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mtraki · 5 years ago

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Prompt: 'palm reading' by @prowlingthunder

The man had been watching him for more minutes than Arthur was comfortable with— and with far more skill at disguising it than he was used to seeing out of the usual lawman or bounty hunter— so he made his way across the saloon floor and offered to buy him a drink.

He was tall and lean, of a height with Charles, maybe, and built a lot like John. Lanky, but none of it awkward or gangly. Introducing himself as ‘Donald’, he carried himself with quiet composure and a pair of pistols at his belt. He was a riddle, this man.

“You got business with me, Donald?” Arthur asked pointedly, “Otherwise I dunno why you been eyeballin’ me…”

Shrugging easily, the man fiddled with the sleeves of his smoke gray jacket, “Given the alternatives, friend, I’d say I’m better off looking at you than anybody else. Especially since I’m getting a free drink out of it…”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, we ain’t friends,” Allowing some of the familiar snarl to enter his voice, the outlaw sat forward in his seat, “make no mistake about that…”

If Donald sensed the threat in Arthur’s tone, he was completely unaffected by it, “So you’re the sort of man who buys drinks for men not your friends?”

“Don’t see how it’s your business how I spend my money.”

“Certainly not, nor how you choose your friends, mister…?”

“... Kilgore.”

“Mister Kilgore,” Donald nodded to himself, “But if you didn’t come over here to discuss how we might go about becoming friends, why did you bother? I imagine if you were keen on telling me to stop looking at you, you’re the sort of man to tell me outright instead of dithering about first…”

“You sound awfully sure you know the sort of man I am, Mister Donald…”

“I’m awfully sure I’ll find out before the day is done, Mister Kilgore.”

Their look held, and the still quiet in the rest of the saloon only increased the tooth-edge strain of the moment.

“You cannot be serious…”

Catherine did not spare the girls a bit of her annoyance while they grinned at her, all except Mary-Beth, who was still pouring over her left hand, enraptured, as if she too could see all the ‘palmist’ had said it foretold.

“Sounds a bit to me like you’re scared, Miss Catherine,” Jenny teased.

Scoffing, the pale-eyed lady fixed her a look, “What in the world might I be afraid of out of a con-artist?”

Tilly and Jenny exchanged a brief smile, that Catherine suspected she was not supposed to catch, before the former answered, “Maybe you’re scared she’ll see a future you might not like?”

“Maybe a future like Mary-Beth’s over there,” Karen cackled, “with a man and a big old house…”

The girls were in such a good mood, the lady didn’t want to bring them down, but really, a palmist of all things to tease her with? “The only thing she’s going to see in my palm are new callouses on soft skin and make up some nonsense from there.”

“If it’s all nonsense,” Jenny smiled, “what’s the harm?”

“I don’t want to be party to or paying for a silly story told to me under the pretense of some occult wisdom or insight. It’s an affront to my intelligence.”

“You’re right, Jenny,” Tilly nodded, “she sounds scared.”

Rolling her eyes, Catherine noticed the palmist— a beautiful middle-aged woman with dark olive skin, wearing an elegantly embroidered white blouse under a dark blue vest, and a bluish skirt, both embroidered and decorated with silver coins, and a red scarf tied over her thick black hair. Her tawny eyes were knowing, almost laughing.

It truly tested her patience.

Setting her jaw, she marched over and sat herself down on the little stool across from the keen-eyed huckster, “… Best make it a good one for these silly girls, soothsayer.”

“Only the best for you, my dear.” The woman purred, grinning broadly as she slid the coins handed to her into her purse.

He couldn’t help it. Arthur started to laugh— a dry chuckle high in his chest. Donald was sitting much at his ease, hands nowhere near his person to draw a weapon, and Arthur’s were on the table. The stranger wasn’t even trying to call his bluff-- Donald wasn’t intimidated in the least— and Arthur confessed to some small admiration for that bone-deep self assurance. Donald knew exactly the sort of man he was, what he was capable of, and where he belonged in the world. He had no need to defend himself against Arthur’s or anyone’s inspection.

Donald’s reedy laugh joined his, not a note of it mocking, and the big outlaw allowed himself to like him just a little. Maybe they could be friends. Eventually.

“You rode up on that gray war horse out front, didn’t you?” Donald gestured toward the windows that faced the street-front, “I ain’t ever seen a horse like that this far west, Mister Kilgore. How’s he handle the heat?”

“He handles it fine. Likes it better this way than the southeast where I got’em.”

“Cavalry or Artillery?” “Excuse me?” “He was used in the war, wasn’t he? Was he cavalry mount or artillery draft?”

