit-for-brains sailor he could order around. Karen was pissed that she hadn't thought of threatening to kill someone besides Grimshaw to get out of camp."
Imagining Karen's irritation, he had to laugh himself at that. Far better to remember her like that, than wondering where she was now, if she was even still alive. Though soon enough he sobered, trying to say what he'd truly been getting at by bringing that up. "You said you wasn't afraid of dying. Guess you proved that well enough, every fight you went into. But there's not afraid, and then there's going and looking for death. Just...tell me you ain't looking to get killed no more. Please." She'd said she couldn't bear him dying. He had to ask her, and he had to tell her that he couldn't let her go easily either.
Watching her face, he saw her eyes shut for a moment, her hands tightening around the reins. "You said it, Arthur. 'We're more ghosts than people.' I thought you said it just about perfectly where we both was with that."
"It was like that. I ain't sure that's true now. It's…" He spread his hands, trying to find the right words to explain it. "Weren't nothing much keeping either of us alive, except to see the job finished. I guess it was you and me hanging onto life for that much, but we wasn't living. Now here we are, after that's all said and done. And we didn't die."
"I know," she said finally. "O'Driscolls are done. The gang's gone. And whatever either of us might want to do, it's gonna be a long while off before you're ready for that. Making peace with what I done and who I became, that's no easy thing, but I tell myself I can't be afraid of living neither. But the size of that notion, it scares me, all right?"
He told her quietly,"You ain't alone on that."
She took that in silence, but it was the kind of silence that felt reverent rather than awkward, respecting something told with that depth of trust. "Sure. Just don't be like you was at the end of it."
"What you mean by that?" He shook his head, confused. "You really want anything like who I was before I took a good look at things?"
"No. But you live like you was, Arthur, you ain't gonna live long. You was busy doing everything for everyone but yourself. Do good things, yes, but if you don't look after yourself too, you getting off that mountain alive don't mean much if you just go get killed to save someone else. You live like you got no claim to your own life, you ain't no better off than you was with Dutch, looking at yourself and seeing only what use you can be, not a man who's got his own worth."
You deserve to live too, she'd told him. Carrying it even further here, telling him he should continue to be here not because he'd done enough good to warrant keeping him around, but simply because he was, and he was trying. Trying so damn hard, but it still didn't feel like it fit. He sighed at that, looking away from her towards the expanse of the desert. Perdido. That meant "lost", and he could see why they named this country that, with its stark and unforgiving beauty. A man could get lost out there, if he went out unprepared. He felt these days like inside he was stumbling through a desert, trying to make some sense of himself, lost as any man could be. He'd changed, but he didn't know who he ought to become, or how, or any of it. "I'm trying. It...that's an idea that still don't sit easy."
"So long as you at least think on it, that's a start."
Two more rabbits later, he had to admit she'd been smart to nudge him to hunt a bit along the way. His shooting still was easy, came right back, and that small satisfaction in being able to add to the food stores helped too. They pulled into Chuparosa, and she stopped the wagon by the general store. "It ain't market day on Sunday, so we can't get as much fresh stuff along with the supply order. But the gunsmith's down that way." She pointed down the street.
Swinging down from the wagon, he headed down towards where she'd indicated, the painted sign with "Armero" and a revolver confirming that he'd found it. Pushing the door open, the gunsmith behind the counter, Victor Ortiz by his sign, eyed him carefully. He supposed that was fair. Most gunsmiths had to be like that. It wasn't as though anyone walked into a gunsmith's for an innocuous purchase.
"Ah, tuberculosis o un bandido, Señor?" Ortiz inquired, gesturing to the mask still covering Arthur's face.
Ambos, mister. Both. Lucky that fella you are, I'm trying to leave both of them behind me. "TB," he answered. "Lo siento. Yo estudio Español." It was easier to understand others speaking than to recall the correct words and grammar himself. He hoped he'd gotten that much right, and by it, ask for the man's patience in dealing with his limited language skills.
Ortiz took pity and spoke his Spanish slowly and simply, which helped. "With Las Hermanas near, we see masked men in this town. That's nothing unusual. But ones carrying guns are stranger."
