#THE REST OF THE GATOR GANG NEED OFFICIAL NAMES

[3dogbones]

I love these goofy gummy gators hopefully nothing bad will happen to them-

[galadrieljones]

The Lily Farm - Chapter 31

AO3 | Masterpost

Rating: M (Mature) - sexual content, violence, and adult themes

Summary: To help her process Sean’s death, Mary Beth asks Arthur to take her on a hunting trip, somewhere far away. He agrees, and on their journey to the north, they find quietude and take comfort in their easy bond. They’ve been friends for a while now, but life, like the wilderness, is full of uncertainty and complications, and as they embark on their desperate search for meaning together, they endure many trials, some small, some big—all of which bring them closer to one another, and to their future.

Chapter 31: The Wayward Minister

My Dearest Reverend,

Mary Beth and I have decided to get married, and we would be most thankful if you would do us the honor of performing the service. It is to be held up at the Winterson Bed and Breakfast near Emerald Ranch as soon as possible. If you would prefer not to ride, I have included $5 in this envelope, which should be enough to buy you a train ticket from St. Denis. We will wait for you until June 30th. If you have not arrived by then, we will travel to the church in Valentine, no hard feelings.

I ain’t much of a man for the Bible, sir, but I do remember one verse you gave to me many a year ago, from John I believe: “He that is without sin among you, let him cast the first stone.” Something like that. The folks who own the Wintersons’ establishment are real nice, and they will not judge you nor any of us. I know that, should you choose to come, you will be as clean as you can be. I have nothing but faith in you, sir.

I have similarly sent for Dutch and Hosea, but seeing as we are all wanted men in a great deal of shit these days, the rest of the gang must be left behind. We hope to see you soon.

Sincerely,

Arthur

Swanson had been lying in the weeds at Shady Belle when he received the letter.

“You alive?” said Karen, nudging him with the toe of her boot. Of course, she meant it in a colloquial way, but the question, to Reverend Swanson, was one of deeply profound meaning. “Hello?”

“Yes,” he said, sitting straight up, coming out of an existential nightmare in which bugs crawled all over and inside of his body “Miss Jones.”

“Got a visitor.” She walked away.

Standing there now was a young man wearing a messenger’s cap. He could have sworn that it was Arthur Morgan twenty years ago. “You Reverend Swanson?” the boy said.

Swanson rubbed his eyes. It was not Arthur. It was not twenty years ago. He had a splitting headache. “Yes, I’m Swanson,” he said. He took off his hat. He stood slowly, one foot at a time and dusted off his pants at the knees. “How can I help you?”

“I got a letter here for you on express delivery from Mr. Arthur Morgan.”

“Arthur?”

“Yes, mister. Big man with a pretty horse? Looked like a gunslinger if you ask me, but I ain’t got no interest in his work. No, sir. He paid me double to see I get this here letter to you by this very morning, and I’d appreciate it, mister, if, next time you talk to him, you could confirm my success.”

“What?” said the Reverend. The kid seemed to be speaking a hundred miles per hour. “Oh, yes. Of course.”

The boy with the letter nodded. He was tall and lean but in an awkward sort of way, and he smoked a cigarette as he handed over the envelope. He wore simple clothing that suggested he was of a lower class family, miners probably. Annesburg no doubt. He did very much remind Swanson of Arthur when Arthur was real young—just a kind of blot-on-the-town but good intentioned, maybe a little more put together around the edges than Arthur ever was but the same softness in the eyes. He carried with him a leather messenger bag, and inside of it was a book by Mark Twain, though Swanson could not see which. It warmed his heart that the boy was somehow literate, and he wished to save his soul but he had his own soul needed saving first, and in the meantime, could do nothing but tip the boy generously with a handful of coins from his pocket and send him on his way.

“Thanks, mister,” said the boy. “The man Arthur Morgan said he was not expecting your reply, so I’ll be leaving now. Do you know where I can find a Hosea Matthews?”

“Yes,” said the Reverend. “Hosea—he should be in St. Denis. Check the saloon. The fancy one. He’s, uh, in his late fifties. White hair. He’ll be with a somewhat younger, singular looking man in black”

“Thanks a lot.”

