The bank teller had been having a wonderful day. It was a Thursday, so not as busy as a Saturday which was it seemed all the working men flocked in to cash their little paychecks, nor was it a Monday, when all said working men withdrew said money to gamble it away. No, it was a Thursday, and that meant no long lines, no impatient idiots, just him and the ledger, carefully marking up the balances and taking down the numbers.
Thursday was not supposed to have four masked men standing in his lobby, more guns than he cared to see pulled and pointed in his general direction, and a commanding voice to shut the hell up as the offending person got beat twice in the head with a gun.
Good god, he was being robbed.
One of the masked men, a man his frantic mind sputtered to him, with strikingly blue eyes approached and pushed a gun in his face.
"You'n'me?" He talked low and deep, and the teller felt his heart drop. "We're gonna take a little walk back 'round here."
.......................
It started off perfectly. Davey led the charge, sauntering into the bank, and cheerfully pulling his revolvers out, his brother taking the other side, forcing the customers inside down flat on the ground and blissfully promising death to anyone who moved. Arthur had yelled at them to all stay down, and shut up if they wanted to fucking stay alive and had stormed over to the teller, forcing the man back around the front desk.
John lingered near the front, eyes darting back and forth as he watched the street outside. Pretty quiet so far, Mac and Davey were a threatening presence and had no qualms about beating some poor delusional soul a few times till they shut up. John's heart pounded in his chest, and he glanced down at his watch.
"Hurry it up!" He yelled, his voice breaking in the middle.
Arthur rolled his eyes, pressing his gun to the quivering man in front of him. "Hurry it up, I don't have all goddamnned day." He muttered. The man's hands hesitated at the safe's lock and Arthur brought down his gun hard on the man's head. "I ain't playin' wit' you, now open the damn door."
He heard Mac shout something, and then a gunshot went off in the lobby. He grit his teeth, whatever time they thought they had, they definitely didn't have now. He hit the man again. "This door ain't open in the next few minutes, I'm puttin' some lead in ya, friend."
The man shivered, and the safe clicked open. Arthur spun the man back, knocking him down with a solid hit to the temple before hurriedly looking around. Trelawney hadn't lied, there was a lot in here. He heard another gunshot, this time accompanied by John yelling for him to hurry the fuck up, and, suddenly, he couldn't wait until he got back to Dutch, if not just to tell him fuckin' told you so because they were going to end up dead, he thought, fuckin' dead. He stuffed bills and jewelry into the saddle bags they had brought and hurried back.
By the time he got back to the lobby, he had heard more gunshots, and he was growing increasingly more alarmed. They hadn't really planned for a shootout, and he had really banked on just walking out and riding the hell out of there. He glanced around, Mac clutched his bicep, blood welling through his fingers, gun dangling from his fingers. Bastard must've gotten shot when he was back in the vault getting the money. John crouched under a shattered window, glass all around him, blood matted in his hair, shooting back wildly. Davey materialized next to him.
"Man had a gun." He said as a way of explanation. "Shot Mac, I shot him." Arthur glanced over where Davey pointed, a man lay in a puddle of blood, half his head blown off. "Must have alerted fuckin' somebody."
John cursed, and glanced over at Arthur. "What the hell are we doin' here?" He was mad, real mad, and Arthur knew he was only a few seconds from doing something stupid.
Arthur joined him by the shot-out window, helping him with the heavy fire he was taking. "What the hell happened, Marston?" It was more of a rhetorical question, asked in the heat of the moment, but John took it as looking for blame and took the opportunity to bite back when he felt wounded.
John gave him a look, blood dripping down his face. "This ain't my fault. Stupid son of bitch got himself shot because he can't do shit." He shook the blood from his eyes, and spun around, shooting off a quick volley.
"John," Arthur yelled, pulling the younger one's attention back. "Listen for fuck's sake. Back door, right? We can make it out that way, and ride the hell out of here, but we have to be quick." He crawled back through the shattered glass and relayed his message to the other two. He had been blessed enough to notice the door when he had marched the teller back to the vault, thinking that maybe they could just slip out that way when it had suddenly went to shit out front. Goddamn somebody had to notice these things, and it might as well be him.
He sent Mac out first, the man couldn't raise his arm, and he had gotten shot in his dominant arm. Davey followed after, the two of them stuck close, one rarely left without the other.