"I ain't a bandit myself." Not anymore. "They said might be bandits on the roads. I want to be ready." He pulled the guns loose, laid them on the counter. "But I don't think you could fix them."
Ortiz eyed them and laughed in a friendly kind of way, shaking his head. "You poor fool, you've been carrying these around for protection?"
Arthur managed a wry smile. "I was sick and weak. So men beat me. They almost killed me. Took my guns. These are what guns I could find. I haven't had any this bad since I was a boy." He'd been running around San Francisco that final six months with a rusty Colt that he took off a dead man in an alley and used mostly as a prop, especially given he had only two bullets in it. If he could get a drunk man alone without a gun on him, flashing it in their face usually did the trick. Hosea had busted up in laughter when he explained that. Got some theatricality to you to go with those nimble pickpocket fingers, huh, kid?
Ortiz took all of it with good humor, and offered Arthur what felt like a suspiciously deep discount on a fine pair of Schofield revolvers and some ammunition, even given converting between pesos and dollars wasn't yet instinctive. Some of his doubt must have shown on even a half-covered face, because the gunsmith explained, "We're seeing bad men in Nuevo Paraiso. The nuns of Las Hermanas do good things. If you want to protect them, I'll help you. Call this my good deed for the week."
Nodding his thanks at that, Arthur holstered the guns, then he tried a quick draw. Smooth as anything and he was satisfied with how that felt, the balance of the guns in his hands. "All right. Gracias." Stowing them again, he headed out, walking past Garcia's office, noticing the carefully inked sign on pale wood that hung on the door. If he translated it right, it said Garcia was at Las Hermanas and would be back around 4 PM. Folks in town must be used to that cycle of things by now with their doctor spending a good chunk of most days at the convent. At least it was only an hour or so if he needed to be found and brought back. From experience he knew that anything needing treatment faster than that likely wasn't easily survivable to begin.
It still felt peculiar as anything to walk down a town's streets with two guns on his belt, the repeater slung over his shoulder, and a mask over his face, and nobody even blinked. As he passed the bank, he had the thought he could probably walk right in like this without a flicker of concern from anyone, and stick a gun in their face before they could react. Jesus, robbing that bank would be easy as anything. He shook off that thought only with effort, annoyed with himself for having it. Habits and instincts of twenty years didn't change overnight, and that included scoping out a town, including its bank, anytime he rode into a new place. But he didn't want to have those thoughts, and he sure as hell didn't want to rob that bank.
Catching up with Sadie getting the last of the supplies loaded with only the help of a skinny twig of an adolescent boy, he instinctively went to go try to pick up a heavy sack of flour and help out. But he found his path cut off by her. Seeing those amber eyes gone fiery in determined annoyance, he sighed in resignation, realizing it, and she hadn't even had to say anything to make her point. "Yeah, yeah, I got it. Old habit." He headed up to the horses, patting them instead, checking their harnesses.
After the wagon was loaded, back into the desert they went. He would have pulled out his journal and sketched the impressive soaring rock arch to the west, but the jostling of the wagon in motion would have ruined the pencil strokes. As was, he took a good long look, trying to fix the picture of it in his mind for later. "That rock arch there got a name?" He nodded towards it.
"They call it Ojo del Diablo. You can actually see it from Tumbleweed if the weather's clear enough."
"Eye of the Devil," he translated. "Sounds like a real happy place." As they kept on, he saw a cloud of dust to the west back behind them and studied it. No natural dust cloud, he judged, so that meant horses or cattle. As it came closer, it proved to be the former, with four men on horseback. He hadn't run with Dutch van der Linde and Hosea Matthews since he was a boy without learning the look of outlaws on sight. "And speaking of happy places, think we're about to not be in one. We got company coming. Four men, and they mean bad business."
"Shit. Think it's them Del Lobos?"
"Del Lobos? That what they call themselves? Guess they're aiming for dramatics. I think I met some of these boys already, though that was up at Cairn Lake." That was back when he'd been going after Flaco Hernandez to try to interview him for that silly book.
