Deliverance † Arthur Morgan

four: tepid water

The gang gets along well enough in Valentine with a few good opportunities, and Miss Cornwall finds ways to bide the time with the band of misfits and degenerates.

     ARTHUR TUCKS HIS journal into his satchel as he moves from the hitching posts to his wagon. It's well after midnight and besides Javier keeping watch, everyone, save Lilian Cornwall, is fast asleep. He stops in his tracks when he hears soft humming and whispered words, seeing her swaying to the slow tune by the campfire —a lullaby if Arthur remembers right, one his mother used to sing to him a lifetime ago. I gave my love a cherry that had no stone. Arthur runs his hand over his face, breaking himself from the trance of memory —discovering a piece of himself he thought lost years ago. The soft thuds of his footfalls on damp earth and the jingle of his spurs give away his approach. Lily looks over her shoulder, finishing the last verse of the lullaby. "Arthur," she greets, hiding the sadness in her hazel eyes with a smile.

     He sits on the log next to her, hands clasped in front of him, head hanging down. Then after a moment, he takes off his old hat, sitting it on his knee, and runs his hand through his hair with a sigh. Arthur never really knows what to say to Lily, but despite that, he's come to enjoy her company. Despite the circumstance, Lilian repays kindness with kindness, and day-by-day those willing to see it know she's a gentle soul thrown to the wolves. He isn't sure how much longer they'll get to have these late-night talks either —Sheriff Malloy mentioned word on the wind from West Elizabeth was Pinkertons had been spotted near Fort Riggs, heading east with their pockets lined with Leviticus Cornwall's purse. Hell was coming for the misguided souls who'd taken Lilian.

     The call of a horned owl in the trees above breaks the silence and gives Lilian the courage to speak first. "You like drawing?" It's not so much a question as an observation. Sleep hasn't been easy to come by, and often when Lily wakes in the night, she finds Arthur writing and sketching by the dim light of an oil lantern. "I see you with your journal at night," she admits.

     Over the years, he's filled at least three journals with sketches, and entries too, since Dutch and Hosea taught him to read and write. All Arthur's left with is the journal in his satchel —the last one burned up in the Grizzlies before the gang even made it down to Blackwater. "Jus' something to keep busy with," he tells her, "remember the places I've been." Maybe in another life, he'd be an artist, or a rancher even —a good honest man— but the cards life dealt him turned him into a gunslinging desperado. Arthur steals a lingering glance at Lily in the silence, wondering what it is a high society lady does to while away the days. "How 'bout you?" He asks. "What does one of your social status do to pass time?"

     Shifting, Lily smiles. "I dabble in art," she tells him, thinking about the sketchbooks filled with charcoal drawings and watercolors from the passing years. If not for being the only child of Leviticus Cornwall, she likes to think she'd be an artist by now —living in Paris or Rome. Instead, she settles on art as a hobby and can only hope one day people might see beauty in her creations despite the destruction wrought by her name. The spark Arthur seen grow at the mention of her craft fizzles out as she looks back into the red embers of the dying fire. "Don't suppose I'll be sketching or painting anytime soon, though." Arthur bows his head, feeling guilt twist in his stomach.

     A cool breeze cuts through the overlook, and Lilian shivers. She still wears the bloody coat from the train job over her shawl, but they're both thin for the weather. Arthur stands, leaving his hat on the log, and goes to his footlocker. "Here" —he drapes his fading black duster coat around her shoulders— "can't have you catchin' the crud." Last thing they needed was for something to happen to Lilian Cornwall, yet only he and Hosea seemed to realize that. Arthur sits on the log again, stoking the campfire back to flames.

     Lily takes a deep breath, sliding her arms into the coat —the dark leather smells of cigarette and gun smoke. "Thank you," she says, gaze flitting from the fire to Arthur. He nods, unable to get that diminutive smile of hers out of his head. Sighing, Arthur pulls out his journal again, opening the worn leather book to a fresh page, and glimpses Lily from the corner of his eyes before putting charcoal to paper.

