1892
I'm eighteen years old, and I already know how to shoot. Of course, I'm not sure that this was something to be proud of, because Arthur and John learned to use firearms at an even younger age. I'm sure Marston and Morgan came out of their mother's womb with a revolver at the ready and a cigarette in their gums. It was definitely in their robber blood to intimidate people, but they were not the only ones with such a quality.
Each of these male members of the Van der Linde gang taught me what they could do perfectly: defend myself, hunt, steal and cheat. But after repeated attempts, I realized what kind of lifestyle life inclined me to. I think I could thank Hosea and Bessie for that. Their couple was distinguished by wisdom and intelligence, they approached their work differently from everyone else, came up with complex, but effective schemes without resorting to violence.
"Immerse the victim in a distractingly favorable atmosphere, drag him into beauty and fun, and he will be left penniless".
Among other things they taught me to stay in society. Make small talk, dance, wear dresses, learn foreign languages, and it turns out I sang well. Even though we didn't end up in social, Hosea thought I should have known how to behave among people above us. In general, I was a pretty girl distracting the victims of ruthless robbers. Bessie, Annabelle and Susan taught me how to use my beauty and femininity so that different types of men would follow one sweet smile and end up with empty pockets. Others just robbed, threatened, using fists, knives and revolvers. At first I couldn't get used to this, some kind of wildness. But we didn't kill, we just robbed, and Dutch helped us understand many things in the world. His gaze was wide and intent, and he promised us changes, and promised me not to change. We had to influence people. At eighteen I didn't think we were bad, and good too. All members of our family were bandits and swindlers, but honest and fair. Should not have forgotten about the high-profile bank robbery and a huge reward for the head of our leader. But I loved them. At least they were definitely better than those who proudly beat chests and were called good.
"We shoot those who need to be shot, save those who need to be saved, and feed those who need to be fed."
The Van der Linde gang became my new family. They accepted me and taught me how to survive side by side. Dutch met Annabelle and, surprisingly, fell head over heels in love, forgetting about Susan. I'm not sure if there was any love between them. It turned out that Hosea had a wife, Bessie. Despite his criminal disposition, she remained with the gang, which was slowly replenished. The adults were busy with their personal lives, which no one tried to get involved in, but each of them replaced my mother and father. Lately, O'Driscoll's guys have started to strain. Some time ago, Dutch concluded a dubious truce with them, which has been slowly developing into a rivalry until now. Colm O'Driscoll's gang was famous for recruiting newcomers without counting and did not care at all about saving their lives. They were true to the principle of "easy come, easy go": robbed banks, and then indulged in unrestrained entertainment in the company of whores. Dutch didn't like the way Colm treated his people, while Colm ridiculed Dutch for his philosophy about trying to make a "better world". But, as it seemed to me, the relations between the gangs were heating up.
To be honest, I tried to perceive Arthur and John as brothers, but the attempts were in vain. We grew up with each other, especially with Marston. At first he was taciturn, a little harsh, but soon our relationship warmed up. John cheered up, became simpler. Perhaps the past prevented him from fully opening up, just as I could not finally come to my senses. The boy was only a year older than me, but he liked to turn up his nose, often used sarcasm, tried to be clever and show himself. Together we often ran away from the camp to wander around the nearest town and arrange a small performance there.
For example, I would attract a small crowd of people to sing them an excerpt of a French song, the language of which the locals had never heard, and John would carefully walk between them and grab everything that was good in his hand. Then we'd buy a bottle of sugary-sweet-tasting rum and share it between the two of us, giggling around the corner of the saloon. And when the locals suddenly realized that their belongings and money had gone somewhere, we ran away, drunk and laughing. Once Marston ended up in a pig pen, tumbling over a fence and ending up in a puddle of dirt and shit. Another time, a saloon owner left a bullet hole in his hat. But don't think he was an irresponsible clown. At the right moment, John became serious and attentive, reliable. There are not enough fingers on both hands to count how many times he pulled me out of scrapes and other men's paws. He was able to open up and talk about himself. His father was an illiterate Scottish immigrant, and his mother was a prostitute and died during childbirth. At one moment his father went blind in both eyes as a result of a fight in a bar, and when John was eight years old, he died in another fight. At the age of eleven, Marston committed his first murder, shooting a man, although he still claimed that it was not his fault. I knew a lot about John.
