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Chapter 6: More Questions and Not Quite Answers

How the Most Dangerous Thing Is to Love - MASTERLIST

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RATING: MATURE SHIPPING: None, except for Abigail & John WARNINGS: Mentions of violence WORDCOUNT: 7,500 words Some things have been changed from canon.

Jack shifted uncomfortably in Arthur's cot. A week had passed since he and Lenny had stumbled back into camp, bloodied and exhausted, and Jack was growing restless not doing anything for so long. When he and Lenny returned back to camp, Miss Grimshaw immediately set out for him, scolding them both for their recklessness (Sean, the lucky bastard, had slipped away), and sent him off to take Arthur's tent so that he could rest, because apparently, using his sleeping bag, which was on the floor, would do no good for his health. Luckily, Arthur rarely slept in camp anyways, so Jack never got into a scuffle about it.

A man named Orville Swanson, a reverend of the church and a barely qualified doctor, was the one who oversaw Jack's recovery. Well, him and Miss Grimshaw. The reverend's hands shook more often than not; whether from nerves or something else, Jack couldn't say, but at least he asked fewer questions than Miss Grimshaw did. Jack insisted that the wound wasn't that bad and it wasn't necessary to be hovered over the whole time, but Miss Grimshaw gave him a scary look that sat him back down quickly.

They did question him about the bandage around his head and torso, but they'd thankfully backed off after Jack snapped at them to stop asking about it. He felt a little bad afterward. The two only wanted to help after all, but this was toward a good cause. Some secrets were worth keeping.

"Boring" would be the only word to describe the whole experience. The hours stretched endlessly. Sometimes, the others would approach him. Lenny and Sean were the two who visited him the most. Sean would talk to him about meaningless stories from his life back in Ireland and tales of bar fights that always seemed to involve him being the hero. Most recently, he'd taken to playing the jaw harp just outside Jack's tent. Lenny, after finding out Jack too enjoyed reading like him, had lent him a few newspapers and books he kept. The young man had a surprisingly good collection, everything from dime novels to political treatises that made Jack's head spin.

The mustang had stuck around, surprisingly. The wild horse had followed him and Lenny the whole time back to camp and now grazed peacefully with the other horses. Kieran, the O'Driscoll who tended to the horses, seemed to have developed a rapport with it.

Jack had tried to approach the horse once when anyone wasn't looking, but the moment he'd attempted to mount it, Tilly appeared as if from nowhere and hauled him back to his tent with a lecture about rest and recovery.

"You're not goin' anywhere on that horse until you're properly healed," she'd scolded. "And don't think I won't be watching, Lance Morris."

The horse seemed to sense Jack's frustration and would often wander close to the tent, snorting and stamping as if it, too, was eager to be moving again.

Arthur's journal had been updated only once during Jack's convalescence, and the entry had been both reassuring and alarming. An ambush by Leviticus Cornwall in Valentine, followed by a hasty retreat to a new camp by the lake. According to Arthur, the only casualty had been Strauss taking a graze from a bullet—nothing serious.

Jack had breathed a sigh of relief upon reading that. Perhaps he wouldn't need to intervene, then.

He wasn't allowed to exert himself, doctor's orders, so most of the time he sat around the camp just observing the others. He'd picked up on all the camp's rhythms and tensions, and by tensions he meant the arguments that spewed around like clockwork. Mrs. Adler and Pearson seemed to get along about as well as oil and water, their shouting matches over supplies and cooking methods echoing across the camp.

"You call this stew? I've seen pond water with more flavor!"

"Well, if you don't like it, you're welcome to do the cooking yourself!"

Bill and Javier bickered too, but theirs was much tamer compared to Pearson and Sadie's all-out wars.

Though, the people who argued the loudest and the most by far had to have been Abigail and John.

"John Marston, you get back here this instant!"

"What now, Abigail? What did I do wrong this time?"

"When was the last time you spent more than five minutes with your son?"

"I'm doing the best I can, woman! We're outlaws, in case you forgot. This ain't exactly a normal life we're living."

"You can't even look at your own boy without finding some reason to walk away."

"This life ain't exactly conducive to playing daddy."

"This life is exactly why he needs his father! Violence, death, uncertainty—and you want to add abandonment to that list?"

"I'm not abandoning anybody. I'm here, ain't I?"

"Being here and being present are two different things, and you know it."

Jack had learned to tune out these arguments long ago. You get used to it after nearly sixteen years of it, but now, watching from his position near Arthur's tent, he found himself drawn to the small figure sitting apart from the conflict. Little Jack—or Jackie, as Jack had begun thinking of him to avoid confusion—sat beneath a tree with a stick in his hand, mindlessly drawing shapes in the dirt while tears rolled down his cheeks.

You’d think the two would have at least tried to argue somewhere else their kid couldn’t hear.

