Archive of Our Own

RUINED

Arthur stepped back, as Swanson and Charles carried Kieran’s body away, Hosea picking up the poor kid’s head. Arthur felt terrible. Life had never been fair to Kieran Duffy. He’d been given nothing but pain and loss, but, despite it all, he’d still had a gentle soul, and a kind heart. He’d saved Arthur’s life, and Arthur hadn’t saved his. He should have. Should have listened when Susan and Mary-Beth said they were worried, should have gone out looking. Arthur kicked the dirt, as if to remove the blood pooling there from sight, but all it did was stick to his boot, stick in his mind. This had been his fault.

Dutch was giving orders, organizing the clean-up, planning the next move. Arthur tried to listen, tried to be supportive, and useful, but there was a bitter taste in his mouth the whole time.

“Meet me and Lenny in Saint Denis,” Dutch finally ordered, “By the trolly station. We need money.”

Arthur nodded, and then sighed as Dutch finally turned away, and mounted The Count, riding out of camp. John was standing by, and Arthur waved to one of the bodies of the damned O’Driscolls, “Shall we?”

They spent the next couple of hours dumping bodies into the swamp, and repairing the damage done during the gunfight. Everyone was somber, fear and uncertainly looming over them. Arthur knew they were lucky they hadn’t lost more people, that no one, besides Kieran, had gotten killed or wounded, but it sure didn’t’ feel lucky. Maybe it was foolish of him, but Arthur couldn’t help but feel responsible. Dutch was their leader, but Arthur was the one people looked to for protection, the one they brought along when they expected trouble, and needed a strong, reliable fighter to watch their back. He was their protector, and he’d been failing, first Sean, now Kieran. They’d nearly lost Jack too. What good was he, if he couldn’t stand between his people, and those that sought to harm them?

Arthur needed to be more mindful about the those around him. Look after them better, do more. Lifting his head from where he was fixing a wheel that’d busted off Pearson’s wagon, Arthur found himself anxiously counting heads, looking around like a shepherd guarding a flock.

Dutch and Lenny had gone ahead of them into town. He could see Charles and Swanson coming back from burring pour Kieran, walking soberly over the fields. Sadie was keeping watch – Thank god for that woman. She’d really save them today. – Abigale and Jack were talking quietly with John. Tilly and Karen were comforting Mary-Beth by the wash tubs. Susan was scolding Uncle, making him get up and help stack broke crates beside the firewood. Strauss and Pearson were checking inventory, clearing out the broken glass and bottles from the bullet ridden medicine wagon. Molly was sitting silently in the shade of a tree, looking miserable. Javier was standing by, helping Arthur with the wagon wheel. Bill was in the middle of camp, looking dumb and being useless. And Hosea was standing on the porch, his blue eyes also watching over the camp, also worrying.

Arthur met Hosea’s eyes, and they nodded to one another, trying to assure each other that things were alright. Hosea let out a long breath, and turned to go back inside, and Arthur finally finished tightening the wheel back into place.

“Bueno,” Javier said, pulling away the block of wood they’d used to jack up the wagon, “That should do it.”

Arthur nodded, and dropped the tools back into their crate.

“Did I hear Dutch say something about you and Lenny going to the trolly station?” Javier asked, wiping sweat from his brow.

“Yeah, I don’t know,” Arthur answered, “It seems like a wild goose chaise to me, but Dutch thinks it’s at least worth looking into.”

“Heard him talking about it to Micah too the other night. Micah’s not on the job anymore?”

Micah, Arthur cursed to himself, and looked around. There was no sign of the bastard. “Uh, no…” he answered Javier distractedly, still turning and looking around, “I figured Lenny would be a cooler head to have for a big city job. Lots of civilians around the station. I don’t need a trigger-happy maniac coming undone on us. Where is he?”  Arthur frowned, thinking back over the day’s events.

“Micah?”

“Yeah. Now I think about it, was he here when the O’Driscoll’s attacked? I ain’t seen him all day.”

Javier shrugged. “I think he when our riding this morning, out into the swamps looking for leads.”

“Damn,” Arthur said, “Hope he hasn’t gotten into trouble.”

Javier scoffed, “Micah can look after himself, a little too well I’d say.”

“Yeah,” Arthur nodded, scowling darkly, “You’re right. Strange that he should be gone the day O’Driscolls come storming in here though. And I don’t like anyone being unaccounted for, what with Colm’s boys around, snatching our people right and left.”

“Huh, I thought you always hated him.”

“I do,” snarled Arthur, “And I don’t trust him a bit, but…” Arthur growled, not in the mood to explain things. “I got to ride out and meet with Dutch in Saint Denis anyway. I’ll see if I can find him along the way, and tell him what’s happened here. And send him home. Best if no one’s out riding alone right now.”

“You’re one to talk,” laughed Javier, “You’re off outriding more than anyone else.”

Arthur didn’t answer, just walked over to the rain barrel to wash the sweat and blood from his clothes, before heading over to the horses.  Kieran’s mare, Branwen, was standing with the others, blood still staining her coat. Kieran had loved that horse. She and the other horses had been one of the few joys the poor kid had in this life.

“Sorry, Girl,” Arthur muttered, and put a comforting hand on the mare’s nose, another wave of depression and guilt washing over Arthur. He took a couple minutes to groom the blood out of Branwen’s fur and mane, before turning to mount his own horse.

Rather than take the direct road into Saint Denis, Arthur decided to take a more round-about rout, hoping to find Micah, or someone who’d seen him. Questioning a few other riders, and some field workers, led Arthur north toward Lakay, and he soon found himself riding right through the middle of the swamps, along a muddy road, completely drowned out by shallow water in places.

Arthur hated the swamps. Hated the humidity and the suffocating closeness of the trees and underbrush, even the damned alligators. The whole place stank, was covered in slime, and swarming with bugs. How is missed the open mountains, and plains of the west, the endless skies, and the dry winds gusting up the slopes. Out there, just standing on a ridge-line felt like freedom. Here, under the oppressive humidity, the heat, and the looming trees, with their hanging mosses, it felt like being buried alive.

Some shots rang out, and Arthur looked up, slapping a hand on his pistol. Somewhere, beyond a bend in the road, a horse screamed.

“Yah!” kicking his own mount, Arthur drew his gun, and hurried along, expecting trouble. What he found was Micah Bell, wearing a mask, and leaning over the shot corpses of two riders dressed in city suits. Their dead horses were sprawled out on the road beside them, tongues lulling, large eyes glassy.