However, it was more and more difficult with Arthur. He was already a man, eleven years older than me. I admired Morgan, cold-blooded and calculating, cheerful and caring. One his looks scared people away, and there was no fear around him. Arthur believed that violence should be emotionless, necessary and without feelings that never come out of personal pleasure. He had some kind of morality of his own. He was different from everyone else. Not just a bandit and the best shooter among all, deep down in his soul Morgan was tossing in his own thoughts, and I still didn't understand which ones. He thought too much and wrote it down on pieces of paper or scraps of newspapers. Noticing a similar habit, one day I spent money stolen from some woman and gave him a thick diary for his birthday, which could become his assistant to save his own thoughts. It turns out that Arthur drew great, and I found out when, after several bottles of strong enough alcohol, he sat down next to me, so relaxed and smiling, showed me a small portrait made with a pencil. Morgan could be nice sometimes. For example, to bring wildflowers as a sign of reconciliation after some loud quarrel, or to catch a wild animal especially for me, cut it up and fry it with seasonings that make your mouth water.
But Arthur seemed out of reach for me. I don't know at what moment I realized that I had fallen in love unrequited. Probably when we stopped in some American town with richer business people in elegant clothes. Such places and their inhabitants suggested education, ambition and nobility, but all this was just a mask of arrogance, selfishness and vulgarity. At some point, at the very beginning of my journey with the gang, on my own initiative, I attracted a man, a well-dressed gentleman, with a beautiful and stern face, and I thought that he could have been fooled and robbed by connecting the feminine charm that Bessie, Annabelle and Susan had told me about. The man, whose name I could no longer remember, smiled affably, had a pleasant voice and conducted some intellectual conversations. The girls were circling around him, but he paid attention to me. However, when we found ourselves in his expensively furnished apartment, the man closed the door and immediately pushed me onto a soft bed with silk linen. I don't know what exactly I expected. Just walk in, steal something and run away? Maybe I try to show the gang members that I'm ready for something serious? Instead, my potential victim held my wrists, grabbed my face with her fingers, forced me not to move, and when I tried to pull away, slapped me so hard that my head rang for too long. He thought I was a local whore who could be taken advantage of.
The other girls, apparently, did not immediately agree to go to his house. Tore the dress, leaving only underwear and bruises on the skin from rough touches. And in my head my brothers' hands appeared in fragments, wandering over my body. Are men really like that? Wild animals who don't take women into account, thinking that everything is allowed to them? However, he did not notice the knife in a specially sewn pocket, so that it was convenient to take it out. And when, having spread my legs, he fell on top of me, at the same time having fun trying to strangle me, I grabbed the handle, plunged the tip of the knife into his neck and immediately pulled it out. It's the surprise in the eyes of the opposite... It gave me pleasure. And fear. It turns out it's so easy to stop everything. But when the blood poured in a hot stream on my face and chest, flooded the whole bed under me, I could not restrain the impulse, pushed his convulsing body, and I vomited on the fleecy carpet by the bed. I got up on shaky legs, looked at myself with a bleary look from head to toe. There was blood everywhere. He continued to twitch for a while, clutching his neck, making gurgling sounds. And I didn't know what to do now.
And suddenly the glass door of the balcony swung open. I didn't even move, as if I didn't see the point. I looked at the scarlet puddle, at the knife in my hand, at the body. His white shirt turned purple. I felt the blood congeal on my skin.
– Holy shit.
I looked up, and when I saw Arthur, my heart sank into my heels, crushing the interfering bones. He looked from me to the bed. Then he closed his eyes and took a deep breath, stood and thought for a while. I didn't move from my place and stared at him with frozen eyes. I was afraid to breathe. Then Arthur began to approach, simultaneously pulling off his black coat. I involuntarily jerked back, sobbing and throwing my hands forward, as if in an attempt to defend myself. Then Morgan slowly continued to take off his outer clothing and carefully draped it over my shoulders. He touched my hand lightly, and the bloody knife was already in his possession. Absently lowering my eyes down, I slipped my hands into the sleeves of coat and covered my naked body. Then he took out a rag somewhere and gently cupping my chin with rough fingers began to wipe the blood from my face in complete silence. I think I could hear my heart pounding. How loudly I was breathing. My mouth was dry.
