#ch. 22 | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sednonamoris · 2 years ago

Text

unbridled

Pairing: John Marston x gn!reader

Summary: A theft gone right and a deal gone wrong.

Warnings: Canon-typical violence, strong language, lots of dialogue, lots of horses

Word count: 2,322

A/N: my humble take on horse flesh for dinner <3 this is our last bit of plot before john and ghost have some time alone to figure out what exactly is going on between them next chapter... as always tysm for reading!!

Series masterlist • AO3

—

You manage to avoid Micah and Dutch and your own complicated feelings for all of a week before things start getting serious with these two families, the Braithwaites and the Grays. No longer is there time for your own petty feuds. Hosea has the ear of the Braithwaite woman, and Dutch has sent John to lean on the Gray head of house while he helps that Sheriff, Leigh, drink himself to death or uselessness. Maybe just death; he’s pretty useless all on his own.

You report back on the Braithwaite horses - finely made English Thoroughbreds with pedigrees to boot - and soon enough John sends for you and Javier to meet him at Caliga Hall. Arthur is supposed to join you there, too, but between playing sides and settling as a husband and surrogate father he’s barely had time to breathe, let alone rustle a stablefull of horses.

Tavish Gray waits in his own stable. He seems about as drunk as his brother - face flushed, eyes shot red and out of focus. His clothes are quality but his manner is entirely unkempt. If this is what a store of gold gets you, you might have to tell Dutch it’s not all he’s made it out to be. The animals in the barn don’t even seen that nice.

“Hello, sir,” John greets on everyone’s behalf. “You wanted a word with us?”

“That’s right.”

And what a word he wants.

In his rambling accent, he goes on about those traitorous Braithwaites and how high and mighty that Catherine is with her prize nags. You get the idea pretty quickly that he’d like you to steal them out from under her - knew that before you came, really - but he doesn’t stop there. Soon his rantings turn to how friendly your group has seemed. How troubled things have been in spite of it. His eyes squint as he says it, and his lip sticks out more with suspicion than with the tobacco he stuffs there.

By the time Arthur shows up John is in the middle of selling the usual lie - that your merry band of misfits suffered a failed investment in a railway company out West and came here seeking that ever-elusive American dream.

“We heard good men can do well in this country,” he says.

“Sure,” Tavish agrees, his speech slow. “And bad men.”

In spite of his doubts, though, Tavish promises gold - and five thousand dollars rustling those horses to boot. You give a subtle shake of your head when John raises his brows at the price. They’re nice animals. You’ll certainly turn a profit. But there’s not one fence down here in Nowhere, USA paying that much for Thoroughbreds that’ll have to make it over state lines to sell. Not one.

Crazy old fool.

“Five thousand dollars for horses?” John says when you’re far enough away that the manor guards won’t hear. “Guess we should’a taken a page out of Ghost’s book all this time. We been robbin’ the wrong folk.”

Arthur scoffs. “He doesn’t know what he’s talkin’ about. Who’s his contact?”

“Never said,” you reply. “Worst case scenario I’ll take John and run ‘em out of state myself. It’ll take longer, but the profit might be better. Tidier, anyway.”

“Sure. Dutch won’t be too happy about losing the extra guns, though.”

You roll your eyes. “He’ll be happy enough when we come back with the money.”

He always is. And, selfishly, a week away with John hardly sounds like the worst thing in the world.

“So,” Javier says, “how are we doing this?”

You about fall out of your saddle when John suggests shooting your way in and out, and again when Arthur wants to pose as buyers with the four of you looking every inch the no-good thieves that you are - miles away from respectable. You share a can you believe these morons look with Javier before announcing that you’ll all be riding back to camp before anyone else pipes up with any more rotten ideas.

—

“You been spendin’ too much time with Hosea,” Arthur grumbles as he tugs at the starched collar of his shirt.