Hearing Arthur ride up, Micah straightened, and drew his guns, but then recognized Arthur, and pulled down his mask. “Morgan, didn’t expect to run into you all the way out here.”

“What are you doing?” Arthur demanded, reluctantly holstering his pistol.

“What does it look like?” Micah drawled, looting the pockets, and the saddlebags of the dead men and horses, “Working. What are you doing?”

“Looking for you,” Arthur scowled.

“Really?’ Micah asked, and grabbed one of the bodies, dragging it off the road, and toward the murky green waters, “Love the swamps, by the way,” Micah said, grinning, “Makes disposing of bodies so much easier!” He threw the body, and then grinned wider, as a crocodile immediately swam over to drag the bloody corpse down.

“There’s been trouble at camp.”

“You don’t say,” Micah said, and Arthur didn’t like the lackadaisical tone in his voice, nor the way Micah didn’t even look up. The man just continued with his work, grabbing the second body, and dragging it toward the water.

“O’Driscolls,” Arthur said, “They got Kieran. Sent his headless corpse riding into camp, and then attacked.”

Micah finally looked up, wiping the blood off his hands, onto the knees of his jeans. “Dutch?”

“He’s alive,” Arthur said, “Except Kieran, everyone’s alright. Mrs. Adler and I managed to drive them back.”

“Of course, you did,” Micah said, and then gave a wry chuckle, “We can always count on you can’t we, Cowpoke. Always saving the fuckin’ day.”

“It was more Sadie than me this time,” Arthur said, “Dutch and Lenny went into town, and I’m going to meet them there, but I wanted to make sure everyone was accounted for.”

“How considerate of you, Morgan, but I’m doing just fine.”

“I can see that,” Arthur spat, “Out here, killing horses.”

“You’re so soft hearted, Morgan,” Micah teased, mounting Baylock, and giving Arthur a malicious smile, “You should consider trying to find a new line of work, nurse maid or something.”

“I’ll find work carving a hole through your skull, Micah,” Arthur growled, “This ain’t the time for messing around. Head back to camp.”

“Since when have you been giving me orders,” Micah hissed.

Arthur rode his horse up beside Micah’s so that their faces were only a foot apart, “Since I’ve finally gotten tired of your bullshit, Micah,” Arthur snapped. “Ever since you joined us, there’s been trouble, Blackwater, Strawberry, the ambush in Rhodes that got Sean killed, O’Driscolls taking me, and now getting hold of Kieran. Kieran never left camp alone, and we’re a good long ways from O’Driscoll territory, so I’m beginning to wonder if someone a little closer might have set him up.”

“What are you insinuating, Morgan?” Micah asked, scowling.

“I’m saying, Micah,” snarled Arthur, “That I’ve been watching you. And I seen you - sweet talking Dutch, steering him crazy, leading the rest of us into one bad situation after another. I don’t know what your game is, but I don’t like it, and I’ve just about had enough of your bullshit and bluster. Now go back to camp, and we’ll talk more later.”

Micah’s face twisted, and he shifted, as if to draw a weapon, but Arthur already had his hand on his pistol, and he glared hard at Micah, daring him, hoping to get and excuse to draw against him, or at least give him a thorough ass-kicking.

Micah bit his lip, hatred and malice still glaring in his watery blue eyes, but then he dropped them sulkily, “Sure, whatever you say, boss. I’ll catch you later then.” And he kicked Baylock hard in the flanks, galloping away.

Arthur glared after him. He really had no proof one way or the other about Micah being a traitor, but he knew there was a lot of things about Micah that didn’t add up right, and the way he’d reacted to the news of the attack on camp had been one more thing on that list. He’d hardly seemed surprised at all, and had sounded bitter, frustrated even, when he’d found out Arthur and Sadie had driven back the attack. Lenny had mentioned something about Micah knowing O’Driscolls when they’d first gotten down out of the mountains, and, whenever Arthur could bring himself to think over the events that’s led to his own capture by Colm last month, the more it seemed like Micah had been setting them up.  He couldn’t really imagine Micah Bell being in league with Colm O’Driscoll, but he was uneasy, and it was about time someone began taking a serious look at things.  

Unfortunately, Arthur doubted Dutch would feel the same. For whatever reason, Dutch really liked Micah, listened to him, even though Micah’s plans, such as moving camp to Dewberry Creek, were total hogwash. Micah would probably complain about how Arthur had treated him, and hopefully Dutch wouldn’t get angry, hopefully he’d be willing to listen, and finally realize what a no good parasite Micah really was.

Arthur cut through the swamps. It was getting later into the afternoon, and he knew Dutch was probably impatient with waiting for him. According to Bronte, they only kept money at the trolly station during the day, which seemed suspicious, but then, Arthur didn’t really know shit about big city operations.

“Hey mister!” Arthur looked up from under his hat brim. He was passing by a cabin he’s gone by once or twice before. The fellow there always seemed friendly, a little too friendly, and Arthur hadn’t trusted his offers to share food inside his cabin.

“I’m busy,” Arthur barked.

“But I need help, friend.”

Arthur slowed down a little, glaring at the shabby cabin.

“There was a feller and his wife, what got attacked on the roads. He’s shot up real bad, and she’s gone and fainted. They came here, but I ain’t got no horse. Don’t know what to do. He needs to be taken to a doctor, or I s'pect he’ll not make it to morning.”

Arthur hesitated.

“Please friend. Not many folk ‘round here willing to do a kindness, and you got a good strong horse. You could save him, just come in and see.”

“Oh, alright,” Arthur sighed. Dutch could wait a little longer, and maybe this wounded man, or his family would pay a reward. Since he was going to the city, he might as well try to save a life along the way.

Arthur dismounted, and hurried over the wet, spongy ground, “Where is he?”

“Inside,” said the man. He was dressed in dirty overalls, his brown hair unkempt and wild. “Come on, hurry, friend.” He opened the door, as Arthur hastened up the steps, stepping back to let Arthur go in ahead of him. The interior was dark and stank, and Arthur couldn’t see signs of anyone else, no wounded man, no fainted wife.

His hand dropped to his pistol, and he started to turn around, but something heavy slammed into the side of Arthur’s skull. His vision blacked out, as he dropped unconscious to the floor. 

Nausea and pain whirled through him, sounds seemed warped and confusing, and when Arthur opened his eyes, the world seemed to swirl and blur. He groaned, and closed his eyes again, trying to make sense of what was happening. Someone was tugging on his clothes, jerking off his boots. He heard his belt buckle clink, and felt someone tug on that too and Arthur remembered where he was.

Giving a yell, Arthur kicked and struggled.