He motioned to John to follow, and John, reluctant to stop shooting but in a rare moment of wisdom, followed after Arthur as they crept back to the back door.
John went to open the door, one hand on the rusted knob before he paused, glancing back at Arthur. "Ain't gonna be no one out there right?"
Arthur froze, he really hoped not, otherwise, the Callender boys were either dead or worse, in the hands of the ever-reaching law. He listened for a few seconds, both of their muffled, ragged breaths echoing in the dim hallways. "Don't hear nothin'." He offered, and John shrugged, cautiously opening the door and stepping out, gun raised.
It was just Mac, partially hidden behind some crates, gun raised quick at the sound of the door opening, and he dropped it with a quick laugh when he saw who it was.
"God," he breathed. "This went south."
"Where's Davey?" Arthur hauled him up, ignoring the hiss of the other man. "We have to move."
"Went to go get our horses," Mac grunted, holding his arm close to his side. "'Bout five minutes back."
John cursed, "Fuckin' moron, he's gonna kill himself."
Arthur dumped Mac into John's arms and went to glance around the side of the building. He could hear the low voices of the local militia and knew they only had a few minutes before it was discovered that they weren't actually dead, but had escaped.
"Okay," he whispered as he came back. "Okay, Mac we're gettin' you out of here, not much use with a hole in your arm. Me'n'John we'll come back for Davey if he needs it." He scrawled a quick note for the man if he happened to come back that way and tucked it in the crates.
The three of them ducked out, taking back alleys, and sticking to the walls as they sneaked back. There were two horses, no doubt left there while the owners went inside to drink away the day, and Arthur led them back to where he had stashed John and Mac. John took one horse, helping Mac up behind him, and Arthur took the other, first settling the heavy saddlebags over the horse and then swinging up on the horse.
............................
They made camp a few miles off the main trail, Arthur tending to Mac's arm, and ignoring the man's anger at their leaving Davey behind.
"Told ya," he said for what he thought was the tenth time. "We ain't leavin' Davey."
"No man left behind." John supplied, where he was shaking glass out of his hair. "That's what Dutch always says." He shivered, wrapping his long arms around himself. "It's fuckin' cold out here."
Arthur nodded, wrapping Mac's arm and sitting back from him. "Sorry John, no fire."
John scowled at the dirt, "I know. Jus' cold."
Mac shifted, his usual bravado knocked down by the pain in his arm, and the loss of his ever-present companion. "Reckon he's okay?" His voice came out soft, and Arthur glanced over at him.
"Reckon he's sweatin' probably right now, but don't worry, we'll get 'im."
"Yeah," John laid back, staring up at the stars. "Don't quite see Boyne as a hangin' town, they probably like to do things proper, and doin' things proper takes time."
"You're gettin' him tomorrow?"
"First thing." Arthur nodded, opening a can of that cursed Offal and praying John wouldn't say anything. John's raspy laugh a few moments later told him he did see the stuff and he tossed a spoonful of it at him. "Shuddup Marston."
Mac stared at them, eyes darkened by the hat that he kept shoved down on his head. "Davey an' me," he mumbled, startling the two. "Most folks always says we're inseparable like joined at the waist and sharin' a brain, my pa used to say." He laughed grimly. He hooked his arms around his knees and breathed out. "First it were Davey, he's older than me, but he taught me to shoot, he taught me real good too."
Arthur stared back at Mac, guilt pooling in his stomach. Both the Callender boys were vicious and more prone to using death as a way of ending an argument, and could raise their own bounty faster than Arthur could blink, but he'd never imagine he'd be sitting in front of one of them as he whispered softly about his childhood, hints of sweet regret tangled between the memories.
"We was raised on the prairie," Mac mumbled, eyes far off, looking back into a distant memory. "Nothin' but goddamn fields, and Davey loved it. Taught me how to ride too." He shifted, eyes hardening, and pulled out a cigarette. "'Fore it was all of you, it was the damn Callender boys that rode together, and the Callender boys will ride again, promise you that." There was a snap of anger to his statement, and Arthur recognized fear lurking behind his anger.
"Told ya, Mac," Arthur leaned back, breathing out his own smoke. "Davey ain't gotta worry."
..........................
