John.
John only half-guided Old Boy to pick over the uneven forest floor after the giant rump of Bill's Ardennes, distracted. He still felt a buzz on his lips from where they'd met Tine's, earlier that morning.
He'd watched her tack her horse, mostly one-handed, Arthur apparently embittered and refusing to help her. John's view was eclipsed by Abigail pressing a furtive kiss to his cheek, another whisper to be careful.
It was that hissing voice that stirred John in his saddle, made him remember the task at hand. He perked up to his unfamiliar surroundings, squinting at the tall oaks looming around him, their thick canopy throwing their surroundings into darkness. The dappled sunlight cast by the birches he'd seen while riding to the train tracks with Arthur were conspicuously absent.
"Hey, Bill?" He called ahead, watching the large man quarter-turn in his saddle. "Don't know that these are the right woods."
"Since when do you read a map, Maggie-Ellen?" Bill said snidely back.
"Maggie-Ellen?" John halted Old Boy and slid out of his saddle, fishing for his map in his bag. "Do you mean Magellan, you horse's ass?"
He continued to look for the map, chuckling to himself at Bill's expense, hearing the man's boots hit the ground not soon after. "Oh, Prince Marston, all educated, my apologies," Bill groused, kicking at a rock in the dirt. "Things are changin', you know. You ought to be nice to me."
The map secured, John unfolded to where Fairvale was and traced their desired path with his finger, trying to locate the sun amid the dense leaves. "How about I'll be nice to you when you don't get us fuckin' lost, Williamson-"
But the rest of John's complaints were cut short as he was tackled to the ground, a bag pulled over his head reminding him of what darkness could really be like.
*
Bill, that bastard.
John was tied up and thrown over the back of a horse - maybe Bill's, maybe not. He was unsettled by his circumstances, of course, but also the immediacy of his being jostled by the horse's hindquarters under him, not to mention the smell of being so close to its posterior.
He couldn't be sure how much time had passed in that shaky discomfort, his entire body tense and trying to stay on the back of his captor's beast without the use of his arms or legs. He used almost every available minute of the ride wondering how Bill, certainly thick-headed, could nonetheless turn on the gang; he easily the most loyal, too. John tried hurling insults from within the bag that he knew would rankle Bill into revealing himself, but the captor remained unmoved, only once reaching back to crack the butt of their gun into John's nearest shoulder.
The horse eventually stopped. John's insides seemed to slosh within him before also growing still. He felt himself hauled from the horse, then marched-dragged with his bound ankles along a hollow sounding surface. He could smell water, fuel; heard the cries of seagulls overhead. And then: "You got one, how about that?"
"Real nice," Said a man's voice, hovering by John's left ear. "They'll be collecting the others, soon."
"I hope so," the first man who spoke sounded like he was in front of John, and even through the dense weave of the bag over his head he noted the change in light - bright day for a dim interior. "Were the same two who broke this one out, the first time. Don't want to give them any opportunity."
Arthur and Tine. Defeat settled into John's chest, his head hung lower between his shoulders. So Bill had gone after them, too. Adding to his sense of defeat was an incessant thrum of guilt; that he'd accused Abigail. He was forced into a chair, his ankles tied again to its legs, arms pulled over its back.
Where he'd had plenty of time to think on the horse, he had almost none in his new surroundings; the bag was ripped from his head, caught momentarily on his nose and yanked unceremoniously free, causing John to blink tears of pain from his eyes, try to sniff his nose back to centre.
The face that coalesced in front of him as his vision cleared was that of Andrew Milton's, one John had seen only twice: at their camp in Clemens Point, then stern; and sickly elated at Hosea's falling body on the front lawn of Shady Belle. The Pinkerton looked similarly pleased, here, smiling over John.
John forced himself to look away, to get a sense of his surroundings. He spotted a lot of rusted old tools and propellers; a few smaller, dusty glass items collected into wooden crates. He was in some kind of boatshop, he gathered; the smell of the water even stronger here.
"Look at me, John Marston," Milton jeered, grabbing at John's chin in his gloved hand and forcing him to face front. "I want you to understand, really understand, that your way of life is over, and I'm the one who ended it."
John spat to his side and narrowed his eyes at the Pinkerton before him. "I'd give ya a hand if they weren't tied."
