Chapter Text
The morning everything fell apart, the atmosphere in camp was tense.
Of course, this was no different than it had been the gang’s entire stay at Beaver Hollow. Everyone was uncomfortable, and moreover, everyone was greatly aware of how dire the situation was.
The gang was fracturing into pieces; they all knew it, but nobody dared to say a word — leaving things to be, put simply, dicey.
Dutch always kept himself situated at his tent by the mouth of the cave. Always watching. Always paranoid.
“What’re you doin’, Johnny boy?”
“Went for a piss, now I’m gettin’ a smoke,” John replied defensively. He had always prickled against being questioned, but especially by Dutch (even moreso as of late). “That okay?” he snarked, unable to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.
“It’s quite late,” Dutch replied, sounding almost bored. Making John wonder what the man’s angle was.
“And yet here you are awake, too,” John replied venemously. Dutch rarely slept, especially when he’d go through one of his ‘phases’, as Hosea had once called it. There were periods when Dutch would be very high-energy, coming up with wild (even by Dutch’s usual standard), unrealistic ideas, and sleeping even less than usual.
The elder man clicked his tongue. “Enough of the attitude, John. I raised you better than that.” Even after all of these years, Dutch could still make him squirm with just a look.
“There somethin’ you needin’ from me?” John asked, knowing fully well that there was no such thing as having a civil conversation with Dutch. Not anymore, anyway. It was easier to just get it over with than play along with the man’s inane mind games.
“Not at all. Have a good night,” Dutch smiled affably. “...After all, I’m sure you need to get back to conspiring against me with Abigail ‘n Arthur,” he added, his voice unnervingly calm. “You know, if you needed a smoke, you could’ve just asked me. I always have a pack somewhere in my tent.”
John swallowed, his mouth suddenly feeling extremely dry. “I… I wasn’t—” he wasn’t even aware Dutch had seen them talking. Or had been close enough to hear some of their conversation. How much had he heard? Had Dutch even heard any of it, or had he just seen him smoking?
Fuck.
Dutch had simply chuckled humorlessly. “You’re still a terrible liar, John. Thought I raised you better than that, too.”
John had barely slept a wink all night. When he had gotten back to the tent, he laid on the bedroll (not wanting to wake up Abigail and Jack, who looked perfectly cozy on his cot) and stared at the tent’s ceiling for hours.
What felt like almost as soon as he had fallen asleep, Jack was in John’s face, having sat himself on his father’s chest, prattling on excitedly.
The four-year-old was clearly more energetic than his lethargic parents had been in years. “G’morning, Pa! Why’d you sleep on the floor? I was actually on the floor, but then I got cold. When did you get on the floor?” Jack spoke at a rapid-fire pace that John’s tired brain could hardly keep up with.
It wasn’t Jack’s fault. John had never been a morning person.
“I… just give me a second, okay? And try to be a little quieter or you’ll wake your ma.”
“Don’t bother. I’m already up,” Abigail sighed, swinging her legs over the cot.
The family got dressed in silence, the tent feeling so much smaller with three people up and about, getting ready for their day.
And yet, something about the sheer normalcy of it, of behaving like a normal family, was comforting. The only peace John got during the day were these quiet moments just as the sun was bathing the Earth in a golden glow.
“Can I go bring my drawing over to Aunt Tilly?” Jack asked urgently, practically dancing in place as he awaited an answer. The boy had scribbled something for Tilly the prior evening, but he’d been too tuckered out by the time he finished to deliver it.
Hence his urgency that morning. A part of John was almost envious in a way — he wished his biggest problems were about paper.
“Sure,” John answered at the same time Abigail replied, “Only if you put your shoes on first,”
The little boy shoved his feet into his boots, not bothering to ask for help tying his shoes. The laces went ignored as Jack raced outside. He left one of the flaps open, morning sunshine pouring inside the tent.
Abigail was quiet for a moment, observing John.
“Hey,” Abigail greeted, placing her palm on his back.