Arthur woke John up early the next morning, narrowly avoiding the fist that came flying at his face. "Damn it John, every time?"
John blinked up at him, before stretching and wincing. "Slept on a rock," he answered, holding the rock out. Arthur rolled his eyes and swatted it away, nudging Mac awake.
"Mac, me and John are goin' now. You alright to watch the camp?" Mac nodded, looking paler than usual, but by the stress lines that looped around his eyes and around his mouth, he was probably more worried about his brother than his own wellbeing.
He tapped John again as he began gathering his things. John grunted and quickly poured a cup of coffee, wincing as he drank it down. "Goddamn, that's some bad coffee." He said eyeing Mac. Mac was notorious for making horrible coffee, always brewing it too strong, and leaving the grinds in the pot.
"John," Arthur was on one of the stolen horses, waiting for him to hurry up, and John gulped down the rest of the coffee grinds. He'd take anything at this point, and quickly mounted up, following Arthur out of the little campsite.
"I reckon they caught Davey, an' are holdin' him. Most likely waitin' for us to come back for him." Arthur finally tossed over his shoulder at John, startling him out of the doze that he had settled into. "Now, don't know how we're gonna do this John. But there's gonna be blood."
Arthur always sounded so defeated when he said things like that, and John always felt uncomfortable hearing this side of Arthur, because despite no matter how many times Arthur told John how big and how bad he was, John knew Arthur was a better man than he was. Arthur hated killing like this, hating shooting up towns, hating bringing in strife to people who didn't deserve it. John reckoned he felt guilty about it because Arthur was a good man, even under all that anger and pain he let simmer behind his eyes. John sometimes wished he felt that way, but he figured all that good stuff Arthur had deep down, rot inside him a long time ago, back when he first killed a man, back when he first felt the rough rope circle tight 'round his neck.
So he let Arthur go on believing he was a bad man, because if he wasn't then what was he, and John would go on drinking to push down the fact that he was, and sometimes, goddamnit, he enjoyed acting like one.
"You wanna shoot up the law?" And damn that wasn't how he wanted to put it, but that's how it came out because John Marston never could put words right anyways, not without hurting people.
"Damnit, no Marston, I don't want to shoot up the law, but I guess I'm gonna have to get Callender's fool ass out of jail." Arthur's shoulders bunched up tight, "we'll figure it out as we get there."
"It's gonna be hot." John said, pointing out the obvious as he always did, and Arthur nodded, as he always did, having arrived to that point hours ago.
"Keep your head down, Marston, should be fine." Boyne was just ahead, and they slipped in, heads held low, hats tipped down over their eyes. It was, as John had so eloquently put it, 'hot', men patrolled corners of the town, rifles slung over their shoulders, or propped in their arms, fingers brushing along the triggers. The jail was crawling with the men, and Arthur paused for a moment, suddenly holding John back.
"Lemme think for a minute." He whispered. "Don't want you and Davey to end up dead, 'cus of some damn foolishness."
John squatted beside him, and you, he felt the need to say, because sometimes he felt that Arthur's self-preservation didn't work as well as it should have.
"Reckon we should check Davey's in there first." Arthur muttered to him. "'Fore we go in there."
John stood up determined to head on over, and was violently jerked back down to where they had been scoping out the place. "What the hell?" Arthur asked him, too tired to put bite into it. "They saw you didn't they?"
John blinked, they definitely had, the way he was practically pressed up against the windows, looking for law. He nodded, and Arthur stood up. "I was in the back," he explained to John's look. "They ain't really see me, for all they know, it was you three that robbed the damn thing."
John stared as he walked into the building, hands tightening and loosening around the repeater he must've pulled off his back. He set that down carefully, eyes never leaving the building, as he pulled his revolver out, snapping the cylinder out, smoothly filling the barrel chamber with bullets. He hoped Davey was still inside, he hoped their horses were taken to the nearby stable, and he really hoped Arthur wouldn't be recognized, because he couldn't do this on his own.
He shifted uneasily, propping his arms up on the crate in front of him, Arthur had been in there for awhile. John figured it shouldn't take that long to see if they had somebody, and he was beginning to feel the first fledges of go, go, go, go seize his brain. He'd give Arthur five more minutes, far more gracious timetable than what he was accustomed to, before he charged in.