     THE POTATO HASH is burnt black around the edges. Pearson let his mind wander to the bottle, forgetting the iron skillet over the fire. Lilian glances down into her tin cup of coffee, pushing away the plate and burnt bits. Camp is always quiet in the mornings, peaceful almost, with everyone enjoying their coffee and breakfast before starting the day and whatever jobs and chores it entailed. Mary-Beth says it's only quiet because Micah Bell isn't around —he's got the habit of stirring up more trouble than he's worth. Her gaze flits up when a shadow passes. "John," she greets when he brings his plate to the table and sits across from her, poking at the hash.

     He lowers his head in greeting. "Miss Cornwall."

     The bindings on his face are gone now. Leaving three long cuts across his cheek and jaw still held together with black sutures —the gashes on his nose and brow already scabbed over. "Looks like that's healing pretty good," Lily notes, having seen him half dead in Colter. Won't many men alive who could say they'd been shot and attacked by wolves within the same week and live to tell the tale.

     John lifts his hand, rubbing at the stitches. He's not out of the woods yet. Strauss likes to remind him of that, frequently —wouldn't take much for some dirt and sweat to put him in an early grave. "Sure," he replies, disinterested in conversation and the food on his plate.

     "Mornin' Jack." Lilian Cornwall's newest friend among the gang is little Jack Marston, a sweet boy a few months away from turning five. The past few days, he's spent his lessons with Lily, given Hosea wasn't feeling the best. He's not looking to start his lessons, at least not yet.

     "Where's Uncle Arthur?" The boy asks, searching the camp. Lily woke in the early hours after an uneasy night's sleep, just in time to see Arthur buckle his gun belt and don his worn hat before heading over to the horses. She wasn't sure where he was going or how long he'd be gone.

     "Strawberry," John answers, having overheard Arthur and Dutch talking about Micah Bell and the rumors he'd be swinging soon. Arthur hadn't been keen on going to save Micah's ass —after all, it was his call down in Blackwater with the ferry job that got Davey and Jenny killed, John nearly so, sending them all running north into the Grizzlies. Far from where they should have been by now. John looks at the boy, an odd glint in his dark stare before he stands, taking his plate over to the dishpan.

     Lilian knows what that look is about. Arthur told her Jack was John's boy, even if John didn't want to believe it or man up and be a father —didn't matter how many times Jack called him pa or asked him to play with his toy horse and sword. "Arthur'll be back in a day or two," she assures the boy, pulling one of the crates closer to her. Jack clambers onto it. "What are we reading today?" He sits his book on the table —a penny dreadful comic titled Otis Miller and the Boy from New York and one of his favorites.

     Jack opens the book to where they'd left off another day. Hosea says he needs to practice reading for an hour a day and another hour of practicing his letters and numbers —then he might retain things better than his father had at that age. Lily nods, encouraging the boy to start reading aloud. Jack points at the sentence. He's reticent —uncertain of each word and if he's saying it right. "Otis sat on his horse." A glance up at Lilian, and he knows he's said everything correctly. Jack returns his attention to the next sentence. "He looked at the wagons and" —he pauses, studying the unfamiliar word before trying to pronounce it— "reh...refoogee."

     "Refuge," Lily corrects, emphasizing the fyoo sound. He repeats the word, once, then twice, and Lily nods again —he's a fast learner, especially being raised by a band of outlaws. Hosea sits across the table from Lilian and little Jack, his smile hidden behind a newspaper. He still didn't agree with Dutch's choice to keep her for ransom, but perhaps some good could come of having someone gentle as Lilian Cornwall around.

     "What does that mean?" He asks, brown eyes wide and filled with curiosity.

     The question catches her off-guard. She knows what refuge means, but it's the meaning that stirs that sadness and longing in her chest. Lilian brushes back Jack's hair with a long sigh, a frown gracing her features. "It's when you're safe," she tells him, "sheltered from danger." Hosea closes his newspaper, hearing the sorrow in Lily's voice. He reaches across the table, gripping onto her hand in a way that tells her it's gonna be all right.