"Cairn Lake? What the hell was they doing all the way up in northern Ambarino?"
"They was on the run and hiding out far away from home, I suppose. Much the same as we was. They looked well out of their element, and I don't think they aimed to stay. It started as a social call to talk to one of them about his bad old days as a gunslinger, doing some writer fella a favor. Flaco Hernandez, the man I was supposed to interview didn't take kindly to that notion, and it turned into a gunfight. You know how it goes." He shrugged. "I walked away. He didn't."
"You having a run in with them gonna be a problem?" Given he'd had to kill all of them up there after Hernandez, probably not.
"More outlaw wisdom for you, Sadie. You got four armed and nasty-looking men riding at you with that particular air about them? That's nearly always gonna be a problem, whether or not you killed men of theirs before."
"We fighting it out?"
A year ago, he'd have shot first, gone for the fight without question. But he was in no shape for a prolonged gun battle here. He glanced at the walls of Las Hermanas, visible in the distance. No, still too far. "Not just yet. We can't outrun them, so let's see what it's all about." He tugged the kerchief down around his neck for the moment. Better that he not look either like a bandit himself and spark a fight with that, or easily identifiable as a TB patient if the Del Lobos had seen that particular fashion trend out and about. The one would provoke an attack out of wariness, the other an attack at smelling weakness. As was, they would look like two ordinary gringo homesteaders, albeit ones with a great deal of supplies.
The one Arthur judged as the leader by his air and the deference of the other men reined in alongside the wagon on a big bay stallion. "Hola, amigos."
Arthur nodded to him politely, making his expression the picture of innocent naivete. "Sorry, fella, I don't understand you." Being just a big dumb harmless man smiling a big dumb harmless smile. "You, uh, speak English?"
The other three pulled up too, and the leader turned to one and said in Spanish, "Great, it's another pair of fucking stupid Americanos."
He looked the outlaws over, waiting until they pulled up as he'd imagined, some on either side of the wagon. Three men, and then the fourth, mounted on that chestnut pinto, hung back--still a boy, lanky and nervous-looking. Eighteen or nineteen at most. "Look, friend, we ain't got no quarrel with you."
Sadie leaned closer, saying under her breath, "So what are we doing, Arthur?"
"Take off as fast as you can. You'll know when." He only hoped the man didn't come close enough to see both of them wearing gun belts, because that would kill the act of being dumb farmers.
The leader continued, "See, the problem is that you're here on Del Lobo land. And that, gringos, is going to be your last mistake. We appreciate your donation to the people of Mexico, though."
Just about as expected, the leader reached for his gun, and Sadie's timing proved impeccable as she yelled to the horses. Steadying himself against the lurch of the wagon starting up, he ducked down off the seat, getting as low as he could, barking at her, "Stay down!"
"You need me to--"
"You just keep driving, I'm doing the shooting." Thankful now for Ortiz's generosity, drawing those Schofields, he peeked up over the wagon seat, and took aim. Picked off the leader first with a clean shot. For some, losing their leader and their foe proving to have good aim on a wagon barreling along would be enough to make them think twice. These ones apparently were brave or foolish or both. He forced his breathing to go steady, because the last thing to do in a gunfight was breathe too fast, get all anxious and scared. Not to mention his particular situation with the TB wouldn't help that either.
The boy faltered a bit, probably not having seen gunfire like this much before. The other two kept coming, and he made short work of them as Sadie kept control of the wagon. She had to be strong as hell in being able to control those two big draft horses. "Pull up," he yelled to her.
The kid was out of range of the Schofields, but he took the repeater from where he'd laid it down on the floor of the wagon. It would be an easy shot into the boy's back, a wide open target. But some other impulse moved him. Before he thought too much about it, he put a shot in front of the horse, making it nervously shy, bucking its rider. Once the kid picked himself up out of the sand, watching the fleeing horses, he took one look at the wagon, and ran like hell in the opposite direction.
Sadie followed his gaze. "What are you planning, Arthur?"