Jack set down the newspaper he'd been pretending to read. He'd mostly avoided his parents and younger self since arriving, out of some strange mixture of shame and fear. It was a miracle he'd managed not to exchange a single word with either John or Abigail in the whole time he'd been here (puking on his father’s shoes didn’t count).

But the sight of his younger self sitting alone, crying silently while his parents tore each other apart, made something twist in his chest, and despite all his careful avoidance of the Marstons, Jack found himself standing and walking toward the tree.

Jackie didn't stir when Jack stopped beside him. Jack swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. How does one comfort a young child? Especially when that child was yourself?

"Hey there,” Jack said softly.

The argument between John and Abigail continued in the background.

"You know," Jack continued, "I used to draw things too when I was your age. My Ma, she'd give me paper sometimes, and I'd draw horses and trees and... well, all sorts of things."

The boy's lip trembled slightly.

Jack lowered himself to sit beside the boy, his wounds protesting the movement, but he ignored the discomfort. "Mind if I sit with you?"

Jackie shrugged one little shoulder, which Jack interpreted as permission.

"That's some fine artwork you got there." Jack gestured at the random patterns in the ground.

When he didn’t reply again, Jack spoke and grabbed his own stick, starting to draw alongside Jackie. "You know, sometimes when grown-ups argue, it ain't really about what they're saying."

At last, Jackie looked at him, tears welling up in his eyes. He murmured, "It is about me," in a voice so low that Jack nearly missed it. "Mama says Pa doesn't want me."

Jack winced. What was he supposed to say to that? He couldn't exactly tell a four-year-old that everything would work out fine, because he knew it wouldn't. Their parents would keep fighting, and Jackie would grow up feeling like he was the cause of all their problems.

"That ain't true," Jack said firmly, abandoning his own stick drawing to look at Jackie properly. "Your papa, he's just... he's scared."

"Scared of what?"

Jack struggled for words that a four-year-old might understand. "Scared of being a papa, I guess. Some people get scared when they love someone too much."

"I don't understand," Jackie said, wiping his nose again.

"That's okay," Jack assured him. "You don't have to understand everything right now. But none of this is your fault. You're just a kid being a kid, and that's exactly what you're supposed to be."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure," Jack said, and meant it completely. "Want to know how I know?"

Jackie nodded.

"Because I can see how good you are. Look how gentle you are with that stick. And I bet you help your mama sometimes, don't you?"

"I help feed the chickens," Jackie offered quietly.

"See? Good boys help with chickens. Bad boys would probably try to ride them or teach them bad words."

Jackie's stance relaxed a little as a result of the little giggle she let out. "You can't ride chickens."

"Course you can. Just gotta find a real big chicken, the size of a horse, maybe."

"That's silly," Jackie said, but he was almost smiling now.

"Yeah, well, I got a lot of silly ideas," Jack admitted. "Comes with the territory of being—"

He was about to say "grown up," but caught himself. Instead, he reached over and ruffled Jackie's already messy hair. "Comes with the territory of being me, I guess."

Jackie didn't pull away from the gesture, which Jack took as progress. "What's your name?" the boy asked. "I saw you around, but nobody told me."

"Lance," Jack said, using the alias he'd given the gang. "Lance Morris."

"That's a funny name."

"Yeah, well, my folks had a sense of humor."

They sat for a few minutes in pleasant silence while the sounds of camp life went on all around them. Jack noted that the argument stopped, but he could not tell when it had.

"Lance?" Jackie said suddenly.

"Yeah?"

"Will you keep me company while I draw?"

"Sure thing," Jack said, settling back against the tree. "I got nowhere else to be."

Jackie returned to his artwork with a smile. As he worked, Jack observed how the boy's entire attitude had altered just by being recognized.

"Lance, look!" Jackie said excitedly, pointing at a new section of his ground canvas. "It's a horse!"

Jack squinted at the squiggly lines. With considerable imagination, he could maybe see something vaguely horse-like. "That's a fine horse. What's his name?"

"Buttercup," Jackie announced.

"Buttercup's a good name for a horse."

"She's a girl horse," Jackie corrected. "And she's very fast and very brave and—"

He stopped mid-sentence, his eyes suddenly going wide and unfocused. The stick fell from his small hand as he pressed both palms against his temples.

"Jackie?" Jack asked alarmingly. "What's wrong?"

The boy's face turned pale, and his breathing became quick and shallow. "My head," he groaned. "It hurts; it hurts real bad."

Darkness crashed over him like a wave. The familiar bite of winter enveloped him completely, followed by an overwhelming warmth that bloomed across his forehead like fire. He couldn't see. Everything was black, pitch black, and he needed to get out, needed to breathe, but there were hands, a million hands pulling him down into the darkness, and he was falling, falling—

A flurry of images ran through his mind. A caravan drawn by a horse, a man in a tall hat with corpse-like skin, towering buildings that stretched impossibly high, a pyramid, a bullet, a birthmark, and a wheel.