“Oh…” Arthur shook his head, “Dunno. Probably cavalry, way he handles an’ thinks.”

Nodding, Donald said, “It’s one of the nicer things about those breeds: they think. Not like my borrowed Morgan.”

“Morgans are pretty hot,” The outlaw waved his hand absently, “No attention, all run. I like a more solid mount, myself.”

“Must not need much in the way of speed or distance...”

“He’ll go all day,” Arthur amended with a shrug, “But he ain’t winning any races.”

Smiling at the lady who brought them their full glasses, Donald asked, “You had him awhile then?”

“Less than a year. Had a paint mare before him.” The big outlaw did not mind that his fond memories of Boadicea showed in his voice.

They raised their glasses to each other briefly. Donald drank the whiskey readily, though confessed he ‘usually drank brandy at home’.

“Where’s that?”

“Graysea,” Was the easy answer, then he gestured toward the ceiling with his free hand at Arthur’s expression, “Michigan.”

“Cold up in those parts, I hear.”

“Especially now,” Agreed the other man, “I can’t say I miss the weather, but I’m hoping to be back in time for Christmas.”

“Here for work, then?”

“Yes, and I’ve left a family-- three young ladies who’ll be missing me, I imagine.”

Grunting in his chest, Arthur gestured for the barman to bring them another round before prompting, “Some business to drive a man from that…”

Something cold and sharp was threatening to twist free inside him, thinking about this man leaving his family miles behind him for other obligations…

But that was the way of the world, wasn’t it? Surely everyone knew that as well as he did…

It was with effort Arthur relaxed the fist on his thigh under the table.

“Five thousand dollars is hard to turn aside when you’ve a house to keep and young ladies to care for and protect, my friend.” Donald smiled casually, meeting Arthur’s gaze. He didn’t even lower his voice to mention it--not that he’d be easily heard by anybody other than Arthur as the evening crowd rolled in the doors.

“Jesus Christ!” The outlaw sputtered before lowering his own voice, not wanting to attract the wrong sort of attention, “Fi--five… thousand?! For what?!”

And just who was this man that felt sure of himself enough to tell a complete stranger— and a man who looked and dressed like Arthur did— about it in plain language at first blush?

Donald reached into his jacket and pulled out a small photograph, which he showed Arthur, “For her.”

Admittedly, it was a much different, far more interesting foretelling than what Catherine had overheard of Mary-Beth’s.

So far there was no man, children, or old houses— except the very shrewd guess that she’d come from a man and an old house. Which, honestly, could have applied to any number of women— especially ones with manners, diction, and hands like hers.

More than the words themselves— which Mary-Beth was listening to enraptured, and even Tilly and Jenny had stopped their giggling and paid keen attention (Karen continued to snigger and scoff)— Catherine was intrigued by the palmist’s methodology. The way she alluded and prodded for information in careful questions and vague statements, slowly piecing back a narrative that the information she’d gleaned or guessed about her client she’d actually foreseen in her hand. It was very well done, and the lady confessed to some small admiration for the skill of this ‘Madame Nazar’.

They’d mostly talked carefully around her past— how she had left behind the house of her father, with whom she did not get along, who was very wealthy and moderately influential. There had been a few odd statements concerning “multiple romantic liaisons and suitors” as well. Now, Nazar was making vague mentions about a “journey” when she suddenly stopped and carefully inspected the lines of her palm.

“… You will be betrayed,” She said gravely, looking up into her pale eyes, “You will be betrayed by one you have chosen to trust, and you shall lose all you sought to gain when you began.”

“... Who is she?” Arthur breathed, already knowing.

It was a photo of Catherine. There was no mistaking it. She was seated in a chair at a small round table with a large bouquet of flowers in a vase at the center, dressed in high fashion with her hair coifed to perfection, piled dark and silky upon her head with a fancy comb. Her pose and expression made it very much seem like the shot was a candid photograph, and yet Arthur suspected it was a carefully planned artifice. He’d seen her surprised— genuinely surprised— and she was a little too composed in this image.

“Catherine-Louise Schofield,” Was Donald’s answer, watching the outlaw’s face in a way that had Arthur wondering with twisting guts how much he’d given away already, “Seems she’s gone missing… You wouldn’t know anything about it, would you?”

“... Friend, that sounds a little bit like an accusation…” Dragging his eyes from the photo, Arthur met Donald’s sly look with a scowl.

“Not at all,” The other man replied casually, putting the photograph in his jacket again, “But if you did know something, I’d be prepared to pay you four hundred dollars for anything that points me in the right direction…”

A chill settled over Arthur, “You goin’ around makin’ this offer to everybody?”