"Well, I ain't in any shape to run that little buffoon down on foot unless you want me stuck in bed for the next month, so let's circle back on him. Have a chat."
She shook her head, laughing to herself, clucking to the horses and circling the wagon around as he'd asked. "Nice shooting."
"Well, you always was insisting I'm the better shot." Though they both knew exactly why she'd claimed that more than once, trying to keep him from the exertion of rowing or running or whatever. Hurt his pride some then, taking it as her judging him weak and incapable. But now, it felt like a strange kind of comfort to know she'd cared enough to try to spare him what she could, take that weight on herself instead. He'd never really had anyone do that before. Heart rate slowing again, he pushed back up into the wagon seat with a slow, ragged sigh. "Looks like I'm still just fine at killing, though." Now that the adrenaline faded out, he felt a strange, black kind of weariness descend on him. Guess he hadn't left that life behind him so clearly as he thought, and it had been so easy besides.
She sighed herself at that, reaching up and settling her hat more firmly on her head from where the frantic rush with the wagon had set it a bit askew. "Jake, he didn't think he would ever be a man who could kill somebody. His grandma, she was a Quaker. A pacifist. His daddy was a preacher. He took some of them notions from that. He'd fight to defend himself or his folk, but he never wanted to kill nobody. It's a nice way to live, Arthur. A kind and gentle one. But even then, I was willing to kill if I needed. And I figure it don't have to be all one way or another, that either you tell yourself you can't kill at all or else you're rotten and you'll kill anyone. There are folk who just need killing. Because they ain't people. They're predators. They attack, you got to kill them before they kill you, same as a bear or a wolf. Though at least those beasts have reason when they go for you. Bad men? They'll kill you just for sport." She spat over the side of the wagon at that, making her opinion clear.
There was wisdom in that, and he didn't have much time to chew it over, because they'd caught up to the kid. "You mind yelling and getting him over here? I still ain't much up to shouting just yet."
She gave him a grin. "Sure." It was still an impressive bellow from her as she shouted, "Alto! Ven aca, niño!"
Seeing they had him in shooting range again easily, he watched the kid's shoulders slump, trudging slowly towards the wagon. It left him still trying to figure out exactly why he'd done this. Left the boy alive, sure. But why not just let him escape on his horse?
No, this wasn't old habit. Back when they'd started getting into jostling up against other gangs and fighting for scores, anytime they fought or attacked camp they'd prefer to leave one alive. That was only to tell them exactly who they'd run up against, and let them go back to the others and to inform them that if they had any brains in their head, they would choose to not mess with the Van Der Linde Gang in the future. He'd usually been the chosen man to issue the intimidation and the threat. Big scary man growling at the sole survivor and demanding he carry the warning. Theatricality indeed.
You know exactly why you did it like this, don't you? Maybe he did, if he could only let himself admit it. Here the boy was, and Arthur looked at him. "Let me see your face, boy." It lacked some of the impressive bark he'd had before, but he could still manage the right tone of intimidating command.
The boy tugged down his faded blue scarf. Yes, nineteen, maybe. Skinny, gangly, that wary and angry spark in his eyes. He knew the sort. Desperately wanting kindness but kicked around enough by the world that he'd take open gentleness with contempt. Just the sort he'd been at fourteen. "Your name?"
"Javier Arcadio." Another Javier. Javier Escuella had been this young once too, probably this desperate. Maybe this one could end up better than a devoted slave to a man who didn't deserve that loyalty.
"You was just a very careless baby bandit, Javier Arcadio, because now I know your name." Pot, kettle--he'd been telling his damn name to most anyone last year when he did something away from the gang's eyes that he wasn't completely ashamed to claim. Like he'd needed his name associated with some small acts of goodness in the world, even while they were trying to lie low. But the trick of it was in recognizing it wasn't Arthur Morgan, the name itself, that so badly needed repairing. It was himself as a man.