Then, as suddenly as it had begun, it was over.

Jack found himself thrown back into reality, his head resting against the rough bark of the oak tree while his vision slowly returned. He breathed in and out. What the hell had just happened? What had he seen?

Beside him, Jackie was curled up on the ground, his small hands pressed against his head, whimpering softly.

"Jack!" He reached for the boy without thinking. "Are you okay? What happened?"

Jackie groaned quietly. "My head hurts real bad, Lance."

"I know, I know," Jack said, his own head still pounding from whatever they'd just experienced. "What happened? What did you see?"

Jackie's eyes were squeezed shut, tears leaking from the corners. "Scary pictures, in my head. They came outta nowhere."

Jack pulled the boy up into a sitting position. "Hey, hey, it's okay," he spoke quietly and reassuringly. "Look at me, Jackie. You're safe. It was just... just like a bad dream, okay?"

The boy's breathing was fast and shallow. Jack had no idea what to do and no experience comforting frightened children, but his instinct took over. He rubbed Jackie's back in slow circles, the way he vaguely remembered someone doing for him when he was scared.

"Listen to me, Jackie," Jack said with urgency. "Those pictures you saw, that was just... just something that happens sometimes. Like a nightmare, but when you're awake. It don't mean nothing, okay? It can't hurt you."

Jackie nodded slowly, though he still looked shaken. "Will they come back?"

"I don't know," Jack admitted. "But if they do, you just remember that they're just pictures. They ain't real, and they can't touch you. Can you remember that for me?"

"I think so," Jackie said in a small voice.

Jack hesitated. "Jackie, this might be real important, but can you keep those pictures a secret? Just between you and me? Don't tell your mama or papa or anyone else about them."

"Why?"

"Because... because sometimes when people hear about scary things, it makes them scared too. And we don't want to make anyone else scared, do we?"

Jackie considered this with the gravity that only children could bring to such decisions. Finally, he nodded. "I can keep secrets. I'm good at secrets."

"I know you are," Jack said with relief. "You're very brave, Jackie. Much braver than most folks would be."

"Will the scary things come back?"

Jack wished he knew the answer to that. "I don’t know. But if they do, you just remember that they're just pictures. They aren’t real, and they can't touch you. Can you remember that for me?"

Jackie gave a nod. Jack massaged the boy's shoulder and let out a breath. “Good boy.”

Jackie, who was clearly worn out from the experience, appeared content with the hug and leaned back against Jack's side. Still reeling from everything they'd gone through, Jack hugged him close. He had to figure out the meaning of those visions and understand why he and Jackie had both seen the same thing, but for now, the most important thing was making sure Jackie felt safe.

"Jack!" Abigail hurried towards them both. "What happened? I heard you crying."

Jackie scrambled to his feet and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. "I'm okay, Mama. Me and Lance was just talking."

Abigail turned to look at Jack with suspicion. Jack had to avoid looking into her eyes. This was his mother, but she was also a stranger, and she was looking at him like he might be a threat to her child.

"Were you bothering Jack?"

"No, ma'am," Jack got to his feet slowly. "He seemed upset about the arguing earlier. I just thought he might like some company."

"That's kind of you, but Jack’s my responsibility. I can take care of my own son."

Given that she had no idea who she was speaking to, the remarks hurt more than they ought to have. Jack took a step back to give them room and nodded. "Of course. I didn't mean to overstep."

Jackie had moved to stand beside his mother, but he kept glancing back at Jack. "Mama, Lance knows about horses, and he said I draw good pictures."

Abigail's gaze softened slightly as she looked at the scratches in the ground. "That's... nice, sweetheart. But you should come eat something. Pearson's got stew ready."

"Can Lance come too?"

"Lance probably has his own things to do," Abigail replied.

Jack felt an overwhelming urge to tell her the truth and to explain who he was and why he was here. Instead, he managed a small smile. "Your mama's right, Jackie. You go on and eat."

The boy waved back over his shoulder as Abigail escorted Jackie away. "Bye, Lance!"

Jack waved back, his throat tight with emotions he couldn't name.

"You're good with him."

Jack looked up in surprise to find Abigail still standing a few feet away. She must’ve stayed back while Jackie left.

"Look, I... I'm sorry if I seemed unfriendly before. It's just, with everything that's been happening, and strangers around Jack..." Abigail shook her head. "You seem like a decent man, Lance. And Jackie's taken a shine to you, which don't happen often. He's usually shy around new people."

"You've done a fine job with him."

"Thank you," she said, and for a moment, the wariness faded entirely. "It ain't always easy, especially with... well, with everything being the way it is."