“Hold still, now, Friend,” laughed a voice, and a person climbed on top of him, trying to grab his wrists, trying to hold him down, “Don’t go makin’ things difficult for Sonny. I’ve seen you riding by, looking so pretty on your horse.”

Arthur opened his eyes, and could vaguely make out the form of the man wrestling him down. “Get off me!” Arthur screamed, and jerked a wrist free, punching the man in the jaw. The man tumbled off, and Arthur turned over, trying to scramble up to his knees.

“Come here,” laughed the other, and then the heavy end of stick slammed down between Arthur’s shoulders, knocking him flat down on his stomach, with a pained grunt. “You want to tussle, we’ll tussle!” The stick hit him again in the head, causing Arthur’s vision to blur and swim even more, dancing with painful stars and leaving him mostly dazed. He was grabbed, and turned back on his back, and then the stick smacked down on his stomach, knocking all the breath clean out of him, and leaving Arthur wheezing and choking for air.

Rough hands grabbed his vest, jerking him up, and ripping the buttons. He tumbled, as the garment was jerked off him, and tossed aside, still gasping and half dazed.

“I knew when I first saw you, that we’d be the best friends,” the man jeered, “You have no idea how disappointed I was, when you didn’t accept my first invitation.” Arthur’s shirt was grabbed next, and pulled roughly over his head, the cotton ripping as it was removed.

Finally getting some air, Arthur snarled, and lunged at the man, trying to pull him down and get his hand around the bastard’s throat. “I’ll… kill… you!”

The man jumped nimbly out of grasp, and then kicked Arthur hard in the left shoulder with his heel. It was the shoulder Colm’s men had shot through with a slug, and it still ached most days. The kick lit the old wound up like a fire, and Arthur yelled, clutching at it with his right arm.

“You didn’t want my food,” the man said bitterly, and grabbed his stick again, bring it down on Arthur’s shoulders, “But I saw you save that feller with the bad arm.” The stick smacked the side of Arthur’s head again, and he barely held on to consciousness this time, crumbling on the floor, “I heard 'bout to saving a man’s wife, and helping that lady-shooter fight the bounty-hunters.” A dirty foot shoved into Arthur, rolling him over on his stomach, and then pressed down on his bad shoulder, pinning him painfully to the floor. “And I realized what kind of friend you are, pet. You ain’t the sort to talk lazy of an evening over dinner n’ moonshine. You’re the kind of friend to help those in need.” The man grabbed Arthur’s wrists, and pulled them behind his back. There was a clank and a clatter of chains, and cool iron closed around over Arthur’s skin. It was a short chain, attached to the frame of a filthy bed.

“You’re the kind of friend,” the man continued, and knelt to grab Arthur’s belt again, undoing the buckle, “That will be there for me in the times of my desperate need, no matter how busy you might be.” He smiled, and reached out to stroke his hand through Arthur’s hair, “And I’m so desperate, my friend. See hardly anyone ever wants to be my friend, and I gets so very lonely here.”

Arthur panted, and jerked on the chains, making the bed bounce behind him, “You sick bastard,” he hissed, and kicked his legs, as the man begin pulling off his jeans.

“Oh, you can struggle,” the man laughed, jerking the jeans down, and then completely off, leaving Arthur only dressed in his long john underwear, “But you’ve lost. Why don’t you just relax now, and try not to hate Ol’ Sonny. You’ll see, friendship ain’t that tough… and neither are you.”

The man was taking off his own clothes now, and Arthur scrambled back, pushing himself to sitting position with his wrists chained behind his back to the bed. Then he saw the frond door move some, pushing open just ajar. Watery eyes in a ruddy face peered silently inside.

“Micah,” Arthur yelled. Never in his life had he been happy to see Micah Bell, not until this day, “Micah, help! Shoot this bastard!”

Startling in surprise, Sonny nearly dropped his overalls, as he turned around.

Kicking the door in, Micah lifted both his pistols, and gave a sadistic grin, as he shot both guns several times right into Sonny’s guts. The swamp man spat blood, and tumbled forward. Micah grabbed his shoulder, and dragged him out the door.

Arthur saw Micah throw the body off the porch, into the swamps, and he let out a heavy breath. He was exhausted with fear, and the bruises left by Sonny’s stick throbbed and hurt. Closing his eyes, Arthur tried not to think about what’d almost happened, still hardly able to believe it. 

“Well, well,” came Micah’s voice, and Arthur opened his eyes to see the man walking back inside, closing the door behind him, “That’s one more to the gators, though it’s a pity. Things were just getting good.”

Arthur flushed in shame, and glared, “Not a word about this to anyone, Micah,” he growled, “Now, get me free.”

“Hrmmm,” Micah said, and his twisted smile reappeared, “I don’t know, Cowpoke. I’m still thinking, trying to decide. What shall I do with this… interesting situation?” His watery blue eyes gleamed, and he looked Arthur over in a lurid manner.

Arthur’s mouth when dry, and his guts twisted with renewed fear, but he ground his teeth, trying to stay angry and confident, “Excuse me?” he spat “This isn’t funny, Micah. Get over here, and unlock these cuffs right now!” he shouted the last order, trying intimidate Micah into obeying him.

Micah stepped forward, and kicked Arthur in the mouth. Arthur slammed back against the bed frame, spitting blood, and a chip from a tooth.

“You don’t get it, do you, Cowpoke?” Micah hissed, and then kicked Arthur again, this time in the stomach, “How much I’ve longed to do this!” he kicked again, and Arthur groaned, slipping weakly to the floor, “Arthur Morgan, so high and mighty,” another kick in the ribs, “So goddamned superior!” A final kick, and Micah stepped back, watching Arthur moan and gasp on the floor, “Weeping at my feet.” 

Micah knelt beside Arthur, malice lacing his voice, “You ain’t no better than the rest of us, Morgan. And you’re dumb as rocks, or so I’d assumed. Maybe I underestimated you a little on that account.”

“What are you talking about, Micah?” Arthur moaned, staying curled up on the floor.

“Kieran… you…” Micah said, “See, Colm told me he’s let me join back up with his boys, give me a command, some respect. I just needed to bring him a peace offering. But you…” Snarling, Micah grabbed Arthur’s hair, and twisted it into a tight grip, standing, and pulling Arthur up after him, “You just keep messing things up for me, Morgan.” The bed jerked, as Micah pulled Arthur forward onto to his knees, “Escaping like you did, and now driving off Colm’s boys. It was also you and that damn Injun that got Dutch to camp away from Dewberry Creek, and I’d promised Colm you all would be there.”

“You bastard,” Arthur growled, “I knew you were rotten.”

Still twisting Arthur’s hair, and forcing his head back, Micah leaned close, and put his other hand on Arthur’s throat, not squeezing it, not yet. Instead, his stroked his fingers over Arthur’s neck, rubbing his thumb against his windpipe, and into the hollow of his clavicle, “At every turn, you’re always there, getting in the way, ruining my life,” Micah whispered maliciously, “But fate’s finally done me a favor, and I’m almost glad you escaped Colm.” His hand moved up, brushing over Arthur scruffy chin, to stroke a thumb over Arthur’s bloody lips, “Since, at last, I can get some personal pay back.”

Arthur barred his teeth. “I should have killed you long ago.”

Micah grinned, “It don’t matter now, Sweet Cheeks,” he drawled, “You’re chained up, and powerless. Only you and me and the gators here, boy. And, way I see it, you owe me, for all the trouble you’ve caused, for making me kill Kieran, for getting Colm so angry with me. So why don’t you try being nice and cooperative for a change, and open your pretty little mouth?” Micah moved a hand to undo his fly, and Arthur could see that his pants were already bulging.

“You put your sorry excuse of a pecker anywhere near my mouth, and I’ll bite it off,” Arthur snarled.

Micah glared, and then drew his pistol, beating Arthur on the side of the face with it, before pressing the barrel against Arthur’s temple, his other hand still twisted in Arthur’s hair.

“You don’t get a choice, Cowpoke. Can’t you see I’m in charge now.”

“You’re going to kill me anyway,” Arthur said, “I reckon denying you satisfaction is worth a few extra hours of life. Go ahead, shoot me.”

Micah was breathing hard through his nose in short, angry breaths, his eyes turning wild, “You… you don’t get to talk like that to me… not anymore… I’m-”

“Hello? Arthur? Micah? You out here?” It was Lenny’s voice, calling distantly through the swamp outside.

“Lenny!” yelled Arthur, “Micah’s a-”

The side of the gun smacked hard on Arthur’s temple again, and he broke off, dazed. Then Micah put his hand over Arthur’s mouth, smothering his voice, and shoving him back against the bed.

“Shut up!” Micah hissed, “Damned kid.”

Arthur struggled, but Micah kicked him in the balls, and he fell weakly forward, with a muffled groan.

There were dirty newspapers left on the bed, and Micah grabbed a large sheet of it, wadding it up into a ball, before quickly removing his hand, and stuffing the paper in. The taste of cheap ink and mildew filled Arthur’s mouth, and he grunted, as Micah jammed as much of the newspaper as his could through Arthur’s teeth.

“That ought to shut you up,” Micah said, and then moved away to the door, opening it a few inches, and looking out into the dusk, “I need to handle this,” he said, “Just sit quiet awhile.”

Arthur shouted muffled protests through the paper, trying to chew it up, spit it out, but it’d been stuffed in too tightly. He needed to warn Lenny, and he jerked against the chains, hoping to at least kick up some racket. But, behind the roar of cicadas and croaking frogs out in the swamp, the slight thudding and scrapping of the bed, and his muffled shouts were nothing.

Micah slipped outside, pulling his knife out, and there was nothing Arthur could do, but uselessly struggle, and try to listen. He could hear nothing through the sounds of the swamp, even when he sat still himself. There were no shouts, no gunshot, no screams through the darkening dusk.

The disgusting newspaper was getting soggier, starting to grow softer, and Arthur worked at it with his tongue, trying to spit it out. He’d just about managed it, when the cabin door swung open, and Micah came in with Lenny over his shoulder.

Spitting and sputtering, Arthur got the paper out, “Lenny!? You didn’t kill him? Micah, if you killed him, I’ll-”

“Relax, Sweet Cheeks,” Micah said, dumping an unconscious Lenny on the floor, “He’s still alive. Idiot didn’t even see me coming.”

“What are you going to do with him?” Arthur asked anxiously, “Dutch will be looking for him, for all of us soon.”

“It depends, and I know,” Micah said, “I’d rather not have to kill too many of you all at once. Dutch is even dumber than you, Cowpoke, but the Old Man might start to put things together and, eventually, even Dutch will suspect something.”

“Let him go, Micah,” Arthur panted, still spitting the foul taste of the newspaper from his mouth, “You said he didn’t see you. Take him to Lagras, there’s a few good folks there. You can even tell him you rescued him from Night Folk or something, be a hero, just let him go.”

Micah considered, “I might,” he said, “I could use some good will, even if it is from this uppity little darky.”

Arthur glared, but kept his temper in check, “If I’m gone,” he said bitterly, but trying to sound rational, “Dutch will be relying on Lenny. The kid’s young, but he’s a good hand with a gun, and reliable. Dutch will need him, and you’ll impress Dutch a lot, if you bring him home safe.”

“You almost got me convinced, Cowpoke,” Micah said, and grinned, “But let’s make a little deal here. I’ll spare the kid, take him home safe and sound to Ol’ Dutch, but you’ll need to keep on convincing me, convince me real good.” He put a hand down to his crotch, bouncing the bulge in his pants.

Arthur fell quiet, and a sick feeling of repulsion and helplessness crept over him. He looked from Micah, to Lenny, laying on the floor. It was Arthur’s job to protect the gang, to do everything he could to make sure they made it home safe, and that the enemies stayed far away. And… Lenny, the kid was something special, smart, talented, always ready and willing to get into things, but also coolheaded and sensible. Give Leonard Summers a few more years, and he’d probably be the best of them all, but, right now, he was still a kid, and like a little brother to Arthur. Arthur swallowed, still hesitating.

“Well, I guess that’s one more for the gators then,” Micah scoffed, pulling out his knife, and turning, leaning down to grab Lenny by the hair.

“Wait!” Arthur pleaded, “Wait. Stop. I’ll do it. I’ll do whatever the hell you want, but let the kid go.”

Micah smirked, and let go of Lenny, “So, you can be reasoned with.”

Lenny moaned, and Micah turned, and kicked him in the back of the head, knocking him out again.

“Micah! Stop,” Arthur shouted, straining against the chains, dragging the bed up a few more inches from the corner.

“For his own good, Cowpoke,” Micah drawled, and took a rope from a peg on the cabin wall, “Can’t have him waking up, and learning the truth, can we?”

Arthur watched Micah tie Lenny up, and then gag him. “You’ll take him home now?”

“And leave you here alone? Oh no, Cowpoke. I’ll toss him in the outhouse outside, should be safe from gators, and far enough away to not hear all the fun going in here.” Micah hefted Lenny up on his shoulder again, “Besides, if you fail to really convince me, Morgan, I’d rather kill him here in the swamps, than back in camp.” Micah opened the door. Outside it was completely dark, save for a few hovering lightning bugs.