“No sir, I’m not quite that foolish or desperate,” Donald smiled, and then indicated Arthur, “But you look like the sort of man who keeps an ear to the ground to find what he needs. I’m just wondering if you’ve heard anything that might help me.”

“What makes you think she’s in these parts? Woman like that looks like she might be more comfortable in New York or Europe…”

“Her father, Mr. Schofield, has connections there and around here. Seems a lot of people want in his good graces or want to remain there. He said he received word that she was this way instead of any other.”

“Alive?” Arthur’s mind whirred frantically, trying to figure out who it was that had given her away. Someone in town? Mr. Walker or his mousy wife? Someone in camp?

“I haven’t heard otherwise,” The man in the gray jacket leaned forward, folding his hands on the table, “I’m thinkin’ a pampered lady like her isn’t going to be doing so well for herself this way.”

“If she’s this way at all, she’d surely be staying in Blackwater,” Arthur mumbled, gesturing with one hand toward the door of the saloon, thoughts still racing. How many men like Mister Donald had old Daddy Schofield hired? How many people had Mister Donald here already talked to? Catherine hadn’t necessarily been shouting from the rooftops about who she was and where she came from, but there had been more than a few situations where her name in the right ear had made things easier for herself and the gang.

“I’d agree with you,” Was the shrugging reply, “except she’d be easily found there. Miss Schofield is known for being rather clever— too clever for her own good, in the words of her father. Too clever to be where she’s sure to be found, I suspect. No, I’m thinking she’s somewhere else…”

“Like where?”

“Not sure, but I’m certain wherever she is, she’s not alone. Woman like that will have protection…”

Arthur accepted his drink from the bartender and drank it thoughtfully before speaking again, “You suppose she’s with some man out in the wilds? Woman like her?”

“Woman like her? No,” Donald shook his head, “she’s got a whole host of men at her beck ‘n call. Men addled by her beauty and charms to support her and defend her— I was warned that she would be anticipating his sending us. I expect she’s made her preparations.”

“You think all this up yourself?” Arthur laughed, despite the growing knot in his belly.

Four-hundred dollars was good money, especially just for information…

Blinking, Catherine laughed lightly, “How dramatic!”

“Who?” Mary-Beth asked, more curious than concerned. Tilly was frowning, and Jenny’s face seemed to threaten violence. Karen had stopped scoffing.

“I cannot say for certain who.” The woman shrugged, “But assuredly, it would be someone with the means and motivation to do so.”

The girls didn’t seem satisfied, but Catherine decided this silly adventure was concluded and carefully withdrew her hand, “I must thank you for your insight, Madame. This has been most instructive…”

Nazar’s look was pointed, but not harsh, that knowing look still in her eyes and tugging at her lips, “You are quick to discount me, but I advise you think well on what you have learned.”

“Oh, believe me,” Catherine smiled back, “it will be long on my mind.”

Without another glance back, Catherine went to where they’d left the horses.

When Donald didn’t answer, Arthur sighed and started to climb to his feet.

“…Well, my friend, it just so happens,” He said, “I heard some things that might help you.”

Four-hundred dollars was good money, the sort that would guarantee a good lead eventually—especially around these parts. Donald was smart enough, or experienced enough, to scent a good lead from a bad one at face value. There really only seemed to be one way to benefit from this situation.

“I knew it wasn’t a vain hope you might say so, Mister Kilgore.”

“Call me Arthur.”

“Alright, Arthur.”

Adjusting his hat, the outlaw indicated the street, “Your morgan tied up outside?”

“Certainly. Are we leaving?”

“Might as well tie up this business quick-like. Pretty sure you’ll find what you’re looking for a few minutes out of town. I’ll show you if you’re up for the ride.”

“Lead the way.”

Arthur hesitated, “That ain’t such a good idea,” With a jerk of his chin at the bartender, Arthur frowned, “Like you said: she’s like as not got all sorts of fools in her pocket…”

“… We’ll leave separately then.” Donald was quick to catch on, nodding, the gleam in his eyes seeming to approve of Arthur’s foresight, “Where do I meet you?”

“Other side of the arroyo south of town there’s a fallen in building with half a roof. Only real landmark ‘round here.”

Then Arthur walked out, noticing Donald approach the bar, asking something about the whiskey they’d been served.