"For what it's worth," he said, "I think you're doing better than you know. Jackie, err… Jack was telling me about how he helps with the chickens. It shows he's learning responsibility and learning to care for things. That comes from good parenting."

Abigail's expression softened further, and for just a moment, Jack caught a glimpse of the woman she would become—tired, yes, but strong and determined and fiercely protective of her family.

"Did anyone ever tell you that you look like John?" she said suddenly, tilting her head slightly as she studied his face.

"Something about the eyes, I think. And the way you carry yourself."

"I... no, I can't say anyone's mentioned that before."

"Huh." Abigail shrugged. "Maybe it's just me. I’ll see you, Lance. And thank you for checking on my son."

While Abigail left to be with her family, Jack sat back down next to the tree, his head spinning from everything that had transpired. His mother, Jackie's response, and the vision were all too much to take in.

Taking a piece of paper from his pocket, he started drawing the pictures he had seen in the vision. His artistic skills were still terrible, his attempts at drawing the man in the tall hat looking more like a scarecrow than a person. The wheel appeared as a swaying circle with lines protruding from it, and the pyramid as an uneven triangle.

As he worked, one thought kept circling through his mind: whatever was happening to him, whatever had brought him back to this time and place, it was far from over. There must have been some significance to the visions, and it all had something to do with his four-year-old self.

He just had to figure out what it all meant before something horrible happened.

—

Jack had spent the next three days researching anything related to the visions he'd seen in his head and, as a result, had found absolutely nothing! Not a single damn thing! It was ridiculous, honestly. You'd think that after three days of straight research, there would be at the very least a tiny smidge of something promising.

The first day was spent riding between Valentine and Strawberry, grabbing almost every newspaper, book, or pamphlet he could get his hands on. He'd even tried asking folk about tall buildings or men in top hats, but most people just looked at him like he'd grown a second head. The few who did respond would ramble on with some long-winded story about their cousin's neighbor's brother who once saw a tall building in Saint Denis, or their grandmother's tale about a mysterious man in black who turned out to be the undertaker. Complete nonsense, all of it.

The worst part was that he couldn't even stay long in either town. Word eventually got around that some stranger was stalking about asking odd questions, and it wasn't long before bounty hunters and lawmen started sniffing around. At least the Mustang was being cooperative. It must have felt guilty about putting a bullet in his shoulder, because it didn't buck him off once and only refused to move when Jack tried to push too hard.

Actually, scratch that. The worst part wasn't the towns at all. It was the scolding he'd gotten from practically everyone when he returned to camp with his arms full of reading material. His injuries barely hurt anymore! He didn't understand what all the fuss was about.

Miss Grimshaw had marched him straight back to Arthur's tent and ordered everyone within earshot to "keep him there" since he apparently couldn't understand what "taking a rest" meant. Jack did his best not to make a big deal of it. Following the rules today might mean breaking them tomorrow would slide easier. Maybe.

He woke up early the next day before most of everyone woke up and ran off to his tree in the woods nearby the camp (yes, his tree. He’s decided that it’s his now ever since he slinked off to read Arthur’s journal under it his second day in the gang) to read all the newspaper clippings and books he’d gotten. Settling against the bark with his stolen bounty of newspapers spread around him, Jack began to read. Most of the Valentine newspaper was filled with useless drivel about the latest hair pomade and complaints about cattle rustling. The ones from Strawberry weren’t much better, focusing mainly on mining disputes and social gossip.

A few papers did hold at least a little bit of value, at least. A piece mentioned the construction of "tall buildings" being planned for New York City, structures that would "scrape the very sky itself." Another paper from Strawberry carried a brief mention of archaeological expeditions to Egypt, complete with a grainy illustration of workers near a pyramid.

Jack had pulled out the notebook he'd lifted from a distracted clerk in Valentine and started scribbling down connections. Tall buildings, pyramids, wheels... There had to be some thread linking them all together. The visions hadn't felt random. They'd felt significant, urgent even.

By the time he looked up, the sun was setting and his stomach was growling loud enough to wake the dead. He'd been so absorbed in his research that he'd completely lost track of time. Hastily gathering his materials, he'd snuck back to camp, praying no one had noticed his absence.

The third day had been spent diving into the books Lenny had lent him, plus a few others he'd acquired during his town visits. A medical text contained a dry chapter about birthmarks and genetic inheritance patterns. A collection of folklore included a genuinely unsettling story about a pale man in a tall black hat who appeared at crossroads to make deals with desperate souls.

Interesting, certainly, but not what Jack needed. How did any of these things relate to each other? How did they relate to him? Was it connected to the bullet wounds in his head and torso? To the fact that he'd somehow traveled back in time?

Jack had read so much information that he was starting to feel like he was losing his mind. The words were beginning to blur together on the pages, and he found himself rereading the same passages over and over without comprehension.

