Chapter Text
Mr. and Mrs. John Paul Pierre request the honor of your presence at the marriage of Tilly Jackson to Landon Pierre on Saturday, July 18th, 1902 at 4 o’clock in the afternoon...
“Miss Tilly is finally settling down, huh,” Arthur says, scratching his beard. He hands the invitation to John, who doesn’t pause for a second while scarfing down oats to read it.
“Does this mean we have to go back to the city?” John says. Arthur cuffs him on the head. “Ow, jeez. You know I’m kidding.”
Kieran comes into the kitchen, stifling a yawn. His clothes are already dirtied from an early morning taking care of the horses, a diligent worker even without the threat of eviction hanging over his head.
“Kieran,” Arthur greets, “Miss Tilly is marrying that nice lawyer fella.”
“Great,” says Kieran, beaming. “Are we taking a trip to Saint Denis soon, then?”
“Sure are. You can visit that girl you’re sweet on there. What’s her name again? Mary-Beth, right?”
“Aw, not this again,” Kieran groans. He knows what’s coming.
“When are you gonna propose to that woman? You’ve been courtin’ her for years now, boy.”
Kieran plops down at the table and huffs. “Arthur, I’ve told you a thousand times: We’ll get married when she publishes her first book.”
Arthur crosses his arms, looking stern. “If I have grey hairs at your wedding, I ain’t gonna be happy.”
“At this rate, you’ll be too old to even walk him down the aisle,” John says.
“I shoulda stayed out there sweating with the horses,” Kieran grumbles as Arthur kicks John under the table.
“Ow, what the hell,” John says, and retaliates by kicking Arthur back.
Arthur frowns and reaches for his bread, fully prepared to throw it in John’s face. John already has a spoonful of oats in hand.
“Will you two ever grow up?” Abigail says, exasperated, snatching the spoon from John as she saunters in, followed by Hosea. She heads to the stove to pour coffee while Hosea takes a seat at the table.
“I wouldn’t count on it. I’ve been waiting for over two decades now,” Hosea says. He murmurs a thanks as Abigail sets a steaming cup of coffee in front of him.
“What can I say? Johnny boy here keeps me young,” Arthur says fondly.
“Is that so? He makes me age twice the speed,” Abigail says.
“You, too,” John mutters, then squawks when Abigail throws a chunk of bread at him. He clambers out of his seat to grab her by the waist, fingers climbing to poke her in the ribs.
“No tom-foolery in the kitchen,” Hosea says. He meets Arthur’s eyes, and they both smile. It’s a typical morning in the household.
.
Arthur,
Just writing to let you know I’m accompanying Brother Dorkins on a mission to Venezuela. The plan is to stay there for at least a year, so I may not be able to write to you all for a while. Say hello to everyone at the ranch for me and let them know I still say a prayer for each of you, every single night.
Thank you again for all you have done for me.
Best Wishes,
Reverend Orville Swanson
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“Can you believe it? The bastard’s really gone straight,” Uncle exclaims after he reads the letter. “A mission to Venezuela. Goddamn…”
“Eh, I’m not surprised. The reverend hasn’t touched drink in more than a year,” Arthur says. He tucks the letter back into his pocket and reclines in his seat on the porch. The ranch stretches out before them, sun setting on acres of verdant land.
“Don’t know how he does it,” Uncle says, and punctuates the statement with a long swig of his beer. “I’m still the same ol’ drunken fool.”
“Humbleness doesn’t suit you, Uncle,” Arthur says, smiling wryly. Uncle runs the cattle ranch with Javier (though Javier tends to come and go as he pleases, so Uncle is surprisingly the responsible one), by far the most profitable segment of business. Kieran swears up and down that he and John will beat them once they sell their first prize horse, but so far the kid hasn’t had the heart to sell any of the horses they’ve raised, despite John’s attempts to bully him into it. Although, if you ask Arthur, John hasn’t been the most proactive about selling the horses either.
Uncle grins. “Maybe I’m just fishin’ for compliments, Mr. Morgan.”
.
Arthur,
Thank you once again for joining me on my trip to photograph that magnificent elk! I cannot believe we saw with our own two eyes such a beauteous sight. The world is so full of wonders, my friend, and with every trip we take, I grow more astonished that it is possible to uncover more.
I have researched our next quarry: a legendary cougar that prowls the deserts of Gaptooth Ridge! I already know what you’re about to say: I am a fool, yes, and I will one day get ripped to pieces by whatever predator I have chosen to pursue that day. It is a small wonder, then, that you keep coming with me! I think that maybe you are just as much a fool as I.
Please relish in the photograph of that elk. It is in color this time; society’s rapid advance has some good outcomes, I suppose.
Your Friend,
Albert Mason
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M. Floyd/Callahan/Morgan/Whatever your silly name is now,
Life in Tahiti is, as usual, utterly fantastic. Again, I must implore you to come visit! Beautiful women lounging in the sun, their skin shining like gold. And their breasts, supple and rich, untarnished by city fumes and smog! Friend, take a trip down here, you must. Oh, I know you’ve heard it all before from me, but I will not rest until you relent!