It only took him a few minutes to ride out to the meeting place, and there he dismounted, leaving Slim loose to investigate the scrub while he waited in what little shade could be found. Afternoon marched on, and though autumn had come to the desert, the sun remained hot during the day. That would change as they drew closer to winter. Resigning to wait, Arthur sketched out his still-fresh memory of his meeting with the man from Michigan. If things went well, he’d see little of him afterwords. Which was a shame—parts of Arthur still suspected the two of them could have been friends.

Some time later, even despite the drone of industry that could still be heard from town, it was impossible to miss the approaching hoof-beats and the nervous disconcerted nickering of the morgan horse as they approached the dilapidated construct.

“You weren’t kidding,” Arthur smiled ruefully, “Poor thing must spook at its own shadow.”

“You weren’t either,” Donald replied, “about this being the only real landmark.”

“Sure. Lemme tie him up here so he don’ spook off while we’re lookin’…”

The hunter didn’t protest when Arthur took his reins as he dismounted to hitch the anxiously dancing horse to one of the standing posts, “Looking?”

“You got binoculars?”

“Of course.”

Looking over his shoulder, Arthur said, “There’s a mesa further south. Take a look up there. See if they’re millin’ about…”

“’They’…?”

Already following his instructions, Donald dug in his saddle bags, withdrawing a nice pair of binoculars, and brought them up to his face to inspect the terrain to the south. Arthur stepped to his side and touched his shoulder with one hand and pointed with his other to the familiar plateau. “There. See ‘em?”

There wasn’t much choice in the matter…

“…Yes.”

While Donald’s eyes and hands were occupied, turning to focus on where he’d indicated, Arthur dropped his pointing hand and took the opportunity to bury his belt knife in the other man’s windpipe from the soft spot under his jaw, to the hilt. Choking on six inches of steel and his own blood, the hunter’s hands were still quick to abandon the optics, letting them simply fall, and reached for his gunbelt.

“Shhh-shhh, Donald…” Arthur muttered, knocking the faster hand aside and interrupting the other by yanking the knife out in a spray of blood, slashing down through the throat, and jamming the knife bodily between the third and fourth ribs, “No reason to get the town in a fuss…”

A gunshot would draw attention. A fleeing horse would as well. The morgan smelled blood and danced aside, tossing its head, snorting harshly, but remained fastened to the post.

Bright blood throbbed in time with the dying man’s pulse, filling the air with the scent of iron, soaking into both Donald and Arthur’s shirt as the killer held his victim upright, slowly lowering him to the desert floor. The parched ground gladly drank up the blood that pattered down onto it.

Donald’s eyes locked with Arthur’s even as his mouth worked uselessly, his voice cut open with his throat to prevent him from shouting.

“…It’s bad business, partner.” Arthur told him quietly, his own voice devoid of inflection.

With that, the mysterious hunter, Donald, from Graysea, Michigan, passed from this world.

Arthur did not think about the daughters and wife that would not see him at Christmas time, and would not be benefiting from five-thousand dollars— or any income from the man of the house, at all. Instead, he concerned himself with the task of checking his possessions— a dead man had no need for cash and valuables, after all, and taking his effects would help disguise this situation as a simple anonymous robbery.

He was not too surprised to see that Donald did not carry the four hundred dollars on his person. He was not that much a fool. Maybe it was waiting in his hotel room, or a deposit box in the bank. Both out of Arthur’s reach right now.

The others knew right away there’d be nothing good coming of approaching Arthur now. If his being covered in blood and dirt without an animal carcass to show for it didn’t deter them, the look on his face surely did.

All save one.

She was perhaps the very last person he wanted to see. Especially now.

She knew it as well, but that nobody would give him more than a glance, much less ask after his welfare, Catherine’s ire was sparked, as well as her alarm and curiosity.

“What—” He turned and stepped quickly to avoid her, but she maneuvered deftly to stay with him, “—what in the world—”

“—It’s nothin’ Miss Ca—” He cut her off, his voice rough. He’d have to tell her, but now wasn’t the time.

His tone and obvious falsehood only increased every aspect of her vexation, “—Don’t be absurd! You’re covered in blood—”

Too late she heard his tone sharpen in warning. “—Ain’t nothin’ you need to concern—”

“—Is it human blood—”

Something about the way she was needling him, some quality in her voice just now, as well as the incessant pressure, rubbed him raw inside. A blister of bitterness in his memory. She wasn’t the first woman to disparage him his actions…

Thoroughly aggravated, the outlaw loomed over the lady, his mouth a tight line as his brows cinched together.

“Yes.” Was his admission, his voice cold and quiet, “It is. If you didn’t know, Miss Catherine, that happens sometimes in the outlaw life—”

An angry, likely humiliated flush bloomed in Catherine’s cheeks and she began to protest, “—I’m well aