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“You want me to do what?”
Arthur had been enjoying a quiet afternoon on watch duty before Dutch appeared. The leader of the Van Der Linde gang glowed with excitement at his latest brilliant idea.
“I want you to get us a Christmas tree!” Dutch repeated.
“Two days ago you told me to beat up a man for money,” Arthur said after a drag on his cigarette, “and today you want me to get you a fancy tree?”
“It’s for your family, son,” Dutch said, stars in his eyes. “What better way to boost morale than to get a real Christmas tree and decorate it?”
Arthur chuckled.
“What’s so funny?” Dutch asked.
“I know I don’t have no choice in the matter.”
“Oh come on, Arthur! Think of what it would mean to young Jack.”
Arthur rolled the cigarette between his fingers, not meeting Dutch’s gaze. Sure, Jack was a good kid, but was his happiness worth the wolves and frostbite?
“Dutch, we just spent a year in the goddamn Grizzlies. Plenty of Christmas trees there. You sure there’s nothin’ else you need me to do? Nothin’ more… important?”
Dutch removed a cigar from one of the pockets on his vest. Arthur struck a match for him. “You can take one of them O’Driscoll horses we acquired last week,” Dutch said through a cloud of smoke. “That chestnut one is bigger than Alfred MacAlister’s ego. He could be a decent pack horse.”
“Hmf. As long as he doesn’t annoy Boadicea.”
Arthur sighed in resignation. Dutch would not be dissuaded.
“Fine. I’ll go tomorrow. If I don’t come back, remember you was the one who sent me to the mountains in the middle of winter for a tree.”
Dutch smiled victoriously. “That’s the spirit, son! The Christmas spirit!”
His task accomplished, Dutch turned and walked back to camp, leaving Arthur alone with his thoughts and a cigarette stub.
The Van Der Linde gang had just settled in West Elizabeth, next to the Upper Montana River. They were less than an hour’s ride from Blackwater, their camp well-hidden in a grove of trees. The climate was milder in the south, but Arthur missed the solitude of the mountains. With no lawmen willing to follow their trail, the gang had enjoyed a freedom they had not tasted for years. But Dutch had big plans for Blackwater.
Charles appeared at dusk to swap shifts. The newcomer had already proven himself as a deadly gunman and brawler, but he never raised his voice or drank to excess. He possessed a quiet strength that Arthur admired.
“Dutch said you’re heading out tomorrow,” said Charles. His eyes were fixed ahead, on the plains of West Elizabeth rolling before them. “He mentioned something about Tall Trees.”
“Yeah. Not my first choice this time of year,” Arthur replied. “I take it the whole gang knows I’m on a Very Important Mission to get a Christmas tree?”
“Dutch couldn’t contain himself. Everyone knows except for Jack and Abigail; he wants it to be a surprise for them.”
Arthur smiled and shook his head.
“Sounds about right. See ya later.”
Arthur shouldered his rifle and followed Charles’s footprints back to camp. Even now he still looked for Copper, but no-one ran up to greet him. He missed having a dog around.
The camp was nearly empty: most of the Van Der Linde gang were out scouting for opportunities or having fun in Blackwater and Strawberry. The soft glow of a kerosene lantern inside Dutch’s tent indicated that he was sharing a private evening with Molly. Abigail and Jack were in their tent too, already asleep. Pearson and Susan were standing together a short distance from camp, smoking and gossiping in the rapidly fading light. Which left the usual suspects sitting around the fire: John, Bill, Uncle, and Micah.
“Mister Morgan!” Micah drawled, his voice slurred with whiskey. “Seen any fairies today? Or Sasquatches?”
“Just the ones I’m seein’ now.”
This earned a drunken guffaw from John, but the others weren’t impressed.
“Think you’re so clever, eh Morgan?” Bill said thickly. “Well you ain’t smart.”
“Never said I was,” Arthur replied, walking past the campfire to Pearson’s stew pot. “But I do more work than any of you cowpokes.”
This led to an outcry from Bill, Micah, and Uncle. It was almost too easy to rile them up. John laughed: he was too far gone to care about anything.
Arthur ignored them, scooping Pearson’s stew into a bowl. There was meat in it today, but he couldn’t tell what species had made it into the pot.
“Dutch said you was goin’ to get us a Christmas tree,” Micah jeered. “You’re goin’ to freeze your ass off up there, Morgan.”
“Least I got an ass to freeze, Micah.”
The others howled in drunken laughter, and Arthur could hear Pearson and Susan joining in nearby. Micah shot him a dirty look. Normally, Arthur would have enjoyed a night of drinking and singing by the campfire, but not with this lot. He walked around them, back to the ammunition wagon, and sat on his cot.
