Deliverance † Arthur Morgan

nine: a fisher of men

After the Pinkertons find Arthur and Jack by the river, he knows it's time to let Lilian Cornwall go, or else the borrowed time the gang has been living on since Blackwater may just run out.

     HE LIES IN wait for the right time —he always does, picking moments when she's alone, and now's one of those times. Arthur Morgan is off fishing with little Jack Marston, and most of the other men are out scouting jobs or neck deep in chores. Besides, it's not like Dutch is going to go out of his way to stand up for the woman he intends to ransom off. Micah Bell grips onto his gun belt, lolls his head to the side —cracking his neck— and then heads across the way to Lilian Cornwall, sitting on a crate with her nose in a journal. "Miss Cornwall," Micah greets, a strange lilt in his voice as he leans on the munitions wagon.

     She knows the voice and hardly gives him the time of day, only a glance with no intention of hiding her displeasure with his sudden and unwanted appearance. "Go away, Mr. Bell," Lily says, as politely as she can muster, still shading in a sketch. In the weeks since his unfortunate return, she's learned just why almost the entire gang seems to hold him with disregard. While most everyone in the camp had the mind to respect one another, it didn't seem as though the word was in Micah Bell's limited vocabulary.

     Lilian's request for solitude goes unheeded. "Jus' wanna talk, Lily," Micah says, leaning down —his hot and acrid breath fanning against her cheek and neck. It makes her skin crawl, but she won't give him the satisfaction of seeing her squirm in discomfort. "See if there's anything sweet under that sour look you always got."

     Turning her cheek, she meets his icy blue stare. "Your impudence is unsettling, sir," Lily responds, gaze flitting back down to her journal and the page half-filled with text. She should bite her tongue, but she speaks before thinking better of it. "It's no small wonder no one likes you."

     Micah's face goes red. She'd struck a nerve. "You best watch your goddamn mouth, woman," he hisses at her ear. "Arthur ain't here," he adds, more of a whisper as he wraps a hand around her arm, trying to trap her between him and the wagon.

     Lilian closes her journal, sets it aside, then rises from the crate, pulls from his hold, and smooths down the front of her skirt. There's a defiant glint in her eyes, unwilling to cower before him or run for help. Micah's lips curl upward. They hadn't broken her spirit just yet, but for just a bit more time he reckons he could —especially with Morgan not around. "Aren't you a big man," Lily taunts, holding her chin high, tired of his ill-treatment, "threatening a woman like that?"

     His short temper flares —won't the natural order of things to have a woman speak to him like that. Lily can't move quick enough to avoid the inevitable. Micah's hand collides with the side of her face thrice as hard as the drunk from Valentine. The force of it sends her to the ground on her hands and knees, cheek throbbing with a pain unlike anything she's ever felt. Lilian blinks away the tears blurring her vision, fingers digging into the soft earth to regain composure, before twisting to right herself. "How you like that?" Micah sneers, standing over her. There's blood on her lips, burgeoning red streaks on her cheek. Not so defiant now. He quite likes the sight of having Leviticus Cornwall's daughter at his feet like this.

     Arthur Morgan might not be around, but Charles Smith is. His hand curls into the collar of Micah's coat as he starts to lean down. Charles hauls him back 'fore shoving him, hard enough to make him stumble to keep upright. Micah Bell turns, face red and fuming —there's a foul remark on the tip of his tongue about being handled like that, but he can't get it out before Charles points to the tree line. "Leave," he grits out. Plans foiled, Micah backs away, his spiteful glare lingering on Lilian.

     Charles turns, and Lily nods her gratitude when he offers his hand, pulling her back to her feet. He rests a hand on her shoulder and guides her over to one of the tables, where John and Uncle are sitting. Lily takes a seat with them, nodding weakly when Charles asks if she's okay —not quite trusting her voice yet. She lifts a hand to the dampness on her lips and finds her fingertips coated with bright red blood. "Maybe you should shoot the bastard next time," she remarks, voice rougher than normal.