After a change of clothes and horses, you’re near to the back gate of Braithwaite Manor now. The four of you cut a much more respectable figure on matching Morgans brushed to a shine with clean faces and clothes that aren’t marked by a lifetime’s worth of wear. You’re still armed, but to Arthur’s point, anyone about to ‘spend’ this much would be.

“Why don’t you leave the finer details of horse theivin’ to them that know better,” you snipe. “You clearly ain’t spent enough time with him if you think you’ll be able to waltz into a place like this all covered in mud and dressed like a degenerate.”

Javier snickers. Arthur glares at you both, which only makes you laugh more, but you sober up the moment the gates are in sight. John talks you all past the guard. It’s only a matter of setting a nice, easy pace along the manicured dirt paths to the stables after that. You offer directions here and there, but John leads confidently. Probably so Arthur can’t say I told you so if he messes this up.

You observe the grounds with an air of practiced indifference as you go. This place was certainly grand once, but a look at the peeling white paint and leaning fenceposts makes you wonder, not for the first time, if the Braithwaites have any riches left. Their horses may be fine enough, but the barn they reside in is decidedly ordinary. The closer you get the less impressive it is; its wood is unpainted, and there are shingles missing from the roof. Bales of straw lie hither and thither, like they can’t afford the help they need to move it all in place. Fence boards are down between paddocks. Only a single hand works out front, oiling a saddle that’s seen better days.

He’s suspicious of you all at first, even going so far as to call Javier greaser, but once Arthur spins a story about stables up in Saratoga he eases off and beckons the lot of you into the barn. A dark bay stallion stands tall and proud in the nearest stall, marked only by the stockings on his legs. His head is finely-featured, his eyes dark and intelligent. His legs are straight. Hindquarters strong. The stallions beside him - black with a star on his face and unmarked dappled grey, respectively - are much the same. Their ears flick to attention at the prospect of visitors. The grey tosses his head and paws, willful, but the black stud brings his head right over the stall door to whoof at your pockets for treats.

“We call him Old Father Time,” the stablehand says. Talking about his charges has warmed any remnants of suspicion right over. You almost feel bad he’s taken the bait so easily. “He loves his apples. Here,” he produces one from his pocket for you.

Father Time’s whiskers tickle as he gently takes it from your flat, outstretched palm and you can’t help but smile. You give an affectionate rub to the white snip on his nose while your new best friend tells you everything else there is to know about these animals. The bay stallion is named Cerberus. The grey one is known as Autocrat. Each one has a race record, he tells you, and each one is already a proven producer. You ask after specifics in their pedigrees just in case you find yourself forging papers later, but mostly to keep him busy while Javier slits his throat.

“Uh-huh?” he sneers as the body slumps to the ground. Blood pools over hard, dry dirt. “Greaser, huh?”

Autocrat rears up at the dark shift in mood, tossing his head with nostrils flared. The other stallions whicker nervously and dance in place. Their eyes roll white.

“Alright boys,” you say, loosening your gun in its holster and adjusting your bandana over your face. “Grab a horse and get a move on. Time for us to to get gone.”

—

It’s a close thing, but you make it off the manor without losing any horses or getting shot full of holes. Your pursuers turn back through the brush before making it to Clemens Clove, where Tavish’s mystery fence awaits. Everyone - human and horse - is blowing hard and sheened with sweat.

The fence’s covered wagon sits tucked in among the crumbling stone fences of the cove, just off its shoreline. A few horses mill about in temporary fencing. Nothing particularly impressive. Worth a couple bucks at most. But the thing that really turns your mouth in displeasure is the realization of exactly who Tavish’s associates are: Clay and Clive Davies.

“Well, well, well,” Clay drawls as you ride up, “look what the cat dragged in, Clive. The Ghost Rider of New Austin all the way up in Lemoyne and visiting little old us. My, how times change.”

“Fellas,” you greet tersely.

Clay leers a grin. “Ain’t you gonna introduce us to your friends?”