Mostly, I write to congratulate you on your latest exhibit (I wrangle American news down here just for you). What the government is doing to the native people in your country is filthy. Deplorable. Society is all animals. If my art could help to raise awareness for their plight, I would gladly contribute it!
Good luck, friend. You are the only American I have met who attempts to have some principles.
Charles Châtenay
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“Arthur, it’s good to see you.”
Arthur startles at the sight of his old friend in a suit. A six-foot wall of muscle, he looks wildly out of place amongst the waifish, jeweled women and plump businessmen. Then again, Arthur supposes he looks equally strange, despite this being his own exhibit.
“Charles? What are you doing here?” Arthur says.
Charles tugs at his collar, visibly uncomfortable. It’s rather amusing; even after being mauled by a cougar during a hunting trip together, he was stoic. Charles Smith, defeated by a suit and tie.
“Rains Fall asked that I come. Eagle Flies cannot be trusted to contain himself right now,” Charles says.
Arthur nods. “I can’t blame him.” Tensions are high. After years of political maneuvering, threats, and well-placed bribes, Cornwall has finally managed to get the federal government to relocate the Wapiti people off their reservation. The oil tycoon will begin drilling the land any day now.
Despite Arthur’s best efforts to sway George Lauder toward providing more aid to the Native Americans and wildlife conservation programs, Lauder is more focused on visions of science and progress. He sponsors art exhibits like this one every now and then or donates to charities that Arthur writes to him about, but his passion for nature seems to only extend to romantic poetry, not so much to action.
Arthur sighs heavily. In response, Charles grabs two flutes of champagne off a nearby waiter’s tray and hands one to him.
“Thanks,” Arthur says, and knocks the whole thing back like a shot.
Charles smothers a grin. “How long do you have to stay here?”
“How long do you ?” Arthur counters.
“I think I’ve done enough. Let’s go get a real drink.”
“In Blackwater? No such thing,” Arthur says, but he’s following Charles to the exit anyway.
“I have some whisky in my saddlebag. We can ride out and find a spot.”
“Charles, you may be the best man I’ve ever known.”
.
Arthur,
Can you please stop getting arrested for disturbing the peace? I know, I know, the hypocrisy. But seriously, don’t you and Charles have anything better to do than scare some poor rancher’s sheep?
That being said, I’ve written the sheriff and all charges against the two of you will be dropped. Just please stay away from Blackwater for a little while (again).
Also, I know that you ask me to help as “practice for my eventual big-shot law career”, but you already have a real big-shot lawyer on your side. Next time, just ask him. And when you write to me next, it better be to invite me for a goddamned drink or something more fun.
I know, I know. The hypocrisy.
Best,
Lenny Summers
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“...so I get a telegram saying that Arthur is in the Blackwater County Jail, with Charles of all people, for rustling sheep .” Lenny throws his hands in the air, and beer from his teetering mug sloshes onto his shirt. No one looks over at the ruckus; it’s Friday night in Saint Denis, and the saloons are packed to the brim. “Man’s a goddamn world-renowned artist, and here he is getting arrested for rustling livestock!”
“Once a cowboy, always a cowboy,” Javier says. He nudges Arthur on the shoulder, friendly. “Why did you have to drag Charles into your nonsense, man?”
“It was a misunderstanding,” Arthur grumbles. “Charles and I just wanted to take a closer look at these strange cows he had. It was nighttime. It was dark. They turned out to be regular ol’ sheep.”
Lenny howls with laughter.
“It was dark .”
Javier smiles into his whiskey. “You’re damn lucky John doesn’t know. Your ass would never live it down.”
“All those years of telling him he got his brains eaten by wolves,” Lenny giggles, “and you’re out here mistaking sheep for cows.”
“You really wanna keep mockin’ me about drunk foolishness?” Arthur says. “Javier, I remember one time I came into the studio, and that French painter was dolled up in a dress--”
“No, you know, I don’t think he needs to hear that story,” Lenny swiftly interrupts.
“I think I really do,” Javier says.
Arthur grins. “Well, like I said, the French painter is a fancy pink dress with make-up, to boot, and Lenny is in a dress right along with him.” Lenny groans and puts his head in his hands. “It’s yellow and frilly and real poofy, like he’s going to a ball. He even has on rouge.”
Javier eyes Lenny like he’s imagining it. “What the hell, Summers.”
“Lenny got the idea to rob some party with a lot of rich folk. Go in, pickpocket the drunk bastards, then run off with all the cash and jewelry before anyone realizes what’s going on. Châtenay, being Châtenay, convinces him that they should dress as women to do it.”
“He said it was the perfect disguise. And honestly, those dresses had a lot of room to store stuff,” Lenny defends weakly.
“You’re lucky Arthur stopped you two when he did,” Javier says, then chokes on a sip of whiskey as Arthur pauses tellingly. “You didn’t ?”
