Arthur Morgan's Arc

Chapter 4 of 8

They made a cold camp when the light died. Violet had not spoken since the wagon. She sat by the small fire and watched the flames, hands folded tight. Arthur poured her a cup of coffee and set it near her boots. She didn't touch it. He'd killed a man in front of her that morning, and now he couldn't find a single word to close the gap. John Marston crossed the camp and crouched beside Arthur. He was younger than Arthur, quick to argue, but tonight he stayed quiet. He glanced at the girl, then at her father. "She'll come around," John said low. "Kids forget." "She won't forget this," Arthur said. "And I don't want her to." John frowned. "Then what do you want?" Arthur didn't answer. He rose and walked to his brown mare. From the saddlebag he pulled his journal. The leather was soft at the corners, the cover scarred from years of handling. He'd written in it since before Violet was born. He carried it back to the fire and sat down beside her. "I ain't good with talking," he said. "Never was." He opened the journal across his knees. "So I write things down. Things I done. Things I wish I hadn't." Violet looked at the pages. Cramped writing, small drawings, folded corners. "That man today wanted to hurt us," Arthur said. "He drew first. I read it in his shoulder before he moved. That's the only reason I'm still breathing." He turned a page. "Once I read a man wrong. Thought he was harmless. He wasn't. It cost me more than I'll ever tell you." Her voice came small. "Was that the first lesson?" "No." Arthur closed the journal. "The first lesson is this. I never wanted this life for you. But you're in it now. So I'm going to teach you how to stay alive in it." He held the book out to her. "Startin' with this. You watch people. You learn 'em. You write down what you see. It's how you keep from being wrong when it matters." Violet took the journal. She ran her thumb over the worn cover. "You'd give me this?" "I'll get another." He almost smiled. "You need it more than me." She opened it and read a line, then another. Something in her shoulders loosened. She looked up at him, and this time she wasn't afraid. She was listening. "Show me," she said. John watched from across the fire and said nothing. Arthur pointed toward the dark edge of camp, where a stranger's silhouette moved among the wagons. "Alright," he said. "That man there. Tell me what you see." Violet studied him hard. Then her face changed. "He keeps looking at our horses," she said. "Not at us. At the horses." Arthur's smile faded. He followed her gaze. She was right. The girl had learned faster than he wanted.