It had been only four minutes, and John was just about to charge over himself, guns blazing, fully ready to shoot anyone that dared shoot back at him, when the door slammed open, and Arthur with fuckin' Davey ran like the hellwind, bullets whizzing over their heads. John stopped, raising his rifle, giving them cover, as he put his own bullets back into the jail, silencing some of the yells.
"John," Arthur ran by him, and John could just make him out through his careful concentration. "Leave 'em, we gotta run."
He turned to follow the pair, shooting the law where they stood on the street. Arthur was supporting Davey, who slumped low on Arthur, his legs fumbling under him, and Arthur strained under the weight of the wounded man, and firing when he could.
"Cover me, John!" Arthur yelled, and John who had been doing that since Arthur burst out of the jail, wanted to tell him exactly that, but for once in his life, said nothing and kept shooting. Bullets thudded near him, and he felt his stomach flip, as he moved back. Distantly, he heard shouting behind him that he pushed to the back of his mind, there another man, gun pointed straight at him, and he pulled the trigger, the man dropped; a man over there desperately loading his revolver, John put a bullet in his chest and the man went down coughing and choking on blood. A hand curled around his arm and pulled him back, and Arthur's voice filtered suddenly through the shooting, and the bullets and all the blood.
"Marston, c'mon we have to go." He had one foot in a stirrup, swinging himself up onto a horse, and John's mind snapped from frantic fighting into frantic fleeing almost immediately and he ran to a waiting horse, pulling himself up, pushing it into a hurried gallop. They rode low, almost hugging the heaving horses below, as shouts and bullets followed them. They rode past their hidden camp from last night, trying to shake the pursuers they had before they went back for Mac, and were chased over the hills into hilly country. When they had a brief respite, they let the horses rest, and John stood, gun clasped in aching hands for any movement while Arthur hurriedly treated Davey.
"Hey," Arthur stood beside him, during one of these times, both staring out into the tree line, Davey groaning in pain behind them. "He needs to get back to camp, he's in a lot of pain."
"What 'bout Mac?" John said, needing to hear everything spelled out, even if he knew the eventual outcome. And knowing Arthur, the man attracted responsibility and guilt like a duck to water, it was just natural for the man to shoulder the burden, and push John away from danger.
"You take Davey back to camp, take the long way back, I'll go back for Mac, got his horse anyway." John glanced back, just now noticing the extra horse that was nibbling on grass.
"How did you get him?" John glanced over his shoulder at Davey where the older man was laying, face twisted in pain.
"The gentle art of persuasion." Arthur smiled grimly into the dirt. "Put a gun to somebody's head, suddenly everyone becomes more agreeable to your dilemma."
John nodded, shifting under the man's dark anger. "You wanna go now? Law is breathin' down our necks."
"Reckon so," Arthur mounted up, "John, don't fuck up, don't want to save your ass again."
John rolled his eyes, waving the man on as he slowly rode away.
Arthur Morgan had bad luck, John Marston had blessed luck, and yet out of the two of them, John managed to find himself in more trouble than Arthur ever did. Hosea joked that it was because of John's luck that he managed to find so much trouble, the fact that he lived through each interaction was pure luck on John's part. Arthur had bad luck, he swore to John, bad luck followed the Morgan name, and eagerly followed him too.
John didn't quite believe in luck, luck didn't shoot him down from the noose, men did, and he reckoned fate was forged soley by men too. Arthur would agree with him, eyes shaded slightly, but something in him balked in the idea of forging his own fate, it was easier to believe that his steps were set, and he was set in this life.
This life set him off riding in the hopes that the other Callender boy was still at their other campsite, patiently waiting for them to return and hadn't actually done anything stupid. The hills rolled under his horse's feet and he got dizzy from watching the ground weave and turn under him and he focused on the horses mane in front of him.
It had been blessedly quiet so far, no sound of men following him, and he hoped they weren't following John and Davey. He whispered quietly to his horse, encouraging her into a gallop, and the ground passed quickly underneath her. John would be fine, he figured, if they came after them, he was a natural sharpshooter, and fought like a cornered cat when pinned. Davey, he was more concerned about. Davey he had to drag through the streets of Boyne, praying a bullet didn't come slamming into their backs, feeling the man's head loll on his shoulder, and talking desperately to him, trying to keep him from falling into that deep, never-waking sleep.