"Quiet, whore's son," Milton's hand left John's chin and returned to his cheek with a forceful slap, one John couldn't dodge and felt rattle his bones, rock him where he sat. But he spat again, chuckled lowly.
"You sure you ain't a whore's son too, Mr. Milton?" John said, "Sure hit like one."
"Enough," Milton grasped at the front legs of John's chair and flipped him onto his back; the wind knocked from John's lungs as he hit the knobbly wooden floor. He gave John a sharp kick to his ribs and then leaned over John again where he lay, adjusting his gloves. "I know more about you than you could even imagine, John. I know about Abigail Roberts. I know about Jack, a whore's son just like his father. I probably know more about them than you do. And I know about Tine Nilsen and Arthur Morgan, too. All the things you've done together."
John attempted to lunge from where he lay on the floor, his hands painfully pinned under his back, legs still bound uselessly above him to the chair. The blood began to rush around his temples, made worse when Milton crouched low to whisper into his ear: "You will not survive me."
He heard Milton's footsteps retreat to the front door, his barked orders that no one leaves this post, then was left to the pain in his arms and cheek, the throbbing ache in his ribs, and his dark thoughts, which hurt worst of all.
*
"John."
His own name woke him, and in trying to move his body still bound to the chair, had all of his various ailments shout out at once. John hissed through the pain, his eyes adjusting to the dark; just a few stars visible from the window next to him.
"John, that you?" He hadn't imagined it, and soon felt a comforting hand on his pinched shoulder. The limited light afforded by the stars snuffed out in favour of the dark, shining eyes of Lenny Summers, hovering above him.
"Jesus, Lenny," John said, trying to keep the excitement, the noise, from his voice. "What are you doin' here?"
Lenny gently moved his hands under John's shoulders to tip him slowly up to sitting, then took his knife to John's bindings. John rubbed at his sore wrists, grateful. He stood and stretched once his ankles were free, his knees crackling their protest at finally straightening out. Lenny scratched behind his head, looked guiltily away.
"Been livin' here, Van Horn." Ah, Van Horn. John thought, the water and the gulls finding their logical places in his mind. "Came back after I left the gang," Lenny continued, his eyes downcast and shaded by his thick lashes, his face still decidedly boyish despite all it'd seen. "Didn't really know where else to go, and I'd spent a lot of time here waitin' for the men to come back; we all had our searchin' places."
John nodded, his elation at being freed from the ground at odds with Lenny's hunched posture, his entire being penitent and guilt-ridden.
"You like it here?" John ventured.
"God, no," Lenny said, "but it's what I deserve, leaving y'all behind."
John shook his head. "Len, no, you was good to leave when you did."
Lenny shook his head forcefully. "I wanted to come back when I saw the Pinkertons got Dutch, but never made it, and I never found him, neither." A single tear brimmed to the surface of Lenny's shining eye, trailed down his cheek.
"They got Dutch, too? He's here?"
"Two, three weeks ago," Lenny nodded solemnly, pointed beyond the door until his finger curled inward and he brought his arm to himself. "I'm so sorry."
"It's OK," John said automatically, his mind racing. Two weeks ago he'd been out at Hanging Dog with Arthur and Tine, helping Sadie with the O'Driscolls. Bill turning on John made a lot of sudden, sad sense, if Dutch were involved, too. John felt a hollow in his heart at the betrayal, the plot the three of them had found themselves in, and forced his face to neutral. "Really, Lenny, it's OK - you done good getting in here."
A small smile graced Lenny's face as he pointed to a gap in the floorboards. "One of these's loose, can come in and out of here as I please." Outside the building, they heard rapid footsteps; Milton's curt voice snapping orders at the guards.
"'Bout time you use 'em again, Lenny, go on," John urged, pushing him toward the dark gap in the floor, an absence in the limited light.
"I can help you here," Lenny insisted, but John shook his head even as he pulled Lenny's second pistol out of its holster.
"You already have, Len," John said kindly, then ordered: "and you've got to go back to camp, check on the others. Things ain't safe for them, and I don't know if I'm coming back. You hear me? You tell Abigail to get the boy and run like hell, and go with 'em, as far as it takes."
Lenny registered all of John's information with his brows furrowed, confused, and then nodded. "I'll go."
"Good man," John whispered, watching Lenny disappear from sight.
He took a steeling breath and faced the door, watched it swing open, revealing Milton, and his fate, beyond.