“Hey,” he parroted back after making sure his suspender button was secured to his pants. Now officially dressed and ready to face whatever shitshow would greet him outside the tent.
“You okay?” she questioned.
John merely shrugged in response, uncertain as to how to answer.
“Somethin’ happen last night?” She asked, astute as ever.
“Sort of. Dutch was bein’ creepy. Think he’s onto us.”
“Creepy how?” Abigail pressed.
“I don’t— I dunno.” He shrugged again, having difficulty finding the right words. “He was threatenin’ me, I think. I guess. I dunno.”
“Well, what did he say?”
“I— he basically said what I just told you.”
She crossed her arms, “Why’re you bein’ like this?”
“I ain’t ‘being like’ anythin’.” He responded somewhat defensively.
“ Fine .” She huffed, turning on her heel.
“I— Abi, wait, come back,” He grabbed her by the wrist, a risky move (one that could’ve easily gotten him slapped). “I weren’t tryin’ to be short with you, I just…” he sighed.
She raised an eyebrow, silently urging him to continue.
“You know I ain’t no good with words. ‘Specially when I feel like…” he trailed off, gesturing helplessly with his free hand. It was difficult for him to verbalize his feelings, and it had always been like that. It was easier to internalize those negative thoughts and emotions than open up.
It was Abigail’s turn to sigh and nod. “Okay. Okay. Is this somethin’ that’s needin’ to be dealt with now? Do we have to move up our plans?” She asked, leaving out most details in case of prying ears nearby.
“I don’t know if it changes anythin’. Dutch has been treatin’ us all suspicious-like ever since Shady Belle.”
Abigail pursed her lips. “Maybe, but it feels more… pressin’, now.”
“Agreed. Look, I’ll talk to Arthur 'n see if he has any ideas.” It was the only solution he really had, even though he knew he should have some sort of plan B in place. Hell, plan A was barely set in stone.
Abigail looked as though she was about to say something else, but she stopped herself. Shook her head as if to clear her thoughts. “Listen, I’m gonna go get some coffee… maybe you could go talk to Jack? See how he’s doin’? He was cryin’ the other day and he didn’t know why.”
John nodded. “I’ll… I’ll see what I can do. Dunno if he’ll wanna open up to me,” he replied self-deprecatingly.
“You won’t know if you don’t try,” Abigail responded. She let go of his hand and left the tent, giving him one last look.
It was different than the usual looks she threw at him. Softer.
After a somewhat unsatisfying breakfast of canned beans, the first thing John was greeted with upon leaving his tent was Miss Grimshaw. Her voice was a little too loud for that time in the morning. “Mister Marston!”
“Mornin’, Miss Grimshaw,” John greeted, tipping the brim of his hat.
“Did you know Mister Pearson up and left?” Susan asked, incredulous.
“I did not.” John lied, avoiding her shrewd gaze, fully aware she could see right through him. She always had been able to sniff out when he was lying.
“ And, do you know what he told me? He told me I should get out, too, and ‘save myself’.” she said, using air quotes.
He hummed, unsure what exactly to say in response. He didn’t want to oust himself as being the one who saw Pearson off and made no attempt to stop him.
“Well,” he finally said, outstretching his arms. “I can’t say I’m too surprised. Folk been cuttin’ and runnin’ left and right.” John was careful to keep his stance diplomatic, trying to gauge Susan’s reaction.
Grimshaw crossed her arms. “I don’t understand it,”
“Yeah,” John replied somewhat uncomfortably. It seemed to effectively kill the conversation, and Susan walked away.
He sighed for what felt like the millionth time that day, and decided to finally find Jack.
“How are you, Jack?” John asked, sitting next to him.
“Fine,” the little boy answered breezily, continuing to play with his toy horse. “D’you wanna play with me? You gotta pretend this rock is another horse, ‘kay?” Jack chattered excitedly, placing said rock in John’s palm.