The jobs were getting more ambitious these days. More dangerous, more flashy, and he didn't know how to feel except for a small twinge of nostalgia somewhere in his chest, and he, for a moment, wished for the small jobs that he and Hosea and Dutch would go out on. Change was inevitable and something had shifted that even Arthur couldn't shift back when Lindon had been killed, and knew that Dutch had tasted riches and power, and that expansion was his new ideal. Dutch accepted society's outcasts, women, people scorned because their skin happened to be different, left-handed individuals, the drunks, anyone who didn't fit into society's rigid and narrow rules was welcomed into Dutch's open arms and promises of an utopia in the west, free from the confines of civilization.
He was close to Boyne now, and he broke off the road to avoid any patrols, and started forcing his horse through the rough and rocky terrain. Mac should be only a few miles away, if the man stayed, and they could sneak back, no trouble. Last thing they would expect was him to return back to the town, and were probably back on the mountains searching for them still. He broke through the thick brush that he had hidden them the first time when they had fled.
"Mac?" He hissed, leading his horse who was none too pleased to be led through brambles. "C'mon, we got Davey, but we gotta go."
Mac appeared, one arm bound against his chest, face pale and strained with pain. "You son of a bitch, you got him?"
Arthur pulled up the saddlebags with the stolen money, apologizing to the horse as he placed it on him, and handed Mac his horses reins. "He's in a bad way, Mac, but he went back with John to camp."
Mac grabbed him, his one good hand around his shoulder. "What do you mean, bad way?"
"We gotta go, Mac, I'll tell ya as we go."
Mac wordlessly agreed, mounting up and wincing when the movement jostled his arm. Arthur waited until they were a few miles out from Boyne, and then half-turning in his seat, he told Mac what had happened to Davey, and about the chase from Boyne.
"Jesus," Mac breathed. "You boys had it rough."
Arthur breathed out a sigh, and nodded. "Ain't over yet Callender, them boys still sniffin' us out, so keep your eyes open."
Mac unclasped his holster, leaving his revolver ready to draw, and he sat loose in the saddle, letting the horse's movements sway him back and forth. Arthur led them silently as they rode through the tangled brambles, leading them towards the road upaways.
"Whats that?" Mac said, stiffening in his seat, already taking his shot arm out of its sling.
Arthur turned his head, the sound of galloping horses behind them becoming faintly audible when they broke through the thick undergrowth to get back on the main road. "Goddamn bad luck, " he cursed, pulling his horse to a stop, and motioning Mac to stop, hoping to god the riders would pass them by.
They didn't.
"You!" One of them yelled, half standing, boots pressed into the stirrups, "It would be wise if you came in quiet, sir."
He was answered with a bullet eating his throat, and he jerked back off his horse. Mac had fired, gun still smoking, and Arthur wondered quickly if he would ever be in the company of somebody who thought before they fired, before he drew his revolver, firing quickly. They were pressed back into the brush, the militia pushing them in, even as they dropped.
"Christ Morgan," Mac shouted, sweat dripping down his face as he struggled to shoot. "How many are there?"
Should have asked that before shooting, ya damn fool Arthur wanted to shout back, instead trying to get a number as he ducked behind a rock, reloading. "If you can shoot straight, we can take 'em." He shouted back, popping out of cover to unload his gun into the group of men to the right of him.
"That a challenge?" Mac laughed, because of course he did, and Arthur let him make a challenge out of it, as long as it meant he made it out alive.
"You goddamn fools," Mac shouted, suddenly furious. "Shouldn't have fucked with my brother." Shots flew quick from his gun, and the fear and anger he let harbor in his chest guided his bullets with a deadly accuracy that fired from his shaking hand.
Revenge is a powerful motivator, no matter how much Dutch preached against it, and Mac took grudges deep and let them fester deeper.
As soon as it had started, it had ended and Mac leaned against his cover, panting, his arm throbbing in pain. Arthur helped him back onto his horse, prying the revolver out of his bloodless fingers. "Let's jus' get back, Callender," he said wearily. He was goddamn tired, this bank job had spiraled far out of his own control, and he was ready to leave the mountains now.
Mac nodded, fury leaving his body, as pain re-aquainted itself, and he slumped over his horse. "Sounds real good Arthur."