Old John is dead

Arthur and John, a duo of unlikely companions, rode their horses with a leisurely, almost unprecedented stroll through the bustling streets of Saint Denis. For once, the air wasn't thick with their usual bickering; instead, a strange, almost peaceful silence hung between them. Both men, in their own ways, seemed engrossed, their gazes sweeping across the surrounding shops with a newfound, almost childlike eagerness.

Correction: it should be said that Arthur was eagerly scrutinizing the various shopfronts, while John, perpetually confused, merely followed in his wake, peppering him with bewildered questions.

"Why are we… why are we just strolling around here?" John grumbled, his brow furrowed in a permanent frown, as he watched Arthur's eyes flick from one shop to another. He shifted uncomfortably in his saddle, sensing an unfamiliar disturbance in the cosmic order of their usual chaotic lives.

"Because, Marston," Arthur replied, his voice a low, almost mysterious murmur, without even bothering to glance at him, "we have… business here." He continued to scan the elegant rows of shops, his gaze finally settling on a particularly bright and undeniably expensive-looking establishment. A slow, predatory smile touched his lips. He nudged his horse closer, the animal's hooves clip-clopping softly on the cobblestones.

"Philipe's Jewelry?" John exclaimed, his eyes widening. A flicker of his old, outlaw instincts ignited. "Why in the blazes are we here? You're not thinking of robbing this place, are you? Oh, shit! I haven't robbed a jewelry store quite like this before. I reckon this place should have a damn good haul."

He nodded sagely, as if Arthur had just presented him with a brilliant, undeniable truth. Arthur, he mused, had surprisingly refined taste in targets. Philipe's Jewelry, even at first glance, screamed 'high-end establishment,' exuding an undeniable air of luxurious sophistication, making it clear that the sparkling baubles within would be worth a fortune.

Listening to John's increasingly enthusiastic chatter beside him, Arthur groaned, an almost theatrical sound of despair. He covered his face with one hand, rubbing his temples vigorously.

"Oh, shit! Marston, for the love of all that is holy, can you just shut your damn mouth? Why are you starting to sound like… like Sean?!"

John, however, displayed no reaction whatsoever to Arthur's exasperated scolding, not even the courtesy of an acknowledgment. He was a statue of indifference. The two had lived cheek by jowl since their turbulent teens, through their wild twenties, and into their grizzled thirties; they knew each other's temperaments, every infuriating quirk, every predictable habit.

Arthur's notoriously foul mouth was something John understood better than anyone, even better than Bill, who was practically a professional victim. Why? Because when the gang was just the four of them – Dutch, Hosea, Arthur, and John – Arthur couldn't curse at Dutch, and he certainly couldn't curse at Hosea. So, John became his personal, daily, verbal punching bag. After so many years, John had long since developed an immunity, a thick skin that rivaled a rhinoceros.

The only thing that had genuinely grated on his nerves lately, the only thing that had chipped away at his impenetrable indifference, was Arthur's relentless crusade to force him to accept Abigail and Jack, constantly lecturing him like a nagging, overly involved parent. That was what truly pushed him to the edge of his patience. But this particular brand of mockery? It had no effect whatsoever on John now; he was simply too dull, too preoccupied, to even process Arthur's sarcasm.

"Hya!" Arthur grunted, reining in his horse with a sharp tug, pulling it to a halt at the sturdy hitching post directly in front of the gleaming jewelry store.

"Please, Arthur," John pleaded, his voice tinged with a desperate edge. He eyed the jewelry store with a growing sense of dread, a cold knot forming in his gut. "What exactly are we doing here? You're not… you're not thinking of buying Mary some… some jewelry, are you?"

For some reason, an increasing, horrifying certainty began to dawn on him. He instinctively stiffened, a primal urge to flee bubbling up within him. Arthur's behavior had been strangely benevolent from the start of this ride, and now they had stopped here. Even John, as dull as he was, could piece together the terrifying puzzle. Damn it, he realized with a sinking heart, Arthur most likely wants me to buy a piece of jewelry for… Abigail!

Damn it!!!

John remained rigidly on his horse, not making the slightest move to dismount. He even clutched the reins tighter, his knuckles white, his eyes fixed on Arthur, as if ready to bolt at any second, to gallop into the sunset and never look back.

"Come on, John! Why are you just standing there, stunned like a struck deer?" Seeing John's stubborn, terrified immobility, Arthur felt an almost uncontrollable urge to simply reach out and slap him.

"No! Arthur, what exactly do you want to do?!" John roared, his voice cracking with exasperation and a rising panic. "Damn it, I knew it! You have a wife now, why in God's name can't you focus more on her? Why are you always, always concerned about my business?! Oh, shit!" John clutched the reins even tighter, his eyes wide with a desperate, trapped fury.