“How do I know you won’t just take him out of sight and kill him now?” Arthur asked, trying not to panic.

“You’ll just have to trust me, Morgan,” Micah said, grinning, and then he stepped out of the house, and disappeared around the corner, Lenny slumped over his back.

Trust him? Arthur thought, I never even trusted him before all this. Now…?” Arthur gave a choked laugh, ragged and despairing. But what choice do I have? If there’s even just a slightest chance I can save that kid…

Lenny was clever and resourceful. If he survived, he’d have as good as chance as anyone in seeing through Micah’s lies. He might put things together and warn Dutch, make sure the gang got rid of Micah before he could do anymore harm. It was the only hope Arthur could see.

Outside Arthur heard the outhouse door banging shut, and a few moments later Micah walked back up the porch, and through the door. “Miss me, Sunshine?” Micah asked, smirking and tossing his hat aside. “The kids are asleep, and daddy’s home.”

Arthur gagged, “Christsake, Micah,” he said, “You really are disgust-”

Micah took his knife back out, and spun on his heel toward the door again, ready to march right back out to the outhouse.

“No, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it!” Arthur cried in alarm.

Scoffing, Micah turned back around, looking at Arthur in the light of the cabin lanterns, “Oh, Sweet Cheeks, you really aren’t very good at this.”

“I’ll try. I am trying, Micah, please.”

“Say that again.”

“I’m trying.”

“No, not that part. … Beg me.”

Arthur sucked in a breath, then lowed his eyes, slumping his shoulders, “Please, Micah, please. I’m begging you.”

“Not too bad,” Micah crooned, and walked over, sheathing his knife.

Arthur kept his head down, not wanting to see the gloating gleam in the other man’s eyes.

Stopping in front of him, Micah squatted and pulled loose the buttons down the front of Arthur’s union suit, from neck to navel. Then he pushed it off Arthur’s shoulders, revealing Arthur’s bare torso, as if he were unwrapping a gift. Greedily, Micah's hands ran over Arthur’s skin, over his pectorals, down the mussels of Arthur’s stomach, and he hummed in appreciation.

Arthur held still, forcing himself not to flinch away from the touch, closing his eyes, so he couldn’t see the lust he heard in Micah’s voice, that he felt in Micah’s touch.

“I always did have an appreciation for a good body, Cowpoke,” Micah sighed, “Men, women, either way. There’s nothing like seeing perfection in real life, and getting it all to yourself.” His hand glided back up the length of Arthur’s torso, and took hold of his chin. “Open your eyes, Sweet Cheeks,” Micah ordered, as he stood up, and pulled his cock free from his pants, “You’re going to watch me enjoy every part of this.”

Arthur opened his eyes, and could see Micah’s erect penis pushing toward his face. He flinched back, leaning away, and against the back of the bed frame.

“None of that,” growled Micah, and stepped closer, grabbing Arthur’s head in both his hands, twisting his fingers cruelly in his hair, and forcing him to look up at him.

Arthur whimpered slightly, his heart was pounding hard, but more that, … he could feel a heat flooding down between his own legs. He wanted none of this, he was disgusted by Micah, and yet, Arthur could feel his body beginning to betray him. He was helpless, angry, humiliated, and frightened, yet he was also feeling exhilarated, and he hated it.

Breathing hard, Arthur hoped Micah was too focused on himself to notice. However, as Micah forced him to look into his eyes, Arthur could see the malicious smile spread wider on Micah’s face, and the man pushed his leg forward, pressing it against Arthur’s growing erection. Micah chuckled, a slow satisfied laugh, “What you got there, Cowpoke? You’re enjoy this too, it seems.”

Arthur moaned, the friction of Micah’s leg, making him even harder. He tried to jerk his head out of Micah’s hold, but the man had him tight, “Don’t do this, Micah,” he panted, “This ain’t-”

“Stop talking, and open your mouth,” Micah ordered, “Stick your tongue all the way out, Morgan.”

Arthur hesitated, but then obeyed, starting to close his eyes again.

“Eyes open. Look at me!”

Arthur opened his eyes, and stared helplessly up into Micah’s, as the man pulled his head forward.

The cock was salty on his tongue, and Micah rubbed the tip around. It dribbled pre-come, as Micah stroked it over Arthur’s tongue, wetting the bottom length of his penis in the saliva, before pushing into Arthur’s mouth.

“Suck it. Suck it good, Sweet Cheeks.”

Arthur tried, but the salty taste filled his mouth, and he wasn’t sure how to use his tongue. Saliva pooled in the back of his throat, he felt the urge to gag, and Micah’s cock slipped out.

“Come on!” snarled Micah, and kicked Arthur in the guts, “Haven't you ever sucked a man off before?”

“No,” wheezed Arthur, spitting and gasping, “I … never have.”

Truth be told, Arthur hadn’t even slept with a woman in years. Ever since he’d lost his son, Arthur had tried to put sex behind him. He didn’t want the guilt of failing another child, not even one he'd never gotten to know about. After Mary had rejected his proposal, he’d slept around with several women, but he’d never felt satisfied. The sex was fine, nice, but without the love and the emotional attachment he’d dreamed of having with Mary, he’d only felt lonelier, and more bitter than ever before, his anger driving him to do stupid things, mean things, things he’d deeply regretted. Then there’s been Eliza and her baby… his baby, and he’d tried again to build a relationship, but she refused to join him, and he couldn’t leave Dutch, not even for his own son. They died, Eliza and the boy. It seemed like any time Arthur tried to love, things went to hell. And, so, he’d put it all away from him. It was hard sometimes, especially at first, but these days, Arthur hardly thought about sex at all. His loyalty was to Dutch, to the gang. His job was all that mattered. Personal desires just couldn’t interfere.

“Never?” Micah scoffed, “You mean in all these years, you never once sucked Dutch’s cock for him?”

“What?” Arthur asked, aghast, “No! He, he practically raised me.”

“So? My daddy raised me, and that didn’t stop him.”

Arthur glared, and twisted his hands in the iron cuffs, feeling the rough metal cutting into raw skin, “Dutch wouldn’t do that.”

“If you say so. But I don’t care if this is your first time, or you hundredth time, you’re going to do it right, now open up!” He jerked on Arthur’s head, pulling him forward, and pushed his cock back into Arthur’s mouth.