The subsequent moments were as if in a fog. Arthur was silent all the time. Took me out of that apartment. It was already night, and no one paid attention. Morgan helped me onto the horse, and sat down next to me. Then we ended up in a local saloon, where Morgan paid for a room and a bathroom. He held my hand the whole way.
Immersed in complete silence, I sat in the hot water and watched it turn scarlet. No one here asked questions. When the bathroom door was closing, I heard Arthur asking a defiantly dressed girl to look after me and provide help if needed. Those for money will fulfill any request.
I was lying on the bed and looking out the open window. Behind him, passersby and drunks were making noise. I didn't twitch when the door opened, as if I felt that it was him. Lying on my side, I listened to his movements, actions. How he took off his hat, rolled up the sleeves of his black shirt, took a chair and put it in front of. I looked at him warily. Arthur stopped shaving his facial hair, so the stubble became more noticeable, giving him more menace and special attractiveness.
– How did you know where I was? – I broke the silence first.
– I've been following you, – he replied, flicking the lighter.
– Did Hosea ask you? – I asked.
– Dutch, – Arthur lit the tip of his cigarette and smoke. – You disappeared from the camp, and he thought that you decided to do something stupid. And he was right.
– What should we do with the body now? – I said, staring at the black sky outside the window.
– I've dealt with everything, – he replied shortly, and I realized that it was impossible to ask questions and ask for details.
– You won't tell anyone about this, will you? – I said, looking at him again. – Please.
– I won't tell anyone, – he said after a few seconds of silence.
– Thank you.
And he really didn't tell anyone anything. Came up with some kind of story so as not to arouse suspicion. Figured out everything and didn't ask questions, didn't try to teach morality. And we didn't discuss it anymore. That's when I realized I was attracted to him. And I think he guessed.
After a while, Arthur met Mary. A girl from a rich family. Morgan was not a particular talker and did not share the details of his personal life. He often disappeared, trying to build some kind of relationship outside the gang.
It wasn't until many years later that I found out about Eliza and Isaac.
***
During this period, John began to show special attention to me. I was eighteen, and I often looked at men. Marston was nineteen, and he was becoming like a man. Of course, he never pushed me away. John was reliable, strong, destroyed all bad mood with some funny joke, was often irresponsible, but a good person. We spent a lot of time together. All the adults tried to woo us, and we pretended to laugh in response. I often caught Marston's eyes when I helped cut vegetables, cleaned weapons, read books or played cards with other gang members.
By the way, I will not be modest, I got prettier, tightened up, but still remained skinny, as soon as they did not try to fatten me. Dutch often joked that some large bird could easily pick me up and take me to other places. Now I wore trousers to fit, a shirt, boots, my own white hat, and in cold weather I continued to wear Arthur's old coat, my appearance was often condemned by strangers, because girls should wear dresses. I often wore them too, but only during a scheduled performance to distract attention. I cut my hair to my shoulders, because I realized that during various skirmishes, many people try to grab long curls. Women especially. I seemed weak in appearance, capable of falling off my feet with a light breeze, but, as it turned out, I hit hard. This was taught to me by Arthur, the most instigator of fights. In two years I myself managed to participate in several. Once, when the whole gang was arranging a performance in some saloon and at the same time rummaging through the pockets of the audience, it seemed to one girl that I somehow looked at her man the wrong way. By the way, I would never look at such a person, do not judge. I grew up with strong and fighting, and this one had a hand the size of mine, and his tongue was slurred when talking to any woman. In general, this woman began to push me, I responded, and then immediately hit her in the face, because, as Arthur Morgan said, if a similar situation is brewing, then it's worth hitting first. She didn't ignore and hit back. Then Hosea pulled me out, and John tried to put that girl in her place instead of me, Bessie tried to pull him out when I with a flushed face, blood on my lip and a black curl in my hand was standing against the wall, breathing heavily.
– Congratulations on your first fight, – Hosea said then, slapping me on the shoulder.
– Well, how you hit her, girl! – laughing hoarsely, an overly excited John ran outside, who was clearly amused by what was happening. – She will now keep her male near her leg.