Finally, frustrated beyond measure, he'd decided to check on Jackie instead. Maybe the boy had experienced another vision or remembered some detail that might provide a clue. At the very least, it would be a break from the endless, fruitless research.

He found his younger self near the same tree where they'd first talked, once again drawing patterns in the dirt with a stick. This time, though, Jackie looked more content, humming softly to himself as he worked.

"Hey there, Jackie," Jack said, settling down beside the boy. "How are you feeling today?"

Jackie shook his head. "Nope. Mama gave me some medicine that tasted really bad, but my head doesn't hurt anymore."

"That's good. No more scary pictures in your head either?"

Jackie shook his head.

Relief washed over Jack. Whatever had happened a few days ago, at least it didn't seem to be recurring for the child. "That's real good, Jackie. You remember what I told you about keeping those pictures secret?"

"Uh-huh. Secret between you and me."

"That's right." Jack was about to ask another question when he heard the sound of approaching footsteps.

"There you are, Jack." Arthur's voice carried easily across the small clearing. "Been looking for you."

Jackie's face lit up immediately. "Uncle Arthur! Look what I drew!"

"Well, would you look at that," Arthur said. "That's some fine artwork right there. What's this one supposed to be?"

"It's Buttercup! She's my horse," Jackie explained proudly.

"Your horse, huh? She looks real fast."

"She is! She's the fastest horse in the whole world!"

Arthur chuckled, then glanced up at Jack. "Lance, you mind if I borrow young Jack here for a bit?"

"Of course not," Jack replied.

Arthur turned back to Jackie. "How'd you like to come fishing with me, kid? The river's not too far from here, and I reckon we could catch something good for dinner."

Jackie's eyes went wide with excitement. "Really? Can we, Uncle Arthur? Can we really go fishing?"

"Course we can. About time you started to earn your keep around here," Arthur said with a grin. “Let's go get your pole. You do have a fishing pole, don't you? "

"I sure do! Uncle Hosea made me one!"

"Good. You go and get it, then we'll catch us some fish."

He watched the scene unfolding, a tight knot of alarm twisting in his gut. The fishing trip—How could he have forgotten?

Panic fluttered in Jack’s chest as Arthur walked towards the horses. He couldn't let this moment pass by. This would be when Ross showed up! What if something bad happened that the journal didn’t mention?

As Arthur started to walk away with Jackie, Jack scrambled to his feet. "Wait!"

Arthur turned, eyebrows raised. "Something wrong, Morris?"

"I... uh..." Jack's mind raced. "Please let me come with you! I... want to fish too because I like eating fish."

The excuse sounded pathetic even to his own ears, but Arthur just shrugged. "Don't see why not. You got a rod?"

"Yes!" Jack practically shouted, then caught himself. "I mean, yeah. I bought one in Valentine."

"Well, go get it then. We're heading down to the river near here. Won't go too far from camp."

Jack hurried to grab his fishing pole from Arthur's tent, his heart pounding with excitement and nervousness.

When he returned, Arthur was already lifting Jackie onto his horse. "You feeling better today, kid? You looked a little sick these past few days."

"I'm okay now," Jackie said. "Mama and Papa Hosea gave me a bad-tasting medicine."

“Did they now? Well, that's good of them."

They rode down to the river, Jackie chattering excitedly about fish and Arthur responding with patient answers. Jack hung back slightly, content to observe. Arthur Morgan was a massive man, intimidating as hell when he wanted to be, but Jack watched in fascination as the outlaw's entire demeanor softened when he looked at the four-year-old.

"Look, Uncle Arthur!" Jackie pointed at a rabbit that darted across their path. "Did you see how fast it went?"

"Sure did. Rabbits got to be fast, you know. Lots of things want to catch them."

"Like wolves?"

"Like wolves, and foxes, and sometimes people who need food."

They reached the river, the water glittering beneath the morning sun. Arthur swung down first, then reached up to lift Jackie from the saddle and set him gently on the ground. He pulled out their fishing lines and set them up. "Alright, this looks as good a spot as any. They're down by the shore somewhere. Come on, follow me."

“First we need some bait,” Arthur said, crouching down as he rummaged through his saddlebag. “I’m gonna use some cheese.” Jackie handed his fishing rod to Arthur so that the man could put some cheese on the hook.

"All we do now, Jackie, is wait for a fish to take the bait," Arthur explained.

"How do I know when I've got a bite?" Jackie asked, gripping his rod with intense concentration.

"Well, if you feel the tip of your fishing rod just twitching, don't yank it yet. That just means something's nibbling. If you feel a hard tug, that's a fish going for the bait, so yank hard to set the hook. Then you have to fight him, Jackie. That's when you have to be careful not to break the line. Wear him out first before you try to reel him in nice and steady."

Jack cast his own line but found himself more interested in watching the interaction between Arthur and Jackie. It still felt a little strange, knowing that he was supposedly Jackie. Was he really this sweet once?