The other gang members quickly forgot about him, allowing Arthur to enjoy his dinner in peace. That was, until Miss Kitty found him.
“Hey, Kitty.”
The tabby cat meowed in reply, and jumped up onto his cot. She eyed his bowl expectantly, without shame. Arthur picked out a piece of lamb, or whatever it was, and gave it to her. Miss Kitty wolfed it down, and meowed for more.
The gang had found her in Montana, or more precisely she had found them. Miss Kitty enjoyed her employment as Camp Mouser and Foot Warmer. She was surprisingly confident around humans, including little Jack Marston, but nonetheless discerning with her affection. Copper had been a lovable dumbass who adored anyone who even so much as looked at him, but Miss Kitty chose her friends carefully. She avoided anyone who was drinking, or shouting, or acting out. Otherwise she enjoyed games and cuddles with most of the gang. And Miss Kitty knew Arthur was a soft touch when it came to food. There was usually plenty in the pot, so he didn’t mind sharing.
“Leave some for me, Miss Kitty,” he chided, offering her another piece of meat.
Once the bowl was empty, Arthur wrote in his journal. He even sketched the tabby cat, curled up in a contented ball on his cot. He washed his face and hair, and trimmed his beard. In the absence of better company, Miss Kitty stayed nearby, exploring in and around the ammunition wagon.
When he finally lay down for the night, a book in hand, Miss Kitty jumped back up onto Arthur’s cot. She stepped onto his chest.
“I don’t have any food.”
But Miss Kitty ignored him, settling down and purring up a storm.
“Well, ain’t you a nice kitty,” Arthur said, rubbing her cheeks and ears. Miss Kitty was so relaxed she began to knead his undershirt. In the end Arthur gave up on reading and fell asleep, soothed by Miss Kitty’s capable paws.
-
When Arthur woke in the morning a thick fog had settled over the campsite. Miss Kitty had vanished, probably to hunt for some breakfast. He roused the coals of Pearson’s cooking fire and set about brewing some coffee. The camp was silent except for snoring from a few of the gang members: it was a miracle that the law couldn’t hear them from Blackwater.
Arthur warmed up a can of baked beans while he enjoyed with a much-needed coffee beside the fire. Around him the gang began to stir. He poured Susan a cup, which she gratefully accepted.
Once his morning chores were finished it was time to saddle up. He would be riding for the best part of a day to get to the edge of Tall Trees, but not just any old tree would do: he would have to travel deeper into the forest to find the best-looking ones.
Boadicea was hitched at the gang’s horse station, on the outskirts of the camp. The dapple grey Andalusian nickered a greeting to him, which brought a smile to his lips.
“Hi girl,” he murmured, stroking her neck. “We’re headin’ out for a few days. You can thank Dutch when we’re freezing our rumps off.” She blinked, watching him with her dark eyes. She kept both ears trained on Arthur as he brushed and saddled her. Boadicea was a special horse: beautiful and clever and courageous. A warrior queen, just like her namesake.
The big chestnut gelding was next. Someone had the foresight to hitch him next to Boadicea, so they would get used to each other’s company. The chestnut was seventeen hands of solid muscle, better suited to a cart than a saddle. He stood as tall as a mountain, so the first name that came to Arthur’s mind was Hagen.
The gelding pinned his ears at Arthur’s approach, but his apprehension switched to curiosity when the man spent some time introducing himself. A few oatcakes and a brush all over had Hagen calm and responsive. Arthur despised folks who treated their animals like unfeeling lumps of horseflesh.
“Alright, feller,” he soothed. “Let’s see if you’ll take a pack saddle.”
Hagen stood quietly while Arthur tightened the cinch and adjusted the straps. Boadicea secretly watched them the whole time, pretending to be fascinated by something in the fog. She was the jealous type, and failed miserably at hiding it.
Arthur finally mounted up, Boadicea’s reins in his left hand and Hagen’s lead rope in his right, and guided them through the trees. Charles was still on watch duty; Bill had not yet woken up after the night of heavy drinking.
“Good luck, Arthur.”
“Thanks Charles. Give Bill a kick for me, will ya?”
Charles smiled, his eyes dull with exhaustion. “I’ll give him two.”
Arthur tipped his hat and rode out onto the prairie. He nudged Boadicea into a smooth lope, and they enjoyed an easy ride across the plains. Hagen kept up at first, eager to make a good impression, but with his great size he tired faster than the mare. So they slowed to a steady jog, all the while heading west towards Tall Trees.