”What is this about? Young man? Do you know?”

“I got no idea. You have a good day, mister.”

“Oh. You, too.”

The boy got back on his horse and rode away.

Upon reading Arthur’s letter, Swanson wiped his brow with a handkerchief from his pocket, picked up his valise, which contained his Bible and all of his earthly belongings and set off walking through the bayou to clear his brain. He had done this many times. Some people were afraid of this place, but he knew that if you just left the gators alone, they would leave you alone, and he was unafraid of night folk, because he knew that should they take his life it was meant to be and karmic retribution for his sins. They were unaware of their own barbarism, thought Swanson. They were just living the life handed to them as any other. He walked all the way to St. Denis. It took several hours.

When he got there, he went to the saloon and bought a bowl of soup and drank water to kill his headache and recuperate. He did not order any whiskey. He then walked through the clean streets to the church where it was less clean, and there were orphans and a couple of Mexican men learning English from a Bible with one of the Brothers on the steps. Swanson had been coming here for some weeks now, visiting with the Mother Superior Sister Calderón. She was providing him guidance as he journeyed toward redemption and sobriety.

He found her inside, sitting at a table in the kitchen, eating lunch alone. The church was otherwise empty aside from a few who sat with their heads down in the pews. Sister Calderón was eating a steak with a fork and knife and just finishing up when he arrived.

“Reverend,” she said, smiling. “Come, join me.”

He sat down at the table across from her, feeling disheveled. The sun came through the simple window overhead, looking like a bright square. “Good afternoon, Sister.” He removed his hat.

“This is a surprise,” she said. “I thought we were meeting tomorrow.”

“I thought so, too,” said Swanson. “But something has come up.”

“Oh?”

He took a deep breath and examined the brim of his hat and the stitching where it was coming apart around the edges. She got up to place her dishes in the sink and to pour him a glass of water. He drank some and looked down at his hands. “I received a letter from a friend today.”

“What is your friend’s name.”

“Arthur. Arthur Morgan.”

She lit up in recognition. “Yes, I know Mr. Morgan. He has donated to the church and done me many favors. He is your friend?”

“Yes,” said Swanson. “I’ve known him a long time. I did not know he was affiliated with you here.”

“We, too, are friends,” she said. “He is trying to atone, like you and me.”

Swanson smiled at this. It brought him joy.

“What did he say in his letter?” said Sister Calderón.

“He said that he is getting married,” said Swanson, “to a girl that has been traveling with us now for some years. She is a very kind young woman, been kinder to me than I believe I deserve. They have both been kinder to me than I believe I deserve. Arthur, he—he saved my life, some months ago when I was at my lowest, most reprehensible point, and now he has asked if I would…officiate them in matrimony. Provide the service. Up in Emerald Ranch, very soon.”

“Mr. Morgan is getting married?” said Sister Calderón. “That is wonderful news. And for him and his beloved to ask you to take part in such a special day, that is a rare blessing.”

“I do agree, Sister,” said Swanson. “I do. But I am afraid. I don’t know that I’m not ready.”

“Ready for what?”

“To preserve him and his beloved and unite them before the eyes of God. I have been wayward far too long, Sister. I am a bad man. I am unworthy.”

Sister Calderón sighed in her wise way. She placed her hand on his. “Reverend, you are not a bad man.”

He shook his head.

“I know that I cannot make you see that. You must see it for yourself. You know, Mr. Morgan is always saying the same thing to me. I am a bad man. He is working on this, the same as you, and he would not have sent for you if he did not think you were worthy of his cause. It is this way he chooses to communicate your worth to you.”

“I know that’s supposed to make sense,” said the Reverend. “I known Arthur since he was a teenager.”

“I believe you should take this leap,” she said. “Of course, it is up to you. But you should go. That is the clear path. It is a sign! It is your opportunity to confront your fears, confront your God and begin to make amends. To give the gift of love.”

Swanson picked up the cup, swallowed some more of the water. Overhead, the crucifix on the wall seemed very heavy and mundane. A fly was tapping at the window from the inside, searching for escape. “Will you accompany me?” he said. “Sister? I cannot let him down. I am far less likely to do that if—if I am not alone.”