They sat in comfortable silence for a while. In all of the peacefulness, Jack had almost forgotten the reason he’d come here. He looked warily all around them, doing a sweep of their surroundings, his eyes looking for a sign that someone else was watching them. Where would Ross show up? When would he? Did he pull a gun on Arthur last time? His thoughts were broken when Arthur had suddenly spoken.

"Oh! Jack, you got one!" Arthur called out as Jackie's rod bent nearly double.

"I got one! I got one!" Jackie squealed, yanking back on the rod with all his strength.

"Easy now, easy!" Arthur laughed, moving to help steady the boy. "Let him tire himself out first."

Together, they managed to reel in a small chain pickerel that flopped and thrashed at the end of the line. Jackie stared at it in wonder.

"It's almost as small as you," Arthur observed. "We should really throw these smaller ones back and give them a chance to grow up a bit."

"Did you see that, Lance?" Jackie called out. "I caught a fish! A real fish!"

"I saw. Nice job, Jackie."

After they'd released the fish back into the water, Jackie tugged on Arthur's sleeve. "Can I take a break from fishing? I want to make something."

"Sure thing," Arthur said, ruffling the boy's hair. "Just don't wander too far."

Jackie nodded and scampered off toward a patch of wildflowers growing near the water's edge.

"He's a good kid," Jack said quietly.

"Yeah, he is," Arthur agreed. "Shame about..." He trailed off, glancing toward where Jackie was picking flowers.

"About John?"

Arthur's expression darkened slightly. "John's got his head up his ass most of the time. Don't know what Abigail sees in him."

Jack wanted to defend his father but found he couldn't. He would’ve been able to if the John they both knew was the John at Beecher’s Hope, but not when John was still so young and stupid. "Maybe he'll figure it out eventually."

Arthur didn't sound convinced. "Kid deserves better than maybe, though."

The two didn’t speak after that, the only sound being the river lapping against the shore mixing with Jackie's happy humming as he worked on his project. Jack found himself studying Arthur's profile, noting the lines around his eyes from years spent squinting into sun and wind.

"Can I ask you something?" Jack said eventually.

"Shoot."

It wouldn’t hurt to ask about a certain person Arthur is going to encounter soon, right? "What do you know about Leviticus Cornwall?"

Arthur's posture stiffened slightly. "Why you asking about Cornwall?"

"Just curious. I heard Dutch talking about him once."

Arthur was quiet for a moment, his jaw working like he was chewing over what to say. "We robbed one of his trains a while back, up near Granite Pass. It got us a bit of money, but it also got us some unwanted attention."

"What kind of attention?"

"The kind that wears badges and carries guns."

Before Jack could ask more questions, Jackie came running back, his small hands cupped around something precious. In his palms lay a roughly woven chain of red wildflowers, the stems braided together with more enthusiasm than skill.

"Well, I'll be," Arthur said, his stern expression melting into a smile. "What is it?"

"It's a necklace for Mama!" Jackie announced proudly. "I made it all by myself. Do you think she'll like it?"

"I think she'll love it," Arthur assured him. "That's some fine work there, Jack."

Jack was about to comment on the necklace when he heard the sound of approaching horses. His blood ran cold as he turned to see two riders emerging from the tree line. Even from a distance, he recognized them immediately.

"Arthur, we've got company."

Arthur followed his gaze and tensed, pulling Jackie behind him.

"Should I kill them?" Jack whispered.

"What? No!" Arthur hissed back, looking at Jack like he'd lost his mind. "We got a kid here with us. Let me talk."

The two men rode closer, and Jack could see them clearly now. An agent with a blue tie, whose name Jack didn’t remember, and the other, whose face made Jack's trigger finger itch.

If you asked Jack if he would kill Ross again, the answer would always be “Yes,” even with the weight of it sitting heavy in his chest, even with the guilt gnawing at him in the quiet hours. Even knowing it would make his parents turn in their graves.

He’d do it again. A thousand times over, if that’s what it took to let Jack watch the light leave his eyes.

"What a fine young man," the one in a blue tie called out as they approached, his voice carrying false warmth. "And in such complex circumstances, Arthur, isn't it?"

"Yes, Arthur Morgan. Van der Linde's most trusted associate. You've read the files, I'm sure. Typical case—orphan street kid seduced by that maniac's silver tongue, matures into a degenerate murderer." His tone was conversational, as if he were discussing the weather.

Arthur did not look happy by the man’s words, pulling Jackie closer to him and hiding the boy behind his body.

The man in the blue tie gestured towards Jack. “You are...?”

“Jamie Dunn.”

Ross’s eyes flickered towards him for a moment when Jack spoke the name. Jack’s fingers tightened on the gun in his holster.