This time Arthur managed not to spit it out, though Micah was holding his head so close, and so tight, he wasn’t sure he could have. Drool dribbled out the corners of Arthur’s mouth, and trickled at the back of his throat. He could feel himself starting to gag and choke again.

“Breath through you nose, moron,” Micah hissed, between deep panting breaths. He was moaning a little, twisting Arthur’s hair with needy jerks.

Arthur did as he was told, and managed not to choke, barely. He sucked, and worked his mouth, hoping to do it right, just to have it be over with as quickly as possible

“That’s it,” panted Micah, “Come on!” He moaned, grunted, and drew heavy breaths through his nose. Then Micah started jerking Arthur’s head, thrusting, his cock pounding against the back of Arthur’s throat, fucking harder and harder.

Arthur did choke, but Micah was holding him too tight, and he couldn’t break free.

“Almost! YES….”

Come gushed into Arthur’s throat, filled his mouth, and dribbled over his split lips. Micah let go of him, and stepped back, sighing in satisfaction, as Arthur choked and coughed, dragging in ragged breaths, and coughing some more.

Micah reached out a hand, caressing Arthur’s face, spreading the spit, semen, and blood dripping down his chin over Arthur’s lips and up his cheek. “Not too bad for a first time, I suppose,” Micah said, “Young Lenny might survive yet.”

Finally getting his breath, Arthur groaned, and turned his head away.

“Don’t look so sour,” Micah said, “I know you enjoyed it, at least a little,” he nudged Arthur’s erection, and Arthur couldn’t suppress a small, needy moan. He was still hard, and it shamed him. He wanted more, wanted Micah to do something to relieve the growing need, but he also felt like he’d rather die.

Micah pushed him back, and then spread open his knees, before leaning down, and pulling Arthur’s penis free from his underwear.

“Looky what we got here,” he teased, and brushed his fingers over the length.

Arthur felt a thrill, and a growing throb of excitement run through him, and he suppressed another moan of pleasure, gritting his teeth hard.

“Ahh, don’t be ashamed, Sweet Cheeks,” Micah teased, “We always knew you wouldn’t be able to resist me.”

“Micah,” Arthur stammered, still not sure if he wanted to beg the man to stop, or do more, “This isn’t…”

“Isn’t what?” Micah sneered.

Arthur wasn’t sure… right? natural? fair?...  He knew it didn’t matter, so Arthur shut his mouth, and just shivered.

“Alright, come here, big boy,” Micah scoffed, and stood, dragging Arthur up and twisting the short chain, moving him awkwardly around, so he could dump the bigger man on the dirty little bed.

Arthur didn’t resist, though the end result left him with the ridge of the bed’s metal footboard digging into his back, just below the shoulders and he arms pulled over the edge, toward where the chain attached to the lower fame on that end. It was very uncomfortable, with no support for his head and upper shoulders, and the rod of the bed-frame pressing into his back. But it left plenty of room for Micah to get up on the cot, and kneel between his legs, pushing them wide apart.

“I’m a reasonable man,” Micah said, “I’m willing to do you the favor of jerking you off, Sweet Cheeks, but you’re going to have to ask me, admit you need me… beg.” He pinched the end of Arthur’s penis, rubbing his thumb over the very tip, and Arthur moaned though his nose, still keeping his teeth clamped tight.

“Beg, like filthy little slut you are.”

Arthur didn’t say anything, just breathed hard, and tried to resist the growing, desperate need, as Micah barely tickled him, teased, then reached up, and dragged his nails down Arthur’s belly. “You’re getting on my nerves again, Morgan. I can see how bad you want it. Come on now.” His hand slipped into Arthur’s underwear, cupping around Arthur’s balls, simulating him, but not enough to grant any real relief.

Arthur couldn’t help but try and raise his hips, arching into Micah’s hand, and then gave a strangled cry of frustration, as Micah moved his hand away.

“Come on, you stubborn fool,” sneered Micah, “It’s far too late now to cling to pride. My mercy has its limits, Morgan, this is your last chance.”

Arthur swallowed, suppressing a sob of shame and need, but when Micah gave a snort, and started to lean back, he broke and pleaded, “Please, Micah, please…”

“Please what?” Micah leered.

“Please… rub it, suck it… anything, just don’t leave it… hurting like this.”

Micah put his hand over Arthur’s cock, but didn’t do anything but give it a slight squeeze, “You’re a filthy little whore… say it.”

“I’m… I’m a filthy little whore,” Arthur repeated, and then groaned as Micah finally began to stroke him.

“You’re pathetic, nasty and weak.”

Arthur closed his eyes, knowing it was true, “Yes.”

“You’re a failure, Morgan, a sorry excuse of a man, who deserves to be punished. You’ve had this coming a long time.” Micah was stoking faster, more vigorously and panting some himself, his other hand slipping into his own pants.

Arthur sobbed, but also gasped, arching his back, and feeling himself growing closer and closer to a climax.

“You’re nothing. Nothing but a sour, bitter waist of space and breath.”

Arthur was weeping, gasping hard, his whole body hot and tingling. Micah kept rubbing, his calloused hand, dragging fast and rough over his sensitive skin.  And, finally, a cry of relief, of agony and ecstasy twisting together, broke from Arthur, as he came, semen spurting out, making a mess between his legs, and over Micah’s hand.

“You’re a bad man,” Micah said, and leaned forward to wipe his hand over Arthur’s face, smearing the come across it.

Arthur filched his head away, but could only pant, and close his eyes in shame, feeling like everything Micah had called him, and a hundred times worse.

Moving up to sit on Arthur’s stomach, and leaning over him, Micah breathed close to his skin, sniffing him, feeling him, chuckling maliciously in his ear, before, grabbing his head, and kissing him on the mouth, deep, hungry, wet. His teeth closed on Arthur’s lower lip, biting hard, drawing blood, and making Arthur whimper in pain, before letting go. “I love you like this,” Micah breathed, “Broken. God, you’re so…” Micah’s hand moved down his neck, and his nails raked deep into Arthur’s chest, leaving red marks, “…perfectly ruined.”

Arthur tried to breath, but it was difficult with Micah sitting on top of him, and the bed frame digging into his back. After being beaten with a stick, and kicked to hell, Arthur was beginning to think breathing wasn’t worth all this pain and the effort anymore.

“If… you’re… done,” he whispered with difficulty, “Can we make an… end of things?”

Micah laughed, “Begging for death already, Cowpoke?”

“We both know…” Arthur panted, trying to breath, his battered chest causing Micah to rise and fall, where his sat atop, “You’re never … letting me live.”