She smiled again, squeezing his hand assuredly. “I will. We will take the train, first thing tomorrow morning.”

They sat some time longer, speaking of Arthur and his beloved, and then of Christ and other mysteries.

Hamish rode about half a day behind Arthur and Mary Beth. He wanted to cut over to Moonstone Pond, spend some time in solitude, fishing. He didn’t often make it far from the lake up there on his own. He assured them both that he would be okay.

Now, camping in Ambarino for one night, Mary Beth caught a fish, and Arthur cleaned it up and cooked it for them. The fire made beautiful sparks that went up like little plumes, and the weather was fine.

“I might never get bored of this,” said Mary Beth. She had good color in her cheeks that night. She said she was feeling better. She had a handful of pebbles and was tossing them into the fire one by one. “Camping.”

“I never really knew you liked camping,” said Arthur, frying up the fish. “I always thought you was more of an indoor girl. Before, of course. Could just be the way you seem.”

“Can’t really be an indoor girl when you live most of your life on the run,” said Mary Beth. “Shady Belle might be falling apart but it’s the first warm house I’ve called home in…years.”

Arthur smiled. “I imagine Shady Belle was a beauty in her time.”

“I'm sure she was."

After dinner, they played several games of Hearts. Mary Beth complained that she was no good at Hearts. Arthur wouldn’t let her win though. He was trying to smoke less and had taken up chewing on reeds and sticks and branches instead. This part of him was familiar and it made him seem younger. His hair had grown out now, down to the very tops of his shoulders, and it had gotten lighter being in the southern heat for so many months, blanched from the daylight, and his eye lashes even looked kind of blond. On their final hand, she studied him closely and reached to put one stray lock of hair behind his ear. This made him look at her casually, but then he kept looking at her, chewing that reed, and he grinned and put the loose hair behind her ear, too. “You’re real pretty, you know that?” he said, tossing the reed to the dirt. “I’m sure I’ve told you that a thousand times, but it’s true.”

“Thank you, Arthur,” she said.

“You’re welcome.”

“When we get married, I don’t want anything to change,” she said. “I just wanna be your wife.”

“Ain’t nothing gonna change,” he said. “Save for maybe our location, eventually. And, well.” He nodded to her tummy—still flat. It wouldn’t grow for a little while yet. “We’ll have company.”

“You’ll still read me poetry?”

He smiled. “Yes, I will.”

“Do you think Dutch will come?” said Mary Beth.

Arthur sighed. He shrugged. “I hope so. I don’t know that it’ll feel the same if he ain’t there.”

“Yeah,” said Mary Beth.

They heard some nightingales, and then a distant loon. The fire blazed and crackled. The sky overhead was so black, and the stars were so clear.

He kissed her, and she took off his hat and grabbed him by the collar. Sometimes, she could still sense his near surprise upon being touched with her reckless abandon. Like he was delayed, and it took him some time to let go, but once he did, it drove him. As a gunslinger, Arthur was full of swagger and aloofness for the craft, but when it came to his personal life, he had been closed for too long, never opening up to anybody, hiding himself so as to never have to apologize to the world for existing. He had a beautiful soul, but few had seen it.

She pushed him onto his back in the weeds, throwing her full weight. She knew she was kind of clumsy in most respects, but it didn’t really stop her. He seemed to like that about her anyway. Like he had to hold her steady. She had him out of his belt and suspenders in what felt like seconds and hiked up her own skirt. He got a desperate grip on her, and she wanted it to go fast, like a freight train. They were out in nature. He stayed beneath her the whole time, talking to her, telling her things in his deep, comforting voice. He was some kind of elegant man. When Arthur finished, his eyes were closed and his head stretched back so she could see the cords and the muscles in his neck. She touched them as he came, and she thought about how long she’d known him as nothing more than a friend and the parts that had changed between them and the parts that had stayed the same.

“Maybe we could go to St. Denis after this,” she said when it was done. They had crawled into their tent now, and he had his arm around her and one of his hands piecing through her hair. “Like on a date.”