"Agent Milton," Milton pointed towards himself before the other. "Agent Ross, Pinkerton Detective Agency, seconded to the United States government. Nice to finally meet you.” Milton hooked his fingers in his belt. "We know a lot about you. You're a wanted man, Mr. Morgan," he added with a cold smile. "There's five thousand dollars for your head alone."

"Five thousand for me?" Arthur kept his voice level. "Can I turn myself in?"

They did not seem to find Arthur’s joke funny. "We want Van der Linde,"

"I haven't seen him for months,"

"That's odd, because I heard a guy fitting his description robbed a train belonging to Leviticus Cornwall up near Granite Pass."

Milton stepped forward. Arthur pulled Jackie behind him some more. "Listen, this is my offer, Mr. Morgan and… Dunn. Bring in van der Linde, and you have my word you won't swing."

"Well, we ain't gonna swing anyway, Agent Milton," Arthur replied with more confidence than Jack felt. "You see, I haven't done anything wrong, aside from not playing the game by your rules."

"Spare me the philosophy lesson. I've already heard it from Mac Callander,"

Arthur's entire body went rigid. "Mac Callander?"

"He was pretty shot up by the time I got to him," Milton said with casual cruelty. "So really, it was more of a mercy killing—slow, but merciful."

Arthur threw the fishing pole in his hands against the ground. That seemed to bristle Ross and Milton, Ross drawing the gun in his hands and pointing it at Arthur. He almost wanted Ross to try and shoot, because then he’d have an excuse to kill him.

"You enjoy being a rich man's toy, do you?" Arthur's voice was dangerously quiet.

"I enjoy society, flaws and all! You people venerate savagery, and you will die savagely. All of you."

"Oh, we’re all gonna die, Agent," Arthur hissed.

"Some of us sooner than others." Milton remounted his horse. "Good day, gentlemen."

As they prepared to leave, Ross's gaze fell on Jackie, who was still clutching his flower necklace and staring at the strange men with wide eyes. "Enjoy your fishing, kid,"

With that, the two agents rode away.

"What the hell was that about?" Arthur muttered, watching them disappear over the hill.

Jackie tugged on Arthur's sleeve. "Who were they?"

Arthur scooped the boy up and held him protectively. "Don't you worry about them, Jack. Some people just say strange things. How about we head back to camp and show your mama that beautiful necklace you made?"

Jack gathered all of their fishing gear and mounted the Mustang and, with great reluctance, put his gun back in his holster, even though all he wanted to do was chase down both Milton and Ross and put a bullet in their heads.

The ride back to camp was slow, though not for lack of speed. The horses trotted steadily beneath the fading light, but for Jack, the world felt as though it had slowed around him. Each hoofbeat echoed in his head as his mind ran circles around the conversation by the riverbank.

Jackie sat quietly in front of Arthur, small hands gripping the saddle horn, while Jack trailed a few paces behind.

"Arthur Morgan. Van der Linde's most trusted associate. Orphan street kid seduced by that maniac's silver tongue, matures into a degenerate murderer."

"We want Van der Linde. Bring him in and you won't swing."

Milton hadn’t said anything Jack didn’t already know from Arthur’s journal. The man was everything Jack thought a government man to be—calculated, cold, and a wolf convinced of his own righteousness. Ross was another thing entirely; Jack was thankful he decided to speak only once during the whole ordeal, because if he said even just a few words more, Jack wouldn’t trust himself to not get trigger happy.

After reaching camp, Jack and Arthur dismounted first, lifting Jackie down with a gentle pat. “Go show your mama that necklace you made, alright? ”

Jackie smiled and took off toward Abigail’s tent. Arthur gave Jack a glance. “Come with me; we’re gonna talk to Dutch.”

Arthur had practically sprinted toward Dutch's tent, yanking the canvas flap aside once he got close enough.

Ms. O'Shea lingered by the camp’s edge, her cigarette glowing angry-red between her fingers. The way she exhaled smoke through gritted teeth told Jack everything he needed to know about how her conversation with Dutch had ended. The poor woman probably got the boot a few moments before Arthur and he returned.

Jack slipped inside the tent behind Arthur. He spotted Dutch, Micah, and Bill listening to what Arthur was telling them about what had happened by the river.

“What do they have to do with anything?” Micah asks in a bored manner.

"They are employees of the Pinkerton detective agency!" Arthur’s voice was in a barely contained panic. "They know about the train, and they know we are here."

Dutch steels his eyes on Arthur. “You were followed back here? ”

Arthur doesn’t look offended at Dutch’s question, just shaking his head. “No. But they know we’re near here, and they want you, Dutch.” Arthur speaks in a hushed and hurried tone. “They offered me freedom in exchange, they did.”

“Well, why didn’t you take it?” Dutch asks.