Let's get back to the present. Our camp was now in the thicket of a forest with tall trees almost touching the sky above. Because of the wind, they creaked terribly at night. The male part of the gang returned after a successful bank robbery, so after the celebration we had to disappear again. Everyone stuck to the bottles, except for Arthur, who wasn't here at all. I guess he was trying to keep building a relationship with Mary. Sometimes it was possible to bring him to some conversation. Morgan was an interesting person, a traveler, and he told a lot of stories, shared impressions, thoughts.
It turned out that Mary's family did not accept Arthur and his lifestyle, but he continued to pursue her. To be honest, it upset me. I wanted to give him a good shake so that his brains would fall into place. Why do you need a person who is not able to accept you as you are?
I shook my head to get these annoying thoughts out of my head. I was sitting at the table, bored, turning over cards and dominoes in my hands. An unfinished bottle of beer stood nearby. This evening I didn't want to have fun with everyone. It was too dreary. There were new members in the gang some time ago: Mac and Davey Callander. I didn't know how to treat them yet, but they seemed like bastards. But someone definitely liked them. It was strange for Dutch to trust such guys. Yes, they are excellent shooters and strong fighters, but they are not good people. Davey drank a lot, and Mac talked a lot. Now they were sitting by the fire and shouting some song. They reminded me of brothers. Lately I've been thinking about my brothers more and more, only now with anger, not fear. There was a stubborn desire to find them and show myself. To show what I've become. And then take revenge. But Dutch's words came to mind that revenge is a stupid game, and I can lose myself in it. And I've never been a gambler.
– Hey, maniac. Why aren't you having fun?
This nickname was firmly fixed on me due to the fact that I was constantly striving to learn how to fight, or rather defend myself, shoot. Everyone knew how to do it, and I felt somehow helpless. Only the knife was at hand. If I had some skilled and strong fighter in front of me, no hunting knife would have helped me. But one bullet is another matter.
But John was clearly tipsy. He loved to have fun. And a drink too. He had already lost his hat somewhere, and his jet-black hair had grown out and was falling on his face. His dark eyes glittered.
– I don't know, – I shrugged indifferently. – I'm not in the mood. And what bottle are you drinking already?
– I haven't gotten to the point of passing out yet, – he grinned, taking a sip from my bottle already.
– Hey, red-haired, can you bring me another bottle? – Davey's voice was heard, and then Mac burst out laughing loudly, as if his brother had just told a very funny story. – I so want to drink from your elegant hands.
– Screw you, Davey, – Marston said, turning to face him. – You'd better drink something from your brother's hands.
There were quiet chuckles, and the brothers looked at each other, frowning. He seems to have hurt them.
– I'm sorry, I didn't hear something, – Davey got to his feet, followed by Mac on shaky legs.
– Don't worry, I'll repeat, – John straightened up and found himself face to face with one of the Callanders. – Drink something from your brother's hands. Or are you already tired of guys?
I rolled my eyes wearily. Marston liked to bicker, just to insert some word and light the fuse of a powerful explosive. Davey laughed mockingly and immediately swung his arm to strike. Maybe he was drunk enough or John was sober enough, but Marston easily leaned back and pushed Davey in the chest. Irritated I got to my feet. How annoying these men's showdowns were. Just to wave their fists.
– That's enough, – I stepped between them, touching John's shoulder, who was clearly already wound up. – We had fun, and that's enough. John, come on.
– Will you continue to have fun? – Davey said, spitting at his feet. – We want it too. The only pretty girl in the gang, and Marston gets her.
I saw Dutch and Hosea already on their feet behind their backs, thinking initially that this was an ordinary brawl that should not be interfered with. But the mood was already lousy, and the brothers wanted to spoil it even more. I pulled out a knife and in an instant put it to Davey's throat. If you are not famous for physical strength, develop speed and agility. His expression changed in a second. I hope Davey was scared for one moment.
He didn't have time to understand anything, as I pressed harder with the tip of the knife, and a drop of scarlet blood appeared on the skin.
– Get back on your seat or I'll slit your throat, Davey.
The small eyes opposite sparkled. He was probably ready to twist my arm, knock out the knife and drive it into my face, but he didn't.
– My friends, we should all calm down, – Dutch was behind Davey and put hand on his shoulder.