“You wanna go on a date with me in St. Denis?” said Arthur, smiling with his eyes closed.

“Sure. We could see one of them moving picture shows.”

“That would be nice.”

“You think Dutch is gonna want us to do something?” she said. She had her hand on his chest, which rose and fell in even fashion. “Didn't you say something about a poker game on a river boat? Seems like it’s time.”

Arthur sighed. She looked up to try and guess what he was thinking.

“What’s wrong?” she said.

“Nothing,” he said. “I just don’t really feel like thinking about river boat poker games right now.”

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“Don’t be sorry.” He looked at her. “We should go to sleep, Miss Gaskill. I wanna get going early tomorrow.”

“Okay,” she said. She reached past him to turn down the lantern. “But it ain’t gonna be Miss Gaskill much longer, remember.” She kissed him on the cheekbone.

Arthur seemed confounded by this, but pleasantly so. “You’re right,” he said.

They both looked up then, as they could hear the wind picking up outside and rustling against their tent. It was only wind, but for some reason, it surprised them. They waited. The wind held steady and then died down and then picked up and held steady agin. They looked back at one another and then nestled in.

“Goodnight, Arthur Morgan," said Mary Beth.

“Goodnight, Miss Gaskill.”

“You are a damn cheater, John Marston."

They were sitting around the table with Lawrence and Lizette, playing blackjack for pennies. Jack was already upstairs sleeping. It was a little after nine o’clock.

“That’s a lie,” said John, collecting the pot. “I’ve never once cheated at cards. That was always Arthur’s thing.”

“Oh, please,” said Abigail. “Like he never taught you.”

John laughed at this. “Believe me, he tried. He used to make me sit for hours. Him teaching, me listening. But I wasn’t no good from the start. Just too honest, I guess.”

She shoved him, laughing.

“I think you’re both pretty damn good,” said Lawrence, cleaning his glasses with a delicate yellow handkerchief. “At least you’re giving me a run for my money, and I’m quite good.”

“Not a lot to do but play cards when you’re camping in the wilderness,” said Abigail, straightening her ponytail. “Even the women learn gambling.”

“It’s a valuable skill,” said Lizette, in earnest. “Especially for a woman. Nobody would ever suspect it.”

John gathered up the cards then, his turn to deal. The kettle hissed from the kitchen. Lawrence got up to take it off the fire. He poured the tea and offered a little rum to go with it. They all said yes. “What what was it you said about Arthur?” He was pouring the tea into four neat and pretty porcelain tea cups. They had a very lovely blue filigree. “That cheating cards was his thing?”

“I don’t think he does it much no more,” said John, shuffling, “but when we was younger, like real young, he used to pull the wool over every fool gambler’s eyes in town. A real hustler. He can count cards, memorize the order of a deck, predict when they’ll turn up in a pile, and he also has some sleight of hand.”

“Like magic?” said Lizette.

“Yes, ma’am. It used to be one of his true specialties, always an ace up his sleeve.” John laughed to himself.

Lawrence passed around the tea cups. “It must take a great deal of intelligence to hold the ordering of an entire deck of cards in one’s mind. He sounds formidable.”

“I never thought about it like that,” said John, scratching at the scruff on his chin, “but he always was sort of like that. Smart, you know? He hides it pretty well.”

“Too well,” said Abigail. “It ain’t right. A man shouldn’t have to hide.”

John sighed, started dealing the cards. “No, he shouldn’t.”

“You know, when we first met Arthur,” said Lawrence, sitting down and sipping his tea, “he and Mary Beth were posing as married grain farmers who had been robbed.”

“No shit,” said John. Abigail cleared her throat, socked him above the knee. “I mean, uh, tell us about that.”

Lawrence smiled. He liked them. They were a very young couple, they tried hard, and their boy was extremely well-behaved. “Well, Mary Beth came to our door flailing, saying her husband had been beaten up and they'd been robbed of their wagon, full of corn. They were looking for a place to stay.”

“Corn?” said John.

“That sounds like Mary Beth’s idea. She plays a pretty good hysterical wife.”

