Arthur Morgan's Arc

Chapter 2 of 8

The dust from the bounty hunter's horse still hung over the slope. Arthur watched it settle and knew the clock had started. That man would ride to the nearest town and draw a map. More men would come, and they'd come in numbers. The camp had to move before nightfall. Arthur wiped his knuckles clean and went to find Dutch. Dutch stood by his tent, one boot up on a crate, reading Arthur's face before Arthur said a word. Dutch was the man who'd raised him into this life, and he still talked like every problem was a door he could charm open. "We don't run, Arthur," he said. "We choose. A gang that runs looks like prey." "It'll be prey if we stay," Arthur said. "He saw the overlook. He saw the tents. By morning half the county knows." He held Dutch's eye. "I'm not gambling my girl on a good speech." Dutch studied him. For a long moment the warmth left his face and something colder worked behind his eyes. Then he clapped Arthur's shoulder. "Then we move," he said. "But we move smart. Load only what matters. Leave nothing that names us." Arthur turned to the work. He crossed the camp and found Violet by the fire pit, gun still in her lap. "We're leaving," he told her. "Pack the wagon. Fast and quiet." She didn't ask why this time. She stood and started rolling blankets. He watched her a moment. She was learning. That was the lesson underneath every other one. They worked through the afternoon. Men struck tents and rolled barrels up the ramps. Arthur pulled the harness onto the horses and lashed the crates down tight. Twice he walked the ground where a tent had stood, kicking dirt over anything that might tell a tracker who'd slept here. On the last pass he found his journal in the dirt near the fire. It had fallen from a saddlebag. He picked it up and brushed it off. His name was in there, and dates, and jobs. A gift to any lawman who found it. He almost pitched it into the coals. Instead he pushed it deep into his coat, against his chest. Violet climbed onto the wagon seat beside him. Dutch swung up on his own horse and lifted a hand. The line of wagons rolled off the overlook and down toward open country. Behind them the camp sat empty, its fire pit gone cold. Arthur looked back once. No smoke. No sign. Just churned dirt that any hard rain would wash clean. He'd bought them a lead. He didn't know how far ahead the bounty hunter's word had already traveled, or which town's men would find the trail first. Beside him Violet gripped the reins he'd handed her and held the team steady on the rough grade. He let her drive.