The fog burned up by mid-morning, revealing a crisp, clear winter’s day. Arthur followed the muddy roads that scarred the prairie, humming to himself to pass the time. The gang were still new here, and as such they weren’t wanted in West Elizabeth - yet. He greeted the farmers, hunters, and fellow travelers that he passed on the road. Most of them were friendly enough, while others just wanted to be left alone.
Arthur stopped hourly to rest, letting the horses graze for a few minutes before moving on. Around midday he found a sheltered spot on the banks of the Upper Montana River, and built a small fire. The sun was out but the wind blowing down from the mountains leeched the warmth from his bones. Arthur spent a good amount of time by the fire, defrosting his numb face and hands. The horses also enjoyed the break from the relentless wind, grazing together on patches of green grass.
After a lunch of pan-fried, freshly caught bluegill, Arthur knew it was time to push on. In less than an hour the sky had turned from clear to overcast with the threat of a storm. He wanted to reach the forest before it hit as the trees would provide some protection.
The clouds turned steely grey as they rode west. The wind didn’t let up, rising to a howl as they sighted the first stands of spruce and fir. Arthur checked the time; it was past three when thin, watery snowflakes began to fall. They dissolved on the grass and soaked into Arthur’s jacket. He almost lost his hat after a massive wind gust, and stowed it safely in a saddle bag.
Boadicea snorted uneasily. It wasn’t a predator scent that worried her, so it must have been the weather.
“Almost there, girl.”
Hagen didn’t look too happy either, and he stuck to Boadicea like glue. Arthur knew that only a big storm would upset the horses. Finding Dutch’s Christmas tree would have to wait.
They pushed against the wind, tracking deeper into Tall Trees. The snow began to settle on the ground now, and quickly buried the road. At first Arthur could figure out where the trail was, but soon everything began to look the same. There were no road signs out here. He only figured that they were lost when Boadicea stumbled over a hidden rock.
Arthur dismounted and led the horses forward, looking for any shelter from the weather. They were now lost outside in a blizzard, soaked and freezing, with night rapidly approaching. They wouldn’t last long if they didn’t find a windbreak.
He almost didn’t hear the snort from Boadicea, even though her nose was next to his ear. It was hopeful sound, and it gave Arthur hope too.
“What is it?”
He could hardly see a few feet in front of him, and it was only thanks to Boadicea’s keen senses that they found the cabin. She pulled on the reins, guiding Arthur to the left. A small building materialized in the storm, and the three hurried towards it.
Boadicea had brought them to a log cabin and a lean-to that looked like a stable. The cabin’s shutters were closed and no smoke rose from the chimney.
Arthur led the horses into the stable. It was a crude building, with three walls and a hitching post inside. No animals had been stabled there for a while as there was no fodder or tack. It had been cleaned out, either by its former owners or thieves, but at least it offered respite from the wind and snow.
He removed the saddles from both horses, using a sweat scraper and his own blanket to dry them off. Next, Arthur opened a bag of provisions on the pack saddle, tipping vegetables and oatcakes into the food trough. The food had been for him, but the horses would not be able to graze any time soon.
Once Boadicea and Hagen were secured to the hitching post and happily munching away on their dinner, Arthur drew his revolver and walked to the cabin door. It was slightly ajar, and dark inside, but he wouldn’t be taking any chances.
He pressed his shoulder against the door, aiming inside. Arthur couldn’t hear anything over the wind so he shoved it open. Once his eyes adjusted to the gloom he discovered a bed with a stained mattress, an empty fireplace, and a writing desk.
Arthur exhaled in relief and stepped into the cabin, closing the door. It muffled the wind’s howl and he could finally think properly. He struck a match and lit his oil lantern.
Like the stable, the cabin had been cleared of anything remotely valuable. There was a tattered photograph of a married couple on the wall and a few orphan pieces of cutlery, but that was it. It smelled musty with disuse. There weren’t even any logs for the fireplace, so he hacked up the desk chair with his hatchet and used the pieces for kindling. The desk would be sacrificed next.
The cabin and the stables, though rudimentary, were both in reasonable condition. Arthur wondered if something evil had befallen its owner. Perhaps it had simply been abandoned, or it served as a seasonal retreat for an author or artist.
As he built up the fire, his guard lowered, Arthur heard a high-pitched whine from somewhere behind him. He jumped up, knife already in hand.
There was no-one there, but he knew he had heard something. Arthur picked up the lantern and checked under the bed.
He found a dog hunkered down in the corner. The frightened creature avoided his gaze, cowering and trying to make itself as small as possible. It had shaggy fur, but Arthur couldn’t see the dog well enough to tell if it was purebred or a mutt.