“That, she did,” said Lawrence. “Of course your man Arthur, he’s no corn farmer. I could tell by his guns and his demeanor alone. But like you two, they were charming and polite, and they seemed in love. It’s hard to distrust people like that. Though Arthur did have a gunshot wound—more like a graze in his arm that I stitched up for him. I still am not sure how he got it.”

Abigail was red in the cheeks. She was smiling down into her porcelain cup. The idea of seeming in love made her both self-conscious but also relieved. “I’m sure it was nothing,” she said. She sipped her tea. “Arthur's a tough specimen, and he's had a lot worse.”

This seemed to concern Lawrence, but Lawrence said nothing.

“So you was in the war?” said John, gesturing to the Union kepi hanging by the door. “Arthur said you was from Illinois. I am, too. Though I don’t really remember it the way I should.”

“Yes,” said Lawrence. “I was born in a city called Rockford.”

"What did you do in the war?" said Abigail.

"I was a medic," said Lawrence, adjusting his glasses. "I was no innocent, but I never saw true battle."

“What you saw might’ve been a fair bit worse than battle,” said Abigail. “Nursing wounds ain’t no picnic.”

Lawrence seemed to find this very interesting. “No, Mrs. Marston. It isn’t.”

She blushed again. “Just Abigail. Please.”

“Have you nursed many wounds, Abigail?” he said. Then he shifted in his seat a little. He seemed pensive. Lizette reached for his hand. He squeezed it once and smiled at her, then he took a long drink of his tea.

"More than my fair share, I reckon."

“You said something before, about that. It bothered me.”

“Oh?” she said. She looked at John, mortified, then back at Lawrence. “I—I’m sorry. I didn't mean it—to be a bother—”

“No, no. I didn't mean it like that,” said Lawrence. “I'm very sorry. I just meant—you said that Arthur’s had a lot worse. That’s what bothered me."

"Oh."

"We've looked after them now, a couple times. Him and Mary Beth. They seem okay, but I get the sense they're always running. We care about them. What did you mean by that? What happened to Arthur?”

Abigail felt John taking her hand under the table. She was embarrassed. "I—"

“You should ask him,” said John, stepping in. “He’ll tell you.”

Lawrence smiled, impressed. He nodded. “I’ll do that,” he said. “And I’m very sorry again, Abigail. I didn’t mean to make you feel like you'd done something wrong, or to put you on the spot.”

She looked up at him. He was a very nice man. She was not used to someone being so concerned, and certainly not a stranger. “It’s fine," she said. "I’m just—I don’t like makin a fool of myself. For obvious reasons. Maybe I'm a little too touchy.”

“You’re perfect,” said Lizette. She placed her little palm on Abigail’s cheek. “Do not be so nervous, child.”

“Thank you,” said Abigail. "I appreciate that."

Just then, they heard the rustling of a horse outside. Abigail and John both perked up, glancing at one another. Then they looked at Lawrence who was still deep in thought.

“I thought they wasn’t coming till tomorrow,” said Abigail.

“Perhaps they’re early?” said Lizette.

“Could be,” said Lawrence, surfacing. He pushed back from the table, slowly. He seemed to gather his thoughts, and then he seemed to quickly disengage and went to the door. He picked up his shotgun. They all waited until they heard knocking.

Lawrence cracked the door open, left the chain pulled, his usual approach. John was standing between the front door and the kitchen table, a little like an attack dog. It was just habit. Abigail and Lizette just sat, waiting. “Can I help you?” said Lawrence.

But the voice, right away—it was familiar. “Yes, is this the Winterson establishment?”

“Hosea?” said Abigail. She smiled, got up from the table. “It’s okay. It’s just Hosea.”

Lawrence glanced at her, then back at John, who nodded, then back to the man through the door. “Hosea?” he said.

"That’s me. I’m here for the wedding.”

Lawrence closed the door and dropped the chain. He set his shotgun down on the floor beside the door jamb. Then he opened the door again, all the way this time. Hosea stepped inside, removed his hat. He was alone, and he was a sight to see.

Abigail rushed to him. She hugged him, tight. He smelled like the cold air outside and just like Hosea. “You came,” she said.