The gang leader looked at me and nodded slightly. Sighing softly, I took one last look at Davey's crooked smile and lowered the knife. Then Dutch pulled the man towards him rather sharply, turned him around and began to pronounce something on the way to the fire, because Davey's shoulders dropped after every word. All this time, Mac stood silently by and staggered from side to side. It seems that he no longer understood anything at all, because he took a step and fell on his side. I grinned, looking at this picture, as the man turned over on his stomach and fell asleep on the ground.
– Damn, girl, – John said, throwing his arm over my shoulders. – Yes, it's dangerous to mess with you. And you're really a real maniac.
– Go to hell, – I elbowed the man in the ribs, forcing him to jump aside.
I trudged towards my tent, which, at my request, was placed further away from everyone. Then I realized that John was following me when his sleeping place was generally in the other direction. Stopping, I spun around to face him, crossing my arms over my chest, forcing Marston to stop.
– What do you want, cowboy? – I said, narrowing my eyes.
– I wanted to talk, – he shrugged in response and looked up at the sky, and I suddenly realized that John was embarrassed.
– Apparently, not only that, – I replied, grinning.
It wasn't difficult to notice Marston's feelings. His constant piercing glances from under lowered eyebrows. How casually he tried to touch me. In the end, John was the person who taught me how to ride a horse. But for some reason I looked at him and saw other eyes. Lighter and more serious. Eyes that have already seen the horror of life.
I looked at John thoughtfully, involuntarily biting my lip. I realized that he had caught on to this movement with his eyes. He moved his head slightly to push the black hair off his face, and took a step closer. I looked at his chest with a feeling of excitement. And then Marston leaned forward and, cupping my chin with his fingers, touched my lips with his. As if asking permission. And I opened my lips, responding to the kiss. A little crooked, innocent. I don't know if there was anyone else with John's before this moment, but I definitely have no one. He kissed me slowly, lingeringly, touching my face with his palms. I don't think anyone saw us, or everyone just didn't care. Probably, everyone has already fallen asleep drunk. Marston's hands were touching my hair, his fingers unobtrusively picking through the red strands. He pulled me even closer to him, forcing to cling to his toned body. The breathing became too loud, and the kiss was deep and wet. Hot palms descended on the waist. I exhaled, feeling a sharp dislike, and pulled away. Suddenly, my head ached as if from being hit with a sledgehammer filled with vile memories.
– I'm sorry... – I whispered, pursing my lips.
– What's wrong? – John asked, frowning.
– I...I just can't, – I mumbled, looking down. – I'm sorry.
I took a step back, not looking up at the man, but he grabbed my arm, forcing me to stop.
– I won't hurt you, – he said, looking into my eyes. – I'm not your brothers.
I took a deep breath, as if the air here had become so heavy. Nodded weakly, closing my eyes. Then John pulled me to him, putting his arm around my shoulders. He began stroking my hair with gentle touches.
The next morning I opened my eyes, waking up to the loud sound of rain. Rolled over on my back and blinked several times, throwing off the sleepy veil from my eyes. Then sat down and stretched, kneading the numb areas of my body. I turned head and saw a naked man's back. Black hair fell over his face. I sighed softly, feeling a pang of conscience and a nagging doubt in my chest. Rubbed face wearily with hands.
The thick fabric of the tent suddenly opened and miss Grimshaw's displeased face appeared. Her hair was wet, and because of this it seemed even darker. We were frozen in the same position. Both have wide-open eyes and an open mouth. Susan immediately slammed it shut and nodded to go outside. I wanted to scream. But I only glanced at John, who was still sleeping, and, throwing my coat over my head, cautiously looked out. Hiding from the rain, the woman stood under the awning, holding a rag in her hand. Knowing her, she could have whipped either me or Marston with it right now. I silently ran up to her, having managed to step into a muddy puddle with one foot.
– I don't know what to tell you, Joe, – she said. – I'm kind of glad, but I'm not at the same time.
– Me too, – I said with a sigh.
– I wanted you to help me bring some of them to their senses, – she said, pointing towards the campfire.
Many people slowly woke up and moved away from the booze, while Mac was still lying on the ground in the rain in the same place where he fell at night, and Davey was sleeping by a log opposite the extinguished fire.
– I wonder if they drowned in the rain? – I muttered.
Susan grinned back and then laughed, forcing me to do the same. I think it was nervous.