“Hey there,” he said softly. “Come on. Out you come.”
The dog shivered, sticking to its corner. Arthur realized it could have hydrophobia, so he didn’t try to touch it. At least there was an easy way to find out if it was sick or not.
Arthur ducked out into the storm to retrieve the saddles, and once the fire had reached a good size he melted a pot of fresh snow. After a deep swig of the contents he placed the pan under the bed, holding up the oil lamp to see. The dog was either too terrified or sick to drink, so Arthur decided to start cooking, hoping that the smell of meat would entice the dog out.
As he prepared his dinner, he heard the dog slurping up water from the saucepan. Definitely not hydrophobia! Arthur didn’t turn around, concentrating instead on heating the contents of the skillet. His dinner was a mess of tinned food: corned beef, peas, and kidney beans. He also had half a bread roll left over after fishing for the bluegill, and a tin of peaches for later. But what he was most looking forward to was the coffee: the percolator was already working its magic and he poured himself a mug.
Arthur sighed after his first sip. By the time he reached the grit at the bottom he felt human again.
He removed his gloves, hanging them by the fire to dry. The dog’s eyes were on his back, but he didn’t turn around so as not to frighten it further.
Once his dinner was piping hot and bubbling, Arthur removed it from the fire and ate straight from the skillet. If Susan Grimshaw was nearby she would have boxed his ear! After a few mouthfuls he decided to try his luck with enticing the dog out. He picked out a juicy piece of beef and flicked it under the bed, turning back to the fire.
“Come on, feller,” he soothed. “Got some more for you here.” He could tell from its rough-looking coat that the poor creature was starving.
But the frightened dog didn’t come out, and Arthur figured he would just leave the skillet out for the dog overnight. With nothing much else to do he set about cleaning up and getting ready for bed. He walked outside one more time to check on the horses. Boadicea and Hagen watched him approach, hopeful for more food, but all Arthur could offer them was a conciliatory pat. The storm might last for days, so the remainder of his supplies had to be rationed.
He walked around to the cabin and pushed the door open. The dog had snuck out from its hiding spot, wolfing Arthur’s leftovers. It froze and shot him a wary look before scuttling back under the bed, tail tucked firmly between its legs. It looked like some kind of sheepdog.
“It’s okay, boy!” Arthur said, closing the door behind him. He did not move. “Come on out.”
After a minute of waiting he was about to give up and walk over to the fire, until the timid dog emerged. Clearly its hunger was greater than its sense of self-preservation.
The sheepdog devoured the rest of the corned beef, licking the skillet clean. The dog looked up at Arthur for more.
“Well, I guess I can find something else.”
Arthur rummaged through his satchel and retrieved a wedge of cheese in wax paper. He broke off a bit and tossed it to the dog. The cheese was gone in a second.
“Between you and Miss Kitty I’m gonna starve, you know that?”
He broke off more tidbits of cheese for the dog, and discovered a few crackers crushed up inside their box. He knelt down, offering the food in his hand. The sheepdog approached slowly, still wary, but starvation was a powerful motivator. Despite the scruffy coat the dog looked like it was young, maybe two or three years old. Still a pup.
The hungry dog licked up the crumbs from his palm, but darted away when Arthur moved.
“What happened to you, feller?” he asked. “I’m sure someone used to care for you.”
He stood up and the dog flinched, but it didn’t retreat under the bed this time.
“I’d say that’s progress. We’re friends now.”
The dog stayed back as Arthur tidied the cabin and built up the fire with a few more planks. Although it was scared, the dog had definitely lived with humans before. So what was it doing out here all alone?
Arthur’s pocket watch read 7 p.m. - still too early to sleep. So he grabbed a bottle of bourbon from one of Boadicea’s saddle bags and sat on the edge of the filthy bed. It smelt like the dog had been using it for a while.
He wrote in his journal first, in case he forgot or drank too much to write legibly. He detailed his success with Hagen, getting trapped out in a snowstorm, and finding the lost dog. He filled the opposite page with sketches: Boadicea and Hagen, a sizzling fillet of bluegill on the fire, the cabin, and of course the sheepdog. He did not show his drawings to anyone, but Karen had snuck up behind him once and commented on how good they were.
The dog lay down next to the fire with a huff, keeping an ear on Arthur. It was a miracle the poor creature had not frozen or starved to death out here, but it had come close.
A few swigs of bourbon had Arthur relaxed and inspired to sing. The bawdy songs from the Van Der Linde campfire were out of place here, so he sang Poor Lonesome Cowboy. It was one of the few he knew all the lyrics to. He never thought of himself as a good singer, and even the dog closed its eyes. He chuckled at the end of the song and drank deeply.