Between clenched teeth you make introductions on both ends. John, Arthur, and Javier, meet Clay and Clive Davies. Professional acquaintances. Old rivals. John raises his brows at your obvious displeasure, but you just grimace a polite smile. You’ve known the twins for longer than you care to recall. Back when you were young and dumb and maybe fifteen - just starting out - they were your biggest contacts. Those boys helped you move stolen horseflesh all across and beyond the state of New Austin. If you didn’t happen to sell to another fence and make twice your usual profits, you might never have realized just how bad they’d been fleecing you. Wool over the eyes. Played like a damn fiddle You were livid, of course, going so far as to tip the law off about their whereabouts - a favor they returned in kind. You’ve encountered them plenty over the years since, both of you ripping one another off in equal turns, and seeing them always puts a sour taste in your mouth.

“I haven’t seen you since you screwed us out of a good spot out near Blackwater,” Clay continues conversationally.

You shrug. “Anybody could’a tipped the law off. Obvious place.”

“Oh, sure,” he snorts derisively. “Anybody.”

“Look, we’re trying to move some horseflesh here. Think you can help us, or do we need to make other arrangements?” John interrupts.

Clay purses his lips and folds his arms, taking a step back to get a good look at your animals for the first time. They toss their heads but stand quietly otherwise. Their coats glisten in the sun. The brand marking each of their shoulders stands out, dark and obvious.

“I know these horses,” he finally says. He flashes a smug little grin your way when he adds, “They ain’t yours.”

“They ain’t yours yet, either. We’re askin’ four hundred a head.”

“Oh, you’re a real hoot, Ghost,” Clay laughs, wiping a fake tear from his eye. “Man, that is funny. How about six fifty for the lot of ‘em?”

John bristles beside you. “I was told we could get up to five thousand.”

“And I was told that the moon was made of ladies’ tears, only it ain’t true. Not one little bit.” He leans back on the crumbling stone wall and raises a single, challenging brow. “I ain’t got more than seven hundred on me. You want it, or you want to ride them fellers into town and maybe someone there’ll hang you?”

“We’re gonna need more’n that,” Arthur argues.

Clay puts his hands up. “I ain’t got no more money, pop. Take it or leave it.”

Arthur almost makes to shake hands, but you step forward and block him. “Then we’re leavin’ it. Keep your goddamn money and try a hand at sellin’ the nags you got lined up here. I’m sure there’s a better deal elsewhere.”

“Now wait just a—”

But you don’t wait. You don’t even listen. You just turn and take the horses and go.

—

“Well shit, Ghost,” Arthur says when you and your stolen goods are far enough away from the twins and tucked out of sight among the treeline near camp. “Seven hundred would’a been better than nothin’!”

“It’s not nothing,” you insist. “I told you I can get a good deal. Give me John and a week or so to run ‘em out of state. Plenty of buyers for nice animals like these— Ones that can afford more than seven hundred for the lot of ‘em.”

“Five thousand?”

“Don’t be stupid. Over a thousand altogether, but not without papers. I got somebody who’ll do some up nice.”

Arthur sighs. “Fine. I guess I’ll tell Dutch.”

You clasp his shoulder in thanks. “We’ll be back before you miss us.”

Without another word, he and Javier take the leads of the Morgans you and John rode in on while the two of you pull your tack and whistle for your regular mounts. Moonshine and Old Boy emerge from the brush in short order. Sunlight filters through the tree canopy to paint their coats dappled gold. Arthur and Javier take the spare horses and wave goodbye.

—

It doesn’t take long before you’re on your way, just you and John and Old Boy and Moonshine and three Thoroughbred studs and the wild country ahead.

“So,” John says, “where we headed?”

“North,” you tell him, and he nods along beside you. “We’ll cut through fields ‘til the state line just in case any law is on the lookout, then take the roads up to a town called Thunderhead. I know a counterfeiter lives there who’ll give us a good price on papers.”

With any luck, some decent-looking paperwork will make these animals easy and profitable to sell. Just a breeze across state borders. A quick trip and a neat score.

What could go wrong?

#john marston x reader #rdr x reader #rdr2 x reader #ghost story #ch. 22 #fran writes

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