Between the Raindrops

Feel the Rupture

"My boy, that is exactly what is wrong with civilization," Dutch explained, putting a hand on the enforcer's shoulder. He spoke more softly. "The rich will always steal from the poor."

Arthur nodded in agreement all the while, just as he always did. Until he stopped suddenly, seized by some persistent thought.

"But...," he said, hesitant yet insistent, like a starving mongrel on a bone despite the threat of a kick. "We don't need it, Dutch. We got plenty of money. More than enough to buy that there land back in Ambarino..."

Dutch drew his hand back.

"I told you, son..." Dutch began, though a tightness lingered in his voice.

"No," Arthur said, meeting Dutch's eyes. "I don't think you did."

"It weren't right," Dutch replied evenly. "That land weren't right for our needs. We wanna go West, remember? California? Where it's nice and warm and free from all these damn rules. We just need a little more money. So we can buy a good plot and have some seed capital besides...."

Arthur let out a frustrated breath. "An' here was me believin' all yer bluster 'bout us helpin' folk..."

Abigail dropped her stitch then and looked up, carefully watching through her lashes as Dutch drew back a step from Arthur.

"I don't appreciate your sarcasm, son," he said, eyes narrowed. "Or your doubt."

"I... you know I got your back, Dutch," Arthur insisted. "I just don't think..."

"No. You don't think, Arthur," Dutch said bluntly. "Best you leave that to me."

That ended the debate, if it could even be called as much. Hosea shrugged and Arthur stalked away, coming to the edge of the great lake. He stared out over the calm water, something eating away at him.

"Hiya, Uncle Arthur," Jack sang innocently, heedless of the adult's sour mood and Abigail flinched. The older man took a steadying breath and tore his gaze away from the view. He looked down at Abigail's little sandy haired son and managed to find a smile.

"Hey, Jack," he said. "Whatchu up to?"

Jack stared up at him, grinning. "Tryin' to catch some butterflies!"

"Oh, yeah?" Arthur asked, soft and patient and Abigail knew that in another life Arthur would have been a decent enough father. "An' how's that goin'?

"Terrible," her little boy replied indignantly, kicking at a stone and Abigail set aside her sewing and moved to join them. "They always fly off."

"You gotta sit still, Jack," Arthur explained. "They'll come to you then... when you ain't chasin' 'em no more."

"But that's boring!"

"Yeah, I suppose," Arthur chuckled. "Go git yerself a net then, kid."

"Could you find me one?"

"Me? Oh, I dunno..." Arthur replied, rubbing the back of his neck. "I guess we could make one."

"Make one?" Jack asked, starting up at the man all wide eyed and suddenly taken with the idea. "Could we?"

Arthur nodded. "Sure. Alls we would need is a stick an' some chicken wire. An' a pair of yer mama's ol' bloomers..."

"Arthur Morgan," Abigail chided. The outlaw leaned away from her admonishing swat, hands up, chuckling just under his breath.

"That would be silly," Jack giggled, squinting at him.

"Yes... yes it would," Abigail agreed. "Though... maybe I could speak to Susan. Might be somethin' round here that could do the trick..."