As he stared into the fire, another song plucked at the edge of his mind. Arthur didn’t like to sing it around the others - even though it was an old tune, it always felt too personal. Not that the newer gang members knew about his life. He preferred it that way.
He sighed, and lay back on the mattress.
The years creep slowly by, Eliza,
The snow is on the grass again,
The sun's low down the sky, Eliza,
The frost gleams where the flow’rs have been.
But the heart throbs on as warmly now,
As when the summer days were nigh,
Oh, the sun can never dip so low,
A-down affection’s cloudless sky.
He sang the whole song to himself, his voice barely rising above the crackling fire or the wind pressing against the cabin.
It matters little now, Eliza,
The past is in the eternal past,
Our heads will soon lie low, Eliza,
Life's tide is ebbing out so fast.
There is a future, O thank God,
Of life this is so small a part,
'Tis dust to dust beneath the sod;
But there, up there, 'tis heart to heart.
Arthur let the silence drag on after the final verse. He blinked back tears. What a sentimental fool he was!
He sat up on the bed, about to retrieve his blanket, and his breath caught in fright. The dog was standing right beside the bed, watching him. When their eyes met the sheepdog wagged its tail once. Arthur reached out and the dog permitted him a scratch behind the ears.
“You know that song, boy?” he sniffed.
The dog licked his hand.
“Don’t tell no-one.”
The latch was flimsy, so Arthur pushed the saddles against the door. He picked up the still-damp blanket from the floor, and balled up a clean shirt to make a pillow.
The bed squeaked in protest as he stretched out again. The mattress was thin and lumpy and it stank, but he couldn’t complain - at least he wasn’t camped out in this storm, and he had coffee and a fire. Just as he closed his eyes, the sheepdog leapt up onto the foot of the bed. It paused again, waiting for Arthur’s reassurance.
“Here, boy.”
The dog moved gingerly, as though walking on coals, before curling up next to Arthur’s middle.
“We’re a sight, aren’t we?” Arthur mumbled. “Heh. Keep your fleas to yourself.”
He slipped into a restful sleep, and dreamed of riding across the plains.
-
The wind died down sometime during the night, and Arthur woke to a silent morning. The dog remained at his side, grateful for the warmth and company.
After last night’s bourbon binge, he had to answer the call of nature, and fast. Arthur got up with a sigh and cleared the doorway to get outside. He blinked and squinted as the door opened, his eyes adjusting from the dark cabin to the white forest. The storm had dumped two feet of snow in Tall Trees, and it was still falling. The flakes drifted lazily through the canopy, alighting soundlessly on the ground. The sheepdog appeared beside him in the doorway, yawning and stretching.
The two walked out, Arthur plowing through the snow and the dog trotting behind. They relieved themselves next to the cabin. The dog cocked a leg against a bush, confirming Arthur’s suspicion that underneath all that fur it was male. Now he had to give the dog a name.
The horses were quiet, and Arthur walked around to the stable. His heart dropped.
“Shit!”
Boadicea and Hagen had vanished. There were no tracks leading out, so they had been spirited away sometime in the night. He raised his fingers to his lips and a piercing whistle rang out through the forest. Arthur listened out for any answering call, but there was only silence.
The dog appeared next to him, alert and ready for action.
“Goddamn it, I’m not lookin’ for you.”
An idea came to Arthur then. The dog was scrawny and weak, but he was a sheepdog.
“Come on, feller.”
The dog followed him into the stable. There was no sign of a struggle. Arthur squatted down in the mud, and pointed at the frozen hoof prints. The dog sniffed, and looked up at Arthur quizzically. Arthur sighed. A bloodhound would have followed it straight away.
“Ugh. Stay here.”
The dog ignored him, following him back into the cabin. So Arthur placed the saddles before the dog, letting him sniff them.
“Can you find ‘em for me?”
The sheepdog cocked his head. He was familiar with the smell of horses, but unsure of what was being asked of him. He cowered, not understanding Arthur’s anger and frustration.
“I’m sorry, boy,” he said, trying to calm down.
Arthur built up the fire again until it was blazing hot. He broke off some twigs from a pine tree outside and placed them on the fire. Fragrant smoke filled the cabin, but most of it went up into the chimney. It would help him to find his way back.
He quickly packed up, making sure that his revolvers and rifle were clean and loaded. While Arthur didn’t want to cause trouble in West Elizabeth so soon after moving in, he would do whatever was necessary to get his horses back. Before he left, he cut himself a slice of salted beef, and gave the dog some too.