“Oh sure…” Micah agreed, “I’m defiantly going to kill you… eventually. I followed you here in order to kill you, Morgan. But, the way you turn me on… Mmm. The beautiful wreck you are…” He leaned down, and sucked on the skin of Arthur’s neck, slurping, biting, laughing with pent up anticipation, “I think I’ll be able to keep going all night. Might even keep you chained up here for another day. Hate to let a good thing go to waist.”

Still laughing, Micah got his knife and began cutting off the rest of Arthur’s underwear, ripping away the union suit, and finally stripping him completely naked.

Arthur just turned his head, beginning to feel numb… distant, completely hopeless. He was nothing, just a broken object for Micah’s twisted amusement. Arthur only grunted some, as Micah turned him over, getting him positioned ass up on the bed, and pushing wide his legs. He knew what was coming, but, by now, it hardly mattered.

Micah fucked him hard, pounded deep and mean, hooting, making the whole bed rock and shake, but it soon just became a blur of pain and noise to Arthur. He screamed, and he even cried, but his consciousness started fading, blacking out, getting disoriented and confused. He wasn’t sure if it’d been minutes, or hours. Was this still the first time, or the second… third… fourth time Micah had fucked him? Was it still night at all? Was he loosing consciousness, or just losing his mind? He supposed it didn’t matter. It was all hell.

Lenny Summers woke up in the dark, surrounded by slime and stench. His wrists and ankles were tied tight, and a dirty gag had been forced between his teeth. He gave a muffled shout of fear and panic, struggling and his head banged against rotten wooden walls. He was stuffed into a tiny building, an outhouse no doubt by the smell of it. He tried to scream for help, tried to kick and struggle, but he quickly realized it was no good. So he fell still, trying to gather his wits, be coolheaded and think.

He was in the swamps. Dutch had sent him. The man had been furious. After Arthur failed to show up in the city, he’d cursed and sulked, muttering about ingratitude, and faithlessness under his breath, before announcing that he was going to the city hotel. He’d ordered Lenny to find Arthur, and bring him there by morning.

Lenny remembered getting to camp a few hours before dusk and talking to Javier. Javier had told him Arthur had left hours ago but had been planning on searching the swamp roads on his way to the city, looking for Micah, wanting to make sure the other man knew about the O’Driscoll attack

…

“He seemed pretty worried. Don’t blame him though, after what happened to Kieran, and getting grabbed by those bastards himself just a month back. I told him Micah was probably just fine, but he didn’t like the idea of anyone being unaccounted for.”

“Well, he never met us in Saint Denis.”

Javier frowned, “That’s not good… Normally I’d not worry, but Morgan is right. This is a bad time to be missing.”

“Who’s missing?” John walked up, his harsh voice abrasive, but anxious.

“Arthur,” Lenny said, “He didn’t meet me and Dutch in Saint Denis.”

“Morgan not answering Dutch’s ever beck n’ call?” John said and then grudgingly nodded, “Yeah. I’d say that’s reason for concern.”

“Micah’s missing too,” Javier said, “Arthur was planning on looking for him.

John’s face darkened, and he turned toward the horse, “Let’s go,” he said, “We’ll split up, and check all the roads through the swamps between here and the city. But meet back here after sunset.”

“Might be better if we stick together,” Javier said, as he and Lenny followed John to the horses, and mounted up.

“It would be, but there’s not much light left, and it’s a lot of ground to cover. I don’t want us staying out there long after dark…” John hesitated, and grimaced, “I’ve heard too many stories ‘bout that swamp. Just keep your wits about you, fire your guns if you run into trouble, and ride the hell away from anything that seems more than you can handle. We’re looking for answers, and our lost people, not fights.”

“Right,” Lenny said, nodding.

“Charles!” John called, turning his horse around, “You and Bill look after camp. We’ll be back in a couple hours.”

“If you’re not?” Charles asked, standing by, his face grim.

“Then get word to Dutch fast as you can, and be ready to get everyone out of here fast, if you need to.”

Charles nodded, “I’ll see to it.”

“Lenny,” John said, turning back to him and Javier, easily taking command, “Go north, and check out Lagras and Lakay, and the roads running north out of the city. Javier, check south along railroad lines, and the west roads. I’ll go up the Kamassa River and ask questions around Caliga Hall.”

And they’d split up.

Lenny had been nervous. He’d never been a good tracker, but the folks in Lagras had been helpful, telling him they’d seen both Micah and Arthur riding the roads earlier that afternoon, though not together. They’d directed him south toward Lakay, but warned him that the place was dangerous. They’d seemed downright terrified, talking is hushed whispers, and shaking their heads.

“Brother, thar ain’t nothin’ but spooks an’ demons in those waters. It’s a bad place, a very bad place. Best you stay here, brother. Look fer yer friends tomorrow.”

Lenny had thanked them, but mounted back up. Dusk was coming quickly. There wasn’t much time, and he was getting really, and truly worried.

He’d found Baylock and Arthur’s horse in the last of the day’s light. Standing nervously together, skittish of the gators, and looking forlorn. They’d greeted him and his own mount with relieved neighs, but Lenny hadn’t seen their riders anywhere. He’d called out their names, and dismounted, walking around. He’d noticed a light through the cypress trees, saw what he thought was some kind of building, a cabin perhaps… Then nothing. A thud maybe, and a pain in his head.

…

Tied up in the outhouse, Lenny groaned. His head was pounding, throbbing in a couple of places. Some bastard must have come up behind him, knocked him clean out. He tried to remember something more, anything. And he vaguely recalled voices, and a dirty floor. Voices… he couldn’t recall anything said, but he was pretty sure it’d been Arthur and Micah talking. Were they alive somewhere nearby? Were they also, captives? Who’d attacked him?

The list of possibilities was depressingly long. But it didn’t immediately matter. Whoever had tied him up, and thrown him in here, they were bad news. Lenny just needed to focus on getting free, and work on solving the mysteries of it all later.

He squirmed his arms. The ropes were far too tight to wriggle out of, but the outhouse was old, and poorly built, with rough broken wood, and some rusty nails sticking out in places. Shifting, Lenny was able to maneuver so he could drag the ropes over a twisted nail head. It was slow going, but gradually the strands frayed, broke and the rope around his wrists came apart.

Frantically, Lenny undid the rest of the bonds, and pulled the gag out of his mouth. To his surprise, his weapons were still in their places, and he held a pistol close, as he shakily stood, and pushed open the outhouse door.

Outside it was dark as the devil’s soul. No moonlight penetrated the clouds and the thick canopy of trees, no fires gleamed. The only light visible at all was the yellow gleam of lantern light, creeping through the cracks of some boarded up windows on a nearby house.

