「 ✦ ENIGMA ✦ 」ARTHUR MORGAN X READER

001.

Thankfully it was just Dutch who had stumbled upon the scene, not a lawman. His presence in that moment was the tilt in your luck. Things could've been a lot different if it were the sheriff and not a wanted criminal. From the fear in your eyes to the shakiness of your breath, he knew what had transpired wasn't commonplace for you. he could've let you get caught by somebody else, or turn you in to the men in badges for some quick cash, but he didn't. Instead, he offered you a choice to join him.

Arthur's rescue had been a decade older, similar in its mercy and its calculations. At twenty-seven he had learned hard lessons and held them like tools. he seemed bound to both dutiful labor and a distant acceptance of the weight the Dutch had placed on him. Being the errand boy for one of the smartest criminals in the wild west must've been hard and it was clear Dutch had been busy. You watched how even a calculating leader like Dutch leaned on Arthur. The dynamic was complex but begrudgingly respectful.

One morning, while the sun was a new coin burning the horizon, you asked a question that had made itself a home in your mind.

"What's his problem?" you inquired, eyebrows furrowing as your gaze fixated on Arthur's figure across camp. The morning sun made his skin glow. He slammed his axe down into the log, sending splinters and kindling flying.

John Marston, cigarette between his two fingers, raised a curious eyebrow. "Who, Arthur?" he let out a low amused sound, shaking his head. "Reckon we'll be here all day if I try to explain what the hell he has goin' on."

You can't help the small smile that tugs at your lips, mirroring John's amusement. A bit of curiosity danced in your eyes. Gaze flickering to his hand offering a drag off his cigarette. You take it with more eagerness than shame. The smoke tasted like safety for a second.

"he can't be that bad," you reply, trying for casual. The ash from the cigarette hits the dirt.

John follows your gaze on Arthur, his eyes narrowing. He laughs loudly, even drawing Arthur's attention. It was soft but edged with something that warned you. he lowers his voice, audible enough just for you. "Yeah, right." he shakes his head, stomping his cigarette out. "I've known that man for years and I still ain't got him figured out."

Arthur turned to face the two of you conversing. He meets your eyes, his own shadowed underneath the brim of his hat. Time halts, the two of you watching.. almost like a curious little game, waiting for something unbeknownst to the two of you. When he returns to the firewood, your expression mirrors John's one of thought and processing.

Dutch's searching voice cuts through the camp with ease. He calls, and you are at his side almost as if you're led by strings. The three of you orphans are there, a bit shameful how fast you come to his beck and call. He grins when he notices you and John, his voice booming in a way that not only commands attention but a kind of obedience.

"I see you two have met. Good." his eyes flicked to behind the two of you, at Arthur's approaching figure. The atmosphere shifted, almost as heavy as the heel of a boot. "Arthur, my boy, how would you feel about riding into town? There's a place that needs a look."

You peer up at him for just a moment, finding anywhere else to look when blue eyes meet yours. Arthur nods stiffly, shrugging. His answer is as spare as his movements. "ain't got much better to do." he rubs his jaw. "Where at?"

You caught the rise and fall of the conversation, but not a single word clung to you. Tagging along behind Dutch and Arthur, you quickened your stride to match his pace. Following Dutch's directions. You smile nervously, clasping your hands together at your hips. The urge to converse fights its way up, getting caught in your throat. The desire to speak goes unquenched, you have no idea what to say. It seems he doesn't either, that or he has no interest in talking.

The two of you approach his horse, a beautiful mare with a well-kept mane. Her hair is long and pampered and she side-eyes you with displeasure. Even his horse makes you feel inferior. She bows her head to continue ripping grass out of the ground near her hitching post, paying no mind to either of you. Arthur reaches up to pat her neck.

"Reckon you lost your own whenever Dutch found a reason to pick you up," he says, voice low and rough, his southern drawl keeping each syllable in place. Calloused hands reach to help you get seated behind his saddle. "We can double up 'till you get one."

You smile, genuine this time. He searches your face. "You're right. Didn't exactly get the chance to take all my things with me." he helped as if it was a chore and a kindness both. You practically didn't have to move a muscle as he hoisted you up onto the horse's backside. His horse huffs, craning her neck back down to return to her feast.

His nod is short-lived, barely there, as he throws himself up into the saddle with ease. A hand reaches up to idly pet the side of his mare's neck, the other tightly gripped on the reins. A shiver runs down your spine as he lowly praises her, and you resist the urge to think on it too long. Gently nudging her into a walk, he pauses.

"Reckon you ain't want to talk about what happened," he speaks up, a bit of curiosity in his tone. You shift against the horse, gripping the edge of the saddle as she walks; you wish you could see his expression.

You hum in thought, shaking your head. "Don't mind talkin'." voice soft, as if you're worried to scare him away. You clear your throat. "I got sticky fingers. Habit of thievin'. Stole from the wrong man and he wasn't exactly happy about it... things didn't turn out."

He reads between the lines, nodding in understanding. There's a pregnant pause and you begin to wonder if he's this quiet with everyone. "I've killed folk for less," he states flatly. No sermon, definitely no pity. It sounded like comfort, in the strangest way imaginable.

"I've done a lot of bad things..." you admit quietly, looking towards the golden sun-lined prairie as if it could answer. "Never killed someone until then."

He tips his hat and lets his words spill, "I'm willin' to bet that ain't gon' be the last time you got to kill someone." You look at the back of his jacket and then back at the field, listening to every word like your life depends on it. "Lots of people in this world."

What a way to look at murder. The talk of killing like it's some rite of passage. He was casual, almost instructional. It made something in you recoil. He speaks about getting rid of people like shooting a gun or learning to ride a horse. Your lip stung where your teeth had worried it, and you question what occurred in his younger years that could've made him put such little value on human life.

The clatter of the horses' hooves is all that can be heard when the two of you aren't sharing your voices, mixing with the rhythmic squeak of the worn saddle yielding under Arthur's big frame. Dust kicks under his mare's feet, visible mainly due to the almost fully risen sun.

You hum in thought. "Maybe you're right. Don't figure it's worth thinkin' about now." You shuffle forward, getting a better view of the approaching town. Your voice is gentle in his ear. "Why do you think Dutch wanted me to come with, anyway? Bet you could do something like case a place all on your own."

He shifts a little, perhaps thinking. "Guess he wants you to ask them a couple of questions. I'm here to make sure things don't go south." his small smirk isn't visible to you, his voice is all rasp now. "Pretty little thing like you, don't doubt they'll tell you anything you ask."