“Of course I came,” said Hosea. “You think I’d miss Arthur’s wedding? Where are they?"

"They ain't here yet," said Abigail. "They're coming tomorrow."

"Good."

“Where’s Dutch?” said John. “I thought Arthur sent for you both.”

On the other side of the room, the clock made its low chime. It was ten o’clock. “No Dutch,” said Hosea. He and Abigail parted and he smiled at John, a little strained. “Not this time, son.” Hosea approached Lawrence then, held his hand out in a steadfast, very upright fashion. “Lawrence Winterson, I assume.”

“Yes, sir. You're not the minister, are you?”

“No,” said Hosea, smiling. They shook. “No, I’m just a friend. A very old friend. My name is Hosea Matthews.”

“Well, it’s wonderful to have you, Mr. Matthews. Come in, come in. We’ll show you to your room.”

“Thank you, good sir. The ride was long, and I’m quite tired.”

“Of course.”

Lizette went with them both upstairs. She insisted on turning down the linens for each of her guests. While they were gone, John and Abigail stood by the table where the cards were all scattered about with the abandoned tea cups. They both looked at the cards, and then Abigail looked at John. “What’s wrong?” she said.

“Nothing,” said John. He seemed pissed off. He went out to the porch, his boots heavy on the wooden floors.

She followed him out, closing the door behind them. It was cooler outside, so she tightened her shawl. He lit a cigarette, gave it to her. Then he lit one for himself. They stood and smoked for a while. She awaited him nervously, wishing she could just read his damn mind. She knew something was wrong.

Eventually, he shook his head and looked down at his hand, holding the cigarette. “Jesus Christ."

"What's wrong?"

"You heard Hosea. Not this time.”

“What?”

“Dutch isn’t coming. Not this time.”

“Oh," she said, almost relieved. "So what?"

“So, when the hell is Arthur ever gonna get married again?”

Abigail took a long, deep breath. She tossed her cigarette to the wood and stamped it out with the toe of her boot. She was trying to see the reason in it. Truth be told, she didn't hold as much faith in Dutch as those boys did. Hosea, yes. But not Dutch, and she wasn't surprised. “I see what you mean," she said, trying to be kind. "But maybe...maybe he didn’t wanna leave the camp unguarded. Or maybe he was afraid of bringing danger, John. I mean, he ain’t exactly low profile as far as criminals is concerned, and you saw what he did to Colm O'Driscoll. Try not to jump to the worst possible conclusion until we know what's going on, if you can.”

John stepped out to the edge of the porch. It was getting windy. You could see it coming across, blowing the long grasses and hear it rustling through the trees. It seemed to mildly disturb the horses. A lonesome hound wandered across the lawn then. It was a strange sight and it sort of startled Abigail. The hound had big, floppy ears. It went over to sniff at something on the lawn, but it was disinterested in the two of them. It disappeared into the darkness, like a ghost, keeping its watch.

“You think Swanson’ll make it?” said Abigail.

John finished his cigarette, looked back to her. He them seemed to soften. He came over and took her hand again, just for a moment. He looked down at her knuckles. Her bones were delicate. Compared to his, they were like little works of art. “I hope so,” he said.

“If not, we’ll all just go to Valentine,” she said. "They got a nice church there, with plenty of pews."

He smiled. He gave her back her hand. “You always know how to look on the bright side, Abbie.”

She got bashful from this. She really tried.

Meanwhile, Reverend Swanson slept in the church that night back in St. Denis. Sister Calderón had offered him a cot, but he wanted to sleep in the pews where it was cold. He stared up at the ceiling, which was unadorned but beautifully constructed. He had his hands folded together, resting on his chest. He lie very still. He heard many strange noises in the church that night—like mice, and there were bats up in the belfry. It was windy, too, and the wind had come on quickly, and it was blowing against the building, sounding like ghosts, whistling and rattling the window panes. At some point, Swanson found the courage to close his eyes, and to dream. Once, he had been a great minister. He could command entire rooms. Entire congregations of good, god-fearing people. It had been Swanson, in fact, who had counseled Dutch on the art of passionate oration long ago. Of course, Dutch was a different kind of minister, but still.