“Micah? Arthur?” Lenny whispered, crouching, listening, trying to ignore the pounding of his heart, “You out here? Anyone?”

No answer, just the cicadas and bullfrogs, the brurrs and cracks of night noises, the splash of gators in the water, hootings of an owl, a ghostly “whoooop’per-will!” chirping in the distance. Then, as his ears grew keener, accustomed, and anxious to the sounds around him, and Lenny could hear fait sounds coming from the direction of the house, bumps, moans, breathless laughter, or gasping maybe, barely distinguishable through the sounds of the wilderness.

Feeling his way nervously through the absolute darkness, Lenny crept closer, finding the porch with his hands, and carefully sneaking up the steps, toward faint lines of light that outlined a door. The noises were louder now, identifiable as sex sounds, and Lenny hesitated. Maybe he shouldn’t disturb whoever was in there, maybe he shouldn’t go sticking his nose where it wasn’t wanted. The smart thing would be to get the hell out of here. Go find John, Javier, and the rest.

But there was a bad feeling in Lenny’s stomach. His guts were telling him something was very, very wrong. That soon it’d be too late. Lenny knew he was young by some people’s reckonings, but he’d seen a lot, a lot of bad. He’d done a lot of bad, and seen others do it too. He’d seen a lot of worse than bad, and he wasn’t a fool. He’d learned to trust his gut. He wasn’t a coward either.

Swallowing, Lenny checked his ammunition, and pushed back the hammer of his pistol, before standing, and shoving the cabin door open with his shoulder.

The light was blinding for a moment, but then he saw the bare and filthy cabin, the broken-down shelves and boarded windows, the yellow newspapers glued to the walls, the chains, and the bed. He saw Arthur, head and shoulders drooping limply over the end of the bed, hands chained, naked body covered in bruises and the red welts of a brutal beating, his light brown hair matted with blood. And there was Micah on top, naked from the waist down, grunting, trusting, pounding flesh into flesh, and shaking the whole rickety cot with the violence of his sex.

Micah looked up, and his face twisted. “Damned darky! I’ll kill you, you little shit…” he lunged off Arthur, staggering toward where his pants and guns had been tossed on down on the floor.

Lenny reacted, clearing his mind of the horror, of the gruesome shock of the scene. He didn’t panic, didn’t waist time. He calmly aimed, and shot Micah Bell in the chest. The man collapsed to the floor, and Lenny kept firing his pistol, shooting Micah four times in the swollen, naked balls, then twice in the head, right between the eyes.  The body fell back, watery eyes staring, glassy, and dead, but still fixed in an expression of angry disbelief.

His own dark eyes stern, Lenny stepped inside the cabin, looking at Micah’s body in disgust, and reloading his gun. He’d always known Micah Bell was a horrible, creepy, bloodthirsty bastard, but he’d never thought he could… do this.

His mouth dry and bitter, Lenny looked at Arthur, and he wasn’t even sure that the man was still alive. He was so limp and still. Blood and other mess covered him, and he’d been badly beaten. “Dear god,” Lenny whispered, “Arthur.”

There was a faint moan, and a soft clink, as the chains shifted, and Arthur weakly turned his lulling head.

“Arthur? Hold on,” putting his gun away, Lenny hurried over, dropping to his knees beside the bed.

“Lenny?” groaned Arthur, “Get out of here... he’s… he’s going to kill you. Run…” Arthur was sobbing, choking for breaths, “Warn… Dutch. Micah’s a traitor… he…”

“He’s dead, Arthur,” Lenny said, placing a hand gently on the man’s shoulder, “He’s dead. He can’t hurt anyone again.”

“He’s…” Arthur shook, flinching some, even from Lenny’s careful touch, “He’s…”

“Dead, and gone forever,” Lenny assured. “I’m getting you away from here. I’ll get you home.” Lenny reached for the chains, and then looked around, trying to find the key. “Where’s the key, Arthur?”

Arthur didn’t answer. He seemed to have faded out of consciousness, and Lenny felt worry sinking into his gut, a slow realization of how desperate they were. He needed to hurry. Getting up, Lenny took off his coat, draping it over Arthur, and then turned to search the cabin. He turned over shelves, breaking boxes and pulling out drawers. He ransacked Micah’s clothes, but finally found the key to the iron cuffs dropped in a crate of moonshine jugs by the wall.

“We’re almost out of here,” he assured Arthur, as he unlocked the man’s bloody wrists, “I just need to go find the horses. Alright? I’m coming right back. Hold on… we’re getting out of here.”

Arthur didn’t answer, nor even move, and Lenny grabbed one of the two lanterns in the cabin, before hastily stepping outside, and looking around, giving a shrill whistle. He heard the horses nicker, somewhere out in the dark and started down the steps, but then heard a thud in the cabin behind him, something heavy hitting the floor. Probably just Arthur climbing out of that horrible bed, but Lenny hesitated, that bad feeling coming back, his instincts once again telling him something was wrong, that he didn’t have any time to spare.

Dropping the lantern into the mud, Lenny spun around, and shouldered his away back through the door.

Arthur was kneeling on the floor beside Micah’s body, Lenny’s coat still draped over his shoulders. He had one of Micah’s guns in his hand, and was lifting it, turning it toward his own head.

“No! Arthur!” Lenny lunged, tackling Arthur, grabbing the gun, and forcing the barrel up. It went off, filling the cabin with noise, gun smoke, and the flash of power. The bullet buried itself in the wood of the rafters above, and Lenny wrestled the pistol away, throwing it and Micah’s second gun into the corner.

Arthur was shaking, sobbing, crumpling down, and Lenny caught him, wrapping his arms comfortingly over his shoulders. The older man let him hold him. He buried his face in Lenny’s shoulder and just cried.

Lenny felt awkward, holing his friend like this, a man he looked up to, having him weep into his shoulder like a child, but the awkwardness faded, as he shifted his thoughts away from himself, and just considered Arthur, and everything he’d been through. Lenny would sit here as long as he needed to, and hold Arthur safe. Soon he was softly crying himself. He couldn’t bring himself to say - everything will be alright,- couldn’t promise Arthur he’d get better, couldn’t really offer anything, but his presence. Couldn’t do anything, but share some of this emotional pain, this wreck and ruin of something that’d been so strong. Lenny didn’t know what would happen, but he wasn’t going to abandon his friend. He’d get him back to John, to Hosea, and Charles, and everyone else.

Whatever happened, Arthur would have his family right here to catch him. Lenny could only pray it’d be enough to get him through.