He could almost see the kid beating himself up about that mistake, but the fact he'd been honest only seemed to confirm things for Arthur. Do you want to be saved? Calderón had asked him. How much he wished that he'd met someone like her when he was fourteen, or even eighteen, someone to tell him there was another way. That he could be something different. That as much as he loved Hosea and Dutch and Bessie and Susan for saving him, perhaps he didn't owe them his whole self for it. "You got any family to go home to?" The boy shook his head. "Dead?" A curt nod, and young Javier glanced down at his feet at that, obviously remembering too many things. Maybe they'd died on their own. Maybe those Del Lobos killed them and took him, made him their own. "Thought so. All right, get in the wagon. We're heading for Las Hermanas. They'll feed you. Give you a place to stay. Find you something to do. Teach you to read if you need that. Give you some choices. This life won't end well."
The boy finally spoke up, and he had enough guts to look Arthur directly in the face as he did it. "You seem to know something about that."
He tried to not smile at that, knowing it would be too easy to take it for condescending amusement. "Might have seen a thing or two. Hand over that gun, while you're at it. Call it a show of faith." At that, he got a nod, the kid handed over his revolver obediently, and then went and hopped in the back of the wagon. So it seemed he wanted to take that escape.
Sadie got them going again, and she kept her silence for a few minutes. Then she spoke to him, voice kept low, and going back to English. "Saving another orphan, huh?"
"Well, it was that or kill him, or send him back to that life. Of those two, I'd say the first option would be the bigger mercy. But I'm tired of killing, Sadie."
"I ain't judging. I think that was a good thing you just done." She reached out, covered his hand with hers. It didn't startle him when she reached out like that anymore. She was lonely, just as he was. He didn't take it as anything more than a small moment of comfort, of simple human kindness, between two folks who'd become good friends. The fact it didn't have to mean anything more than that actually helped. It meant he didn't need to worry.
He turned his hand over against hers, lacing her fingers with his, easy and instinctive. "Dutch...weren't who we thought in the end, but he said some brave ideas all the same. He had to, for us to believe in them and him as we did. He used to say, 'We shoot them as need shooting, save them as need saving, and feed them as need feeding.' And it was a lot more like that back in the early days. We still wasn't good men, but better for sure than what we became later."
"So where's the thieving fit into that code?"
He couldn't help but laugh. "He didn't say nothing about thieving. That'd make it sound so much less noble. But I'm thinking that philosophy, if you live by it for real, ain't too bad as a guiding star. Makes for a decent place to start, at least." That seemed to make more sense than most things had in months. Maybe he could do all those things. Maybe Sadie was right too--it wasn't all one way or another on killing. Shepherds might have to kill wolves, after all. It was in the knowing why the killing was done that made the difference.
"Can't argue with that. Seems this one needs saving and feeding. You got the saving already, but you definitely still need feeding."
"No, see, you're looking at this the wrong way. I found my next job. Tie me to a pole, stick me in a field, and I might do for scaring the birds." He glanced back into the wagon as they approached the convent gates. Yes, the boy was still there. Looked like this notion would stick.
She shook her head. "Think you're capable of a lot more than you know."
"Maybe. But thanks. For getting me out today. I don't know what it is that shopping trips with you and me seem to turn into gunfights, but--it was fun."
"Well, I'll ride for groceries with you anytime," as she pulled the wagon to a stop. "Especially if there's a need for shooting."
Shooed away from the unloading, seeing Javier Arcadio standing there awkwardly confused, he caught Calderón on her way to the chapel. "Much as I know you like wayward orphans with a chip on their shoulder, I figured I'd bring you one. He's with the wagon right now. Riding with the Del Lobos, he was."
"Trouble with the Del Lobos?" she asked him.
"Nothing Sadie and me couldn't handle."
She gave him one of those bright smiles she had. "Well then. I told you that you'd keep saving yourself by helping others, didn't I?"
"You did at that." Sadie wasn't entirely right. She'd saved him, but it felt like he still needed plenty of saving, though not of his body. But maybe he could be the one to save himself, day by day. A few bandits couldn't hurt people now, and one boy maybe had a choice in his life again. Today felt like a good step towards that. Better than peeling potatoes, anyway.