John examined the stone in his palm with a furrowed brow. He didn’t quite understand how it was supposed to be a horse or look horse shaped in any remote way, but he supposed he just didn’t have the level of imagination that his four-year-old had.
Then again, John had never been particularly imaginative. He never quite had the freedom to just play when he was little.
“Just fine? You don’t want to… talk about anything?”
“Like what?”
Slightly alarmed by his son’s seemingly remarkable ability to compartmentalize at such a young age, John tried to approach the subject gently. “I dunno. You’ve been through a lot lately.”
“D’you wanna talk about horses? When I grow up, I want one jus’ like Grandpa Hosea’s.” With his toy horse, he nudged John’s rock which was supposed to be another “horse”. “When’s he comin’ back?”
It then occurred to John that he didn’t really know what Abigail had told the boy had happened with the botched bank robbery. After all, he’d been in prison. “I wish I knew, Jack. I wish I knew.” It was simpler than explaining the intricacies of death to a four-year-old, even if Jack had already been around far too much death.
Perhaps it was more that John didn’t want to verbally acknowledge Hosea’s death. He’d seen it with his own eyes, had lived it, but it still didn’t feel real.
“I miss him,”
He sighed deeply. “Me too. I miss him a lot.” In an effort to not dwell on his own feelings that he hadn’t quite sorted regarding Hosea, he decided to change the subject. “So, how do you play?”
“We’re playing horses, and they’re gonna race,” Jack explained as if it was clear as day.
John nodded, pretending to fully understand. “Right, and then what?”
Jack blinked at him. “What d’you mean? We’re s’posda race. It’s easy, you jus’ gotta pretend.”
“But I gotta rock, and you got an actual horse. Rocks ain’t got legs.”
Jack sighed dramatically. “You’re s’posed to pretend it’s a horse.”
He was either stupid, or slow, and he couldn’t decide which. “I know, but—”
Dutch interrupted John, stomping angrily toward the pair. “You think I don’t know what you’re sayin’ to people?!”
“Jack, go find your ma,” John said, ushering the little boy in the direction of the tents. He sighed deeply. “What’re you hollerin’ at me for now, Dutch? Especially in front of my kid?”
“Oh, please, don’t you start with that doting father act now. It ain’t foolin’ no one, especially me.” Dutch stepped closer. “I know you, John. I know what you are .”
He tried to ignore the chill that went down his spine. “You’re talkin’ crazy again, Dutch. I just don’t know why we’re doin’ any of this.”
“Why? Why ?” Dutch asked incredulously. “Because I say so! I am done explaining myself to you.” he turned his heel to leave, but almost as if being puffed up with a new air of anger, he stopped himself. “You wanna be the general? You don’t have the grit!” he screamed, spit flying from his mouth.
Did Dutch really have the nerve to call getting them all hunted down and killed grit ? Surely the man was missing a few screws. He stepped backward in an attempt to get more personal space. “Grit? That what you call this?”
“How did the Pinkertons know about the bank job in Saint Denis, John? You wanna tell me that?!” Dutch demanded, his voice cracking as it did when he was well and truly angry.
John had really been becoming tired of being accused of being the rat; especially when he had given Dutch nothing but (lately unearned) loyalty the last thirteen years of his life. It was past the point of hurting, instead, it just made him angry. From John’s perspective, Dutch was truly past the point of delusional. There was no use arguing back or screaming, the way Dutch was.
“If you really think that, you are gone in the head.”
“I raised you as a son! You goddamn snake !” Dutch yelled, his words echoing throughout the camp. He stormed off to the mouth of the cave, still yelling nonsensically.
John tossed the rock he was still holding (for some reason) onto the ground with a scoff. Dutch and his delusions were getting more elaborate and dangerous as the days went on.
He needed to get his family out, and fast.
The rest of the morning dragged on slowly. The simmering tension in the camp continued to build.
John had been leaning against a tree for the better part of an hour, nursing a cigarette or two. He was still stewing from his earlier argument with Dutch.