This time does Arthur look slightly irritated. “Very funny,” he says flatly. “What’re we gonna do? ”

Dutch rose from his chair slowly, his hands clasped behind his back as he began to pace. The silence stretched taut as a bowstring while he pondered. Finally, he turned to face them all, his expression calm.

"I say we do nothing," he announced. "Nothing just yet—they're trying to scare us into doing something stupid."

Nothing? His mouth opened before his brain could stop it. "Nothing?" The word tumbled out, and suddenly three pairs of eyes swiveled towards him. Jack felt himself shrink under their collective stare, but the sheer insanity of Dutch's plan pushed him forward. "They just confronted us a few meters off camp, and we're going to stay here and wait for something to happen?"

"My dear boy, sometimes the best move is no move at all. Let them think they have us rattled. Let them overplay their hand while we keep our cards close to our chest."

His eyebrows raise. Oh, so this is the reason why Leviticus Cornwall shows up with a small army in a few days! Cornwall's confrontation had been a bloodbath waiting to happen, and Jack would rather eat his own bandages than have Arthur go through it, especially knowing he could avoid it right now.

"Dutch, with all due respect, if we stay here, sooner or later this problem will grow to be something bigger."

"Lance—" Arthur started, probably trying to save Jack from digging his own grave, but Bill cut him off.

"Why do you want to move so bad?" Bill's tone was casual, but his eyes were anything but. "Does nobody think it's weird that Lance joined at a particularly weak time for the gang?"

The tent fell silent.

"What are you trying to say?"

Bill shrugged, but there was nothing casual about the way he was watching Jack. "I'm saying that it's a bit strange, is all. New guy shows up right when we're having the worst luck, and now he’s real eager to get us to abandon camp. Makes a man wonder."

Jack felt his stomach drop straight through the floor. All eyes were on him now, and he could practically see the suspicion crystallizing in their faces. He is speechless for a moment, mostly because Bill’s argument makes sense. To them, Jack was nothing more than a newbie who was suddenly deciding what was best for the gang. “I—I would never betray the gang.”

Dutch narrows his eyes. “Would you?”

You were the one who invited me into this gang! Jack thinks bitterly.

Arthur opened his mouth to defend Jack, but the words seemed to die in his throat.

"Now hold on there, Bill," Micah said. "Lance here's been nothing but helpful since he joined up. Just because a man's got sense doesn't make him a rat."

He hadn't expected Micah to speak up for him. The man usually seemed more interested in stirring trouble than preventing it.

"Besides, it seems to me like paranoia's exactly what those Pinkerton boys want. Turn us against each other, and we do their job for them."

The tension eased in Dutch’s shoulders as he nodded. "Micah has a point. We can't let fear make us stupid."

Jack felt a wave of genuine relief wash over him. Whatever Micah's reasons for defending him, he was grateful for the support. Maybe the man was just looking out for a fellow gang member after all. Jack just hoped this show of support didn't mean he'd have to return any favors down the line.

Dutch was quiet for a long moment, his fingers drumming against his thigh as he weighed his options, letting out a thoughtful sigh, and nodding slowly. ”Maybe sitting here like ducks in a pond isn't the smartest play after all." He stood up straighter. "We'll move the camp. Better to be overcautious than dead, I always say."

"Micah, Lance," Dutch continued, pointing at each of them in turn, "I want you two to head out and find us a new location. Somewhere defensible, with good escape routes. And take Charles with you."

"You got it, Dutch," Micah said with a lazy salute. "We'll find you something real nice."

"Good. And boys?" Dutch's voice took on that familiar edge of authority. "Keep this quiet for now. The last thing we need is the whole camp in a panic before we're ready to move."

As they filed out of the tent, Jack caught Micah's eye. The man gave him the slightest nod and what might have been a smile. Jack nodded back. He'd avoided the Cornwall confrontation, and maybe he'd even gained an unlikely ally in the process.

But as they walked through camp, Jack's relief was tempered by a growing unease. Sure, he'd accomplished his goal—the gang would be moving to safety, away from the disaster he knew was coming; that was what mattered, so why did he feel like he'd just painted a target on his own back?

On one hand, he'd potentially saved lives today and prevented a bloody confrontation that would have left people dead. That had to count for something.

On the other hand, it was painfully clear how he was probably a suspicious figure in the camp and that everyone must be watching his every move and waiting for him to slip up. Bill had just been the first to voice what others were likely thinking.

Jack pulled his hat down lower over his eyes as he headed to his horse. He'd wanted to help the gang, to use his knowledge to keep them safe, but now he wondered if his intentions might end up getting him killed instead.

heads up for the micah lovers this is not a fic where good things happen between jack and micah EDIT 6/22/25: Removed some lines and removed the part wherein Jack was supposed to ask Charles to come with them

#jack marston #red dead redemption #little jackie marston #rdr #thats my son #rdr2 #fanfiction #red dead redemption 2 #john marston #abigail marston

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