Miss Morgan

Forty-Seven

July 1899
-Ivy-

Saint Denis is dreadful.

I hate big cities and Saint Denis is one of the biggest I've seen since Chicago. I was just a kid when we were in Chicago though so I don't remember much of it.

Saint Denis sits along the Lannahechee River and is surrounded by swamps on the west and north ends. There are boat docks where the railroad runs through town and the cobblestone roads are lined with people from all different backgrounds and countries around the world.

There's a trolly that runs through the main streets, beggars and street performers trying to get make ends meet and a variety of store fronts. As much as I despise the city, I do hope to find a book store while we're here and maybe some new clothes. But first things first, we have to find Jack.

We find Dutch on a park bench along one of the main roads after we ride a big loop around the town to scope everything out. "Hey you two." Dutch greets. "Arthur thinks he found Bronte, said he lives in a big house on Flavian Street opposite the park. Seems to more or less run this city. I told Arthur to meet us at that park."

"Let's go then." John nods.

We ride a couple blocks over and hitch the horses up at the park on Flavian Street and sit on the steps inside the park. We sit in a tense, but comfortable silence while we wait for Arthur. There's big trees and colorful plants, bees buzzing, it's clear Saint Denis puts a lot of work into keeping these parks beautiful.

Every now and then my thoughts drift back to Sean and my mind replays his death over and over again. He was a brother to me. He kept me sane in one of the darkest moments of my life and I got him killed. Or Micah got him killed. Everything just happened so fast. How can Dutch just simply move on, as if Sean was never a part of this gang. Or Mac, Davey, or Jenny. The Callander boys rode with us for so many years. I don't want to think of Dutch like this, but are we all just disposable to him? If I died, would he forget about me and move on too?

Arthur arrives at the park as the sun begins to set. "There you are." Dutch grumbles.

"You ready?" Arthur asks.

"Of course." Dutch nods as we stand on our feet to walk across the road to Bronte's mansion. "What else do you know about this guy?"

"Not much, just that some slick, little, greasy haired European who's clearly got power and money." Arthur answers. "Now, listen, if we go in there and start shootin' up the place, boy's gonna get shot. That I guarantee. Feller like this is gonna have a lot of protection."

"Ain't no one gonna get shot, Arthur, so everyone just relax. We'll charm him. Trust me. This the place?" Dutch nods to the big house.

"Must be." Arthur clears his throat.

"You okay, John?"

"I guess." John shrugs.

We walk up to the iron gate in front of the house where a guard eyes us suspiciously. "Excuse me, sir. We have an appointment to see Mr. Bronte." Dutch announces.

"Who are you?" The guard speaks with a thick Italian accent.

Dutch reaches through the iron rods of the gate and grabs ahold of the guard, who lets out a startled yelp in response. Dutch rips the pistol from the guard's hand, then pulls out his own revolver and points it at the guard's forehead.  "You get your boss down here and now, so we can talk about this like gentlemen." He demands in a low growl. Then he holsters his weapon and pulls the guard back to his feet. "Run along now, boy." He whistles behind the man and hands him back the pistol.

"Was that the special Dutch charm I heard so much about?" John furrows his brow.

Dutch raises his hands in surrender as the guard returns. "Relax. I got this." He reassures John in a low, measured tone.