Besides, he needed time alone to think. If there was one good thing to be said about the overarching strain in the camp, it was the fact that people were keeping to themselves more.
And in this case, it was good. John always processed his thoughts better when people weren’t pestering him.
He took a slow, contemplative drag of his cigarette, hoping it would clear his mind.
He turned his gaze to Dutch’s tent. The man was standing close to Micah, the two in deep conversation.
It was always fucking Micah. Always in Dutch’s ear, making the man even more paranoid.
His train of thought was interrupted by Arthur passing by.
“How you holdin’ up?” John asked, even if he knew that there probably wasn't a comforting answer awaiting him.
“Been better,” Arthur said simply.
“We ain’t always seen eye-to-eye, you and me.” John started, opening the conversation up for more. There was so much he wanted to say to the man.
“I guess I thought that… things always came too easy to you.” He shrugged. “But, here we are.”
“What are we going to do about this? About Dutch?”
Arthur sighed, shaking his head. “Maybe we can stop things from going too far.”
John glanced over his shoulder, where Micah, Joe, and Cleet sat at the table just outside of Dutch’s tent. “Still. Things’re gonna end bad.” he stated. It wasn’t a question of if, it was a statement of when.
“They surely will,” Arthur answered, sounding resigned to that fate.
There was a pregnant pause where neither of them said a word.
“You watch yourself.” John finally said, mentally scolding himself for not saying more. He walked away, unsure how to keep the conversation going with prying ears nearby.
“I’ll catch you later, then,”
“Javier,” John greeted, sitting down at the campfire. The autumnal chill in the air was growing more apparent with every passing day.
In response, Javier merely grunted, rolling his eyes.
“Why you acting like this? I thought we had to stick together?”
“Oh, I am. We are… loyalty. It’s you.” Javier sniffed. He’d been acting real odd ever since John had gotten back from Sisika, but John couldn’t figure out exactly why.
“Me? You saved me once… more than once.” he briefly faltered. “I’ve saved you… now what?”
“I’m sticking to my family,” Javier said as if it was so simple, and then he went back to sharpening his knife.
“These people ain’t your family… who are they?”
He holstered his knife. “You know what? You’re an arrogant son of a bitch, John.”
“No.” John looked down, gaze focused on the campfire. Maybe Javier’s accusation was correct in the past, but not now. “I won’t let my child die because of Dutch… I can’t. This is gettin’ crazy, and you know it.”
Javier scoffed, getting up from his chair. “Get your head straight, John.” he spat. And that was that. John didn’t acknowledge anyone else when they came to sit down at the fire, preferring to stew in his own thoughts.
It was ironic that he was sitting next to people he barely trusted anymore. Mere months ago, he would’ve trusted anyone in camp (sans Micah) with his life.
But now?
“We have work to do, my friends, let’s go. Come on, we are gonna borrow a little money from Old Uncle Sam…” Dutch had that crazed look in his eye yet again. “And be out of his hair, once and for all.”
He always said things like that. But he never meant them. Who was to say that the train job be any different?
Still, as the gang mounted up, John let himself foolishly hope.
A little bit of hope couldn’t hurt, he supposed.
Abigail caught up to him just before he was about to get Old Boy moving.
“John,” she said, coming up to the horse’s left side. “I…” She was worried, that much was clear, and he didn’t blame her.
He was worried, too. In fact, he couldn't recall a time in recent memory when he wasn't worried.
He reached down and grasped her hand, squeezing it gently. “It‘s one last job, Abigail. It’ll be easy. One more job and then I’m — then we’re done,” he wondered if his words sounded as empty to her as they did to him.
There was always one more job. One more score. It was never truly over.
“Do you really believe that?”
“...No,” He admitted with a shake of his head. “I’ll be back before you can say ‘spaghetti’.”
Abigail let go of his hand reluctantly, saying nothing else. John spurred Old Boy up into a canter to catch up to the others.