“They had already robbed the damn party when I found ‘em,” Arthur says. “Lenny got away with it, but Châtenay was recognized by a lot of people. That’s partly why he ran off to Tahiti.”
Javier cackles. “Summers, you must have made a real convincing woman.”
“Damn the French,” says Lenny ruefully.
.
Arthur,
Got good news to share with you all. The missus and I have recently brought our firstborn into this world, a son, Oliver Pearson. Come visit and bring everyone along. I kind of miss Javier’s singing. He makes the missus sound like a dying cat. Don’t tell the smug bastard that. Either of them!
Also, you won’t believe who came by the store the other day. Sadie fucking Adler. Woman is the same. Still is wearing pants and has fifteen guns on her. She practically robbed me with the discount that I gave her. Anyway she said she’s staying in Valentine a while longer, if you wanna stop by the saloon.
Seriously come by and visit soon. I’m trapped here.
Simon Pearson
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“Mrs. Sadie Adler,” Arthur greets, sliding into the barstool beside her. “It is damn good to see you.”
“You, too, Arthur,” Sadie says. Pearson was wrong; she isn’t quite the same. Her hair is shorter, cut low by her chin to frame her face, clean and practical. She’s tanner from years of living outdoors, and her freckles have doubled. Most of all, she looks calmer. The wrathful slant of her brow has smoothed out; her mouth no longer forms a sneer so easily. Her shoulders are pushed back, confident, without the same haunted slope that weighed her down before.
“You look good,” she remarks. “You look younger. You got some magic fountain up on that ranch of yours?”
“Well, sure we do. It’s in the shed where Uncle makes his moonshine.” Sadie laughs. Even that comes easier now. “So, Mrs. Adler, how have you been these past few years?”
Sadie hums reflectively. She fishes out a cigarette and lights it herself, buying time to assemble her response. “Well, pretty shit, at first, I won’t lie. Dutch,” she says cautiously, continuing when Arthur doesn’t blink at the name, “led us north to some rat-infested mud heap. There was talk about robbing Cornwall and interfering with the Army and the Indians.” She scoffs. “I know. It was insane. But luckily, me being my persuasive and charming self, I got him to focus on hunting down Colm instead. So we spent a few months killing his boys until we got to him.” She flashes her teeth, bloodthirsty at the memory, a bite of the old Sadie. But then the fury fades. “I split ways with them after that. Not sure what they’re up to now.”
Arthur bumps lightly her on the shoulder. “Good thing I’m asking ‘bout you then, not them.”
Sadie bumps him back, much harder. Arthur catches himself on the counter. “Well, I decided to go straight. Been bounty hunting.”
“Damn, I owe Javier some money,” Arthur curses. “He knew it was you when we started hearing rumors of some woman bounty hunter.”
“Well of course he knew,” Sadie says. “He’s ridden out with me before.”
Arthur blinks. “Why, that tricky bastard. I always wondered why he was goin’ out to scout bulls but never came back with no cattle.”
“I think you’re just losing your touch, Arthur Morgan,” she teases. “Gullible old man can’t see a lie if it slapped him across the face.”
“Maybe so,” he concedes, grinning. “So, why’d y’all never ask me or John to come along?”
“You both got a life now, a good one. Marston has a kid. Didn’t think it was right to get you mixed up with this dangerous business again.” Sadie admits, “And mostly, sometimes we have to work with people that y’all aren’t on the best terms with.”
“Ah,” Arthur says, and drops it. “Well, I’m glad you’re here now. You stayin’ in Valentine much longer?”
“A while. Got a bounty in these parts.” She adds, sheepish, “To be honest, I was thinking of taking a vacation after that. I heard there’s some rich artist around these parts who has a cushy ranch. Sometimes he takes in old friends.”
Arthur chuckles. “I heard that, too. I heard that old friends are always welcome, and can stay as long as they like.”
.
Dear Mr. Callahan,
It has been a long time since we last spoke. I have heard that your artist friend has reached new heights of success and acclaim, and I dearly congratulate you! I still have that original sketch of ‘A Fool in the Snow’, which I unabashedly use to impress any guests I entertain.
If you’re wondering why I’m writing now (or perhaps why I haven’t written for the past few years), it is because I found a subject for my new book: you. Now, I know you would be terribly against the idea, so let me reassure you that it is only based upon your life, and your real name would not be mentioned in capacity. I have traveled across the country interviewing your friends, acquaintances, and in some terrifying cases, your enemies. I bring good news from one in specific: He wishes you all very well, and hopes to stop by soon.
Also, that Miss Grimshaw is certainly something. If you do not hear from me again, it is safe to assume I have gone and eloped with her!
Sincerely,
Theodore Levin
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Springtime. The breeze carries pollen through the air, delicate motes of yellow. Clouds gather overhead in gossipy wisps before floating apart. Arthur is painting the sky when a familiar silhouette appears at the edges of the ranch: cowboy hat atop an august white horse.
“Abigail, put some coffee on and get Hosea, would you?” Arthur calls back toward the house. He’s smiling, and he can’t stop. “We have a visitor.”