“Stay,” he said firmly.
Arthur closed the cabin door, leaving the dog inside with the saucepan of water. The dog was too weak to come with him. Or so he thought.
As he pushed through the snow, he could only guess where the horses had gone. Few people lived in Tall Trees, and they either lived alone or in small camps. The only settlement here was Manzanita Post, and like everyone else in the forest they were wary of outsiders. Probably with good reason.
Arthur heard a weak bark behind him, and stopped in his tracks. The dog! It had slipped through the door, and was following his trail. He crouched down as the dog approached, and smiled despite his mood. He scratched him behind the ears.
“I can’t look after you out here,” Arthur said gently. “Let’s go back.”
They turned and followed the trail; he had not made it far. Arthur noticed the dog sniffing around and had another idea. He walked back into the cabin and brought out the blanket he had used last night, the same one he had used to dry the horses off. He crouched down and held it out to the dog.
“Can you find ‘em for me? Find.”
This time the dog seemed to get it, and he jumped off Arthur’s trail and into the fresh snow. It was higher than his shoulders, but the sheepdog courageously bounded through it. He checked the area around the cabin and stable, circling out into the trees. Arthur also figured it was better to start here than blindly walk into the forest. The bears were hibernating, but there were still plenty of other big predators around. There might even be rival gangs in Tall Trees that he didn’t know about. He checked the trees for horse hair or broken branches - there must be some clue to Boadicea and Hagen’s whereabouts.
After a few minutes of searching, a yap echoed through the trees. Arthur hurried over to the sheepdog and found him standing proudly, tail wagging. The trees were thick here, catching most of the snow on their branches. Beneath them there was a narrow, shallow depression in the snow leading away from the cabin. A horse trail!
“Good boy!” Arthur praised. “You did it!”
He rewarded the dog with a piece of cheese. The dog smiled back at him for the first time, tail wagging in a blur.
“Find! Find ‘em, boy!” Arthur pointed down the trail, and the sheepdog set off, nose down and eager to please. Arthur noticed that some of the lower twigs had snapped, and the branches were holding less snow than the ones above after the horses had brushed past.
When the trail disappeared, covered by snow, the dog’s keen nose was quick to find it again. Arthur struggled to keep up as he watched out for his horses, the dog, wild animals, and any unfriendly people.
After maybe twenty minutes, he stopped and whistled again. The dog paused, and the forest returned to silence. Then, a faint, answering cry came from ahead.
“That’s Boadicea! We did it!”
He shrugged the rifle from his shoulder. If the horses had been stolen, there could be a fight. The dog raced eagerly ahead, but Arthur called him back.
“Come here, boy. Heel.”
The sheepdog whined, obviously keen to round up the horses, but he bounded back to Arthur’s side.
“Good dog.”
They stalked through the trees, Arthur wary of a trap, while the dog listened out for danger. When there was a rustle ahead, Arthur stopped and raised his rifle. Boadicea appeared through the trees, complete with bridle and reins, and whinnied when she saw him. He lowered his gun.
“Boadicea! I missed you, girl!”
Hagen appeared after her, and both horses trotted up to Arthur. To his relief, they didn’t have so much as a scratch or bump on them. Arthur hugged Boadicea, even giving her a kiss on the nose. He didn’t know Hagen well enough yet to give him a hug, but the gelding appreciated a pat and shoulder scratch.
When Arthur’s gaze returned to Boadicea, he noticed the mare studying the sheepdog.
“Easy, girl,” he said. “He’s coming back with us.”
Boadicea was clever enough to figure out that the scrawny pup wasn’t a threat. She flicked her dark mane, ignoring the dog and basking in Arthur’s attention.
It was obvious now that the horses had escaped from the stable by themselves. Boadicea was too clever for her own good and a serial escape artist. Arthur figured that in his haste yesterday evening he hadn’t tied a decent knot. The mare had freed herself and Hagen, both leaving the lean-to during the night in search of something to eat.
“Don’t ever make me worry like that again,” he scolded, but he wasn’t really angry. Just relieved.
He gathered up Boadicea’s reins and Hagen’s lead rope, and was about to walk back to the cabin when he noticed that the dog had wandered off.
“Hey! Dog!” he called. It definitely needed a name.
He sighed when the sheepdog didn’t reappear - maybe he was jealous of the horses getting all the attention? This time Arthur led the horses on the dog’s trail. The dog had not wandered far, and was sniffing around in a tiny clearing.
