When Dutch Van Der Linde, Micah Bell and Arthur Morgan stumble across Violet Adler after a crisis that robbed her of the last family she had-her dearest brother, Jake Adler, and beloved sister-in-law, Sadie-she's offered a home. A temporary one, unt...
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As it turned out, Jack Marston would not catch a record-breaking fish and make newspaper headlines in cities as far as Saint Denis.
"Fishing sure is boring, Uncle Arthur," he sighed, gazing out at the still waters with a small fist propped against his cheek. He had abandoned his fishing pole in minutes, in favor of sitting in the grassy area a few feet from the shore. The sweet kid was indeed fulfilling his promise to seek a gift of nature for Abigail.
"I know," Arthur acquiesced. "Boring as hell. But then..." He flicked at the line to attract the shyer bunch of the marine life. "Something happens. And you got food for days."
Jack glanced up, interested. "Really?"
"Mhm."
The little boy tilted his head, studying the water a bit more intently now.
For someone who claimed to be a poor fisherman, Arthur certainly had the patience of a great one. But I was beginning to realize that the man generally had a knack for downplaying his talents.
I stood beside him, soaking up the spring breeze that soared over the expanse of calm waters. Though much of the gang, especially Arthur, expressed a longing for the west, this country here possessed its own undeniable beauty. You could almost believe that the civilization Dutch sneered at hardly stood a chance against these sprawling portraits of nature.
"Wanna give it a try?" Arthur asked.
I hadn't gotten my hands on a new fishing pole since I joined the gang and therefore opted for watching the activity from afar. It was just as well. Since I was young, I always preferred hunting deer and ram in the wilderness to the seemingly endless endeavor of waiting for decent fish to come biting.
"That's alright," I assured him. "Jack's got the right idea. Observing your boredom rather than partaking in it is kind of fun."
He shook his head, exhaling softly through his nose. "If you say so. Ain't really the excursion Abigail was hoping for..." He frowned a little at Jack, who was preoccupied with yanking premature flowers from their roots. "But it'll do."
"It's nice of you to do this for her, Arthur."
He shrugged. "Least I could do. Things have been hard on the poor kid. And John's...well, he's got a lot to sort out. Hasn't figured out how to be a father."
There'd been a few occasions at camp, in which I'd witnessed John Marston watching his son from afar. He'd linger, jaw growing taut, and take a step forward, then shift restlessly in place, like he wanted to offer up some fatherly words but had not the slightest idea what such things sounded like. Ultimately, he always walked away, sometimes huffing at himself, and Jack would be none the wiser to his father's perplexing predicament.
