The Angel Butcher of Rio Bravo: An RDR2 Story

xviii. Friendships, new and old

John.

Days passed without Jack, and still, Abigail hadn't spoken to him. It was a uniquely cruel thing, that they were grieving together, and yet, apart.

But John understood her anger, understood her better than he ever had. The only thing that thrummed within him was raw desperation to get his boy back, whatever the cost. It was devastating to sit with, and while Abigail cried in the arms of Grimshaw or one of the other women, John sat concealed in the curtains of Spanish moss that hung from the trees bordering their new camp, drinking himself numb.

Ever loyal, Tine sat with him in the evenings, after she'd returned from her sojourns to the city, searching for Jack. She nursed a beer while he drank, his head inevitably sinking into her lap, momentarily soothed by her fingers picking gently through the tangles in his hair. It was the only comfort she could spare, and he took it.

It was one such night, the swamp bugs deafening in the ear that wasn't pressed against Tine's clothed thigh, her fingernails dragging along his scalp, that she said it: "We found that Bronte, Arthur and I."

John wavered to sitting to squint at her, his vision whiskey-blurred. "Is Jack with him?" The question was simple but his delivery wasn't, the words sticky in his mouth.

"We don't know," she replied, her hand on his shoulder, steadying him. "Reckon you'll find out tomorrow. Dutch is going, too. Wants a look at the crime king of Saint Denis."

"You coming?" John's head dipped in an effort to peer closer into Tine's eyes, and she pushed up on his shoulder again, held fast.

"If you want me there, I'll be there," she said, matter-of-factly. John slumped forward, then, too fast for her to stop him, a dead weight draped over her neck.

The next morning, John vaguely remembered the warmth of her chest pressed into his, her soothing hands on his back, but not when she'd extracted herself from him, nor how he'd ended up on one of the small settees in the front parlour of the house. He didn't have time to puzzle it through, because Arthur was nudging him in the ribs with his knee, grumbling, "wake up, Marston."

"Gimme a minute," he mumbled back, the sun unforgivably blinding. Through the throes of his hangover he could make out Arthur's impressive silhouette, straight-backed and square, and he felt doubly pathetic, cramped on the settee, his shirt untucked and stomach exposed.

Arthur huffed. "I'll meet you there, Dutch's already waiting for your dumb ass. Flavian Street, on the west side of the city."

John's hand covered his eyes, minor relief from the sun and Arthur's disappointment. "Flavian Street, west side, got it." He listened for Arthur's impatient boot strides to leave the house, then heaved himself up to sitting, bearing the brunt of his dizziness all at once.

He gulped down a cup of coffee and splashed cold water on his face and neck, a bracing distraction from the punishing sunlight. John felt a gentle tap on his shoulder.

"You're upright," Tine's teasing voice preceded his turning to see her, but even in recognizing it he was unprepared for the light reflected off of her hair, blinding him.

"Aw, shit," he squinted his eyes shut, stumbled a few feet backwards. "Hey, Tine," he managed, once he'd regained his footing.

"Still want me along today?" Oh. He'd forgotten that he'd asked, but he realized he could tie Old Boy's reins up to Darling and ride blind, and what a blessing, in his state.

"You bet," he grimaced a smile, his eyelids fluttering with the desire to stay closed. "Let's go."

*