Arthur couldn’t believe it. Encircled by massive pine trees stood a single, perfect fir. It reached just a little bit taller than him, with blue-green needles and a classic conical shape. Dutch’s goddamn Christmas tree.
He shook his head. “Don’t know how you did it, boy.”
The dog realized that he was not alone and looked up with a goofy smile, forgetting about whatever interesting scent trail he had found. He reminded Arthur of someone from a long time ago.
With a firm word to both the dog and horses to stay put, Arthur cut the fir tree. It was almost too heavy for him to lift, but with a bit of clever maneuvering he balanced it across Boadicea and Hagen, securing their bridles together with Hagen’s lead rope. Boadicea grumbled, but Hagen shouldered the weight dutifully.
Arthur did not need to worry about finding the cabin again, as he and the dog followed their fresh trail back. It was still snowing, but the path remained clear.
The sheepdog was definitely flagging now, his limited energy spent on tracking the horses. His long pink tongue lolled, and even with the clear trail he kept stumbling. Arthur eventually picked him up, cradling him, and the dog was too exhausted to protest.
Arthur had already lost so much time, but on checking his pocket watch he realized that he might be able to make it to the camp at night. Even if he couldn’t make it back today, there was no need to stay in the cabin when he could move the horses to decent grazing by the river.
The snowfall ceased as they returned to the cabin. It was now late morning, and Arthur wasted no time in saddling the horses. The exhausted dog lay in a dry corner of the stables, trying not to fall asleep. He was still just a pup, after all.
Arthur cleared the cabin and left it as he had found it: it could be a useful hideout in future. Finally, he heaped snow over the fire until it completely fizzed out.
Boadicea pawed the ground, impatient to leave. She was pleased to have the tree off her back. Hagen now carried it by himself, but he did not complain. He even nibbled one of the branches, but shook his massive head in disgust.
Arthur found the sheepdog snoozing in the stable, and smiled to himself.
“Guess you’ll have to ride with me.”
The pup blinked awake, and yawned. Arthur gathered him up and lifted him onto his shoulder, supporting the dog’s weight with one hand.
“Jeez, kid, you need a bath,” he said, wrinkling his nose.
Arthur mounted up awkwardly, and moved the dog onto his lap. The sheepdog looked around in bewilderment - he had probably never been on a horse before. Using his compass as a guide Arthur steered his clever, mischievous mare to Blackwater.
-
As the trees thinned and the snow melted away, Boadicea transitioned into an easy lope, eager to move out of the forest. Arthur allowed her to set the pace, concentrating on the dog instead so he didn’t slide off the saddle. He also released some of the lead rope, allowing Hagen to fall back slightly: he was done being smacked by the prickly branches of the fir tree!
Many of the dog names that sprang into his head were… uninspiring. Rufus. Patches. Bob. Sport. Jack. He certainly couldn’t call the dog Jack! Abigail would have a fit. The dog sighed, as if silently agreeing with him. Arthur decided to try out some names later, to see if the sheepdog would respond to any of them.
They stopped on the plains for a late lunch. Hagen and Boadicea devoured the withered grass as though they had not eaten for weeks. The grazing was not as good on the plains as by the river, but they still had a ways to go before they reached water again. The earth was muddy and the grass a dull brown, but at least there was no more snow.
After eating some of Arthur’s meager lunch - salt beef and baked beans - the dog set about rolling in the mud. Arthur didn’t bother to stop him, as the mud would cover some of the stench.
“Miss Grimshaw’s goin’ to dunk you in a barrel of cold water when we get to camp.”
The dog snorted in delight.
“Heh. You remind me of my boy, Isaac. He used to love gettin’ muddy too.”
The sheepdog left smears of cold mud on Arthur’s snow jacket and trousers once they were up in the saddle. Despite the short rest and a feed of shriveled grass, Boadicea happily kept up a smart jog. She was eager to get back home, where she could eat as much hay as she wanted. Arthur gave her a pat on the neck. Hagen sensed the mare’s excitement, and matched her pace.
Though the overcast sky never cleared, mercifully there was no rain or snow on their ride back to camp. Arthur found a road sign to Blackwater just as the sun melted into the western horizon. They were making good time.
Arthur made it back late, close to midnight. He had lit his oil lantern, and was riding through the dark when a shout came from nearby. Arthur, the dog, and both horses jumped.
“WHO GOES THERE?!”
“It’s Arthur, ya dumbass.”
The warm light from the oil lamp lit up John’s face as he approached. He wasn’t drunk this time. How unusual.
“So, King Arthur has returned with his legendary tree.”
“Shut it, Marston,” Arthur replied sourly. “I got this for your boy.”