He finally, truly understood Arthur's infuriating intentions. But accepting a… a prosti… accepting Abigail and Jack? It was simply, utterly, morally unacceptable! Especially since Abigail had once… once been with men from the gang… how could he ever face them in the future? If Abigail hadn't been involved with anyone in the gang, that would have been one thing. None of them, in their strange, twisted family, looked down on each other for their pasts. But the gang…

During this time, the gang hadn't experienced any drastic, soul-crushing changes, no daily decline that forced them to cling together. So John and Abigail's relationship hadn't improved, not one bit. Even though they lived under the same canvas roof, John remained routinely, infuriatingly, indifferent. Unacceptable. It was indeed, utterly, deeply unacceptable to him.

Seeing John's genuine distress, his twisted sense of honor, Arthur sighed, a long, weary sound that seemed to carry the weight of the world. "Sigh, Marston," he began, his voice softer, gentler, almost a plea. "Get down first. Let's just… buy it. Whether you give it to her or not… that's up to you; I won't interfere with your final decision, not truly! I know it's hard for you to accept Abigail, I understand that. But that child, John, he's innocent! He didn't ask for any of this! Damn it, get off that horse right now!"

Arthur, seizing the moment, reached out, grabbed one of John's legs with a surprisingly firm grip, and then, with a single, powerful tug, hauled him unceremoniously off the horse, sending him stumbling onto the cobblestones.

"Fuck! Morgan! You don't understand!" John roared, stumbling forward, regaining his footing with a frustrated shake of his head.

Their sudden commotion on the street, this bizarre, public wrestling match, drew the immediate, amused attention of the surrounding crowd. Damn it, John thought, feeling a hot flush creep up his neck. Two hardened desperadoes from a notorious outlaw gang, now looking like a disgruntled father dragging his petulant son out of a gambling den, drawing snickers and open laughter. It was humiliating!

"Enough!" Arthur snapped, his voice suddenly sharp, a flicker of genuine anger in his eyes. He forcibly straightened John, grabbing his shoulders and turning him to face him, eye-to-eye.

"I told you I wouldn't interfere with your choice! But you cannot keep avoiding dealing with this, John! This isn't how Dutch taught you back then! This isn't the man he raised!"

Arthur's grip tightened on John's shoulders, his gaze unwavering, drilling into John's bewildered eyes. "John, listen to me, John. You can't keep ignoring this problem. You need to shoulder your own responsibilities. This is what Dutch and Hosea taught us, isn't it? To be honorable, to be men! Of course, I'm not forcing you to do anything you don't want to. But I… I once had a son, you know." Arthur's voice softened, a raw, aching vulnerability entering his tone. He swallowed hard, his eyes distant, haunted by a ghost.

"I once didn't understand what Dutch and Hosea's teachings truly meant. I once didn't think there was anything wrong with my choices, with how I lived. But, on… that day," his voice cracked, a flicker of profound pain in his eyes, "after I saw his… his body, I suddenly understood something, something that shattered my entire world: to make choices you won't regret, to bear responsibilities you won't regret!

Compared to life and death, John, everything else is too trivial, too insignificant to matter. Marston, I wasn't a good father. I never even participated in his growth. And I don't want you to only regret it later, when it's too late. Perhaps you find Abigail hard to accept, I see that. But Jack is innocent. Truly innocent. Have you thought about how he'll face you when he grows up, when he understands… when he asks why?"

Arthur patted John's shoulder, a gentle, almost comforting gesture, then released his grip. "Listen, John. We're just buying two diamond rings this time. I want to buy one for Mary, and then, find an opportunity to formally propose to her. I think I owe her this.

And you, John, you also need to buy one, even if you don't use it now, but perhaps one day, you will. For Jack. For Abigail. For yourself."

John stopped struggling. The fury drained from his face, replaced by a profound, heavy silence. He stood there for a long moment, then, with a defeated sigh, he simply turned and followed Arthur, his steps heavy, into the glittering, intimidating depths of the jewelry store.

In reality, the reason he had finally, begrudgingly, returned from his self-imposed exile was precisely because of that gnawing sense of responsibility, not just his responsibility to the gang, but also his responsibility to Jack, his son. That was why, during the sheep rustling mission in Valentine, what he had said to Arthur on the road – those resentful, almost childish complaints – sounded so much like raw jealousy.

He just didn't know how to change, how to bridge the chasm within himself. But that sense of responsibility, that core tenet of Dutch and Hosea's teachings, it had always, always, been in his heart, buried deep beneath layers of stubbornness and fear.