John snorted with laughter. “You got it ‘cause Dutch told you to.” He turned and walked back to his post.
Arthur grit his teeth. John was right, of course, but he was too tired to come up with a snappy comeback. He nudged Boadicea forward, and she took them to the horse station.
The dog, still unnamed, stuck by Arthur as he removed the fir tree and saddles. Javier noticed him laboring in the shadows and got up from his bedroll to help.
“Nice work, Arthur,” he said, eyeing the tree. “Dutch will be happy with this.”
“I hope so,” he growled. “Been ridin’ for two days.”
Javier noticed the dog then, sticking close to Arthur for protection, but keeping clear of the horses’ legs.
“Hey, you found a dog!?”
“Yeah, abandoned most likely. He was half-dead when I found him. He’s a good dog: kinda timid, but smart. And he ain’t sick neither, just dirty.”
“It’ll be good to have a dog here again, listening out for trouble. If you’re alright with the horses I can set up the tree?”
Arthur nodded. “Thanks, Javier.”
The horses were already tucking into a hay bale between them, and all Arthur had to do was brush them down and pick out their hooves.
“Good job, Boadicea. You too, Hagen.”
He gave them each a grateful pat on the neck, and walked back to his cot, skirting around the campsite with the dog at his heels. The camp was silent, most of the gang asleep, and they managed to avoid being noticed by anyone else. Arthur would deal with Susan’s wrath tomorrow.
-
“You’ve outdone yourself, Arthur.”
He blinked awake. He knew instantly that it was early – too early to be awake. The sun had just risen, its weak light twinkling through the trees. The still, cold air caught in his lungs.
Dutch was leaning against the wagon at the foot of Arthur’s bed. He smiled, with a warmth that reached his eyes.
“Ugh, what time is it?” Arthur mumbled.
“Early enough for young Jack. See for yourself.”
Arthur sat up on his cot, the disturbance causing the dog to wake up too. Javier had dug the fir tree into the hard ground in the heart of the Van Der Linde campsite, and Jack and Abigail were already busying themselves with decorating it. Arthur squinted in disbelief – were they actually using gold necklaces and pearls?!
“They had to improvise,” Dutch said. “We don’t have no glass ornaments. The tree could do with some candles, though.”
Arthur lay back on his cot. “Don’t ask me to get those for you, too.”
Dutch laughed. “Rest up, son. But when you’re awake I would like to hear the story of how you got that dog.”
When Arthur finally got out of bed, close to midday, Jack ran up to him. The boy had obviously been waiting. The sheepdog jumped off the cot and shook himself vigorously. Arthur rolled the stiffness from his shoulders with a few satisfying cracks.
“Hey, Uncle Arthur!” Jack said. “Did you get the tree for us?”
Arthur covered up a yawn. “I sure did! You like it?”
“Yeah!”
“Now that’s what I like to hear. You and your momma sure did decorate it nice.”
“Thanks! Can I pat your dog?”
Arthur scratched his short beard. “Um. He’s a bit shy, but he likes food. Here, you can give him some cheese.”
Abigail watched nearby as Jack held out a morsel of cheese. The sheepdog was much less frightened now, and took it gingerly from the boy’s hand.
“What’s his name?” Jack asked.
“He doesn’t have one. Not yet, anyways. Want to help me pick one?”
“Yeah! What about… Spot?”
Arthur smiled. “Not bad. But I don’t think he looks like a Spot to me. How about Jake?”
“I don’t like it.”
As they were talking, the dog sniffed at Arthur’s satchel, eager to get into its contents.
Jack hummed in thought. “Maybe Gilbert?”
“Naw, that’s an old man’s name. He’s still just a pup. Kinda like you!”
Abigail laughed. “Come on, boys. You’ve gotta agree on somethin’.”
“Well, I guess he kinda reminds me of someone I knew a long time ago,” Arthur admitted. “How about, uh, Zach?”
The dog looked up from the satchel, his brown eyes focused on Arthur.
“I think he likes it!” said Jack.
“Yeah. That’s weird…”
Zach moved between Jack and Arthur, asking for a scratch.
Moments later Susan appeared at the ammunition wagon, towering over them with her hands on her hips. Abigail quickly smothered a giggle as the blood drained from Arthur’s face.
“Miss Grimshaw-”
“Don’t you ‘Miss Grimshaw’ me! I ain’t ever seen such filth in my camp before.”
“…is the water warm?”
Susan glared at him. “No. It’s colder than my heart. Now git!”
Arthur got up with a sigh and followed her to the wash basin, dreading the water’s icy touch. Zach followed at his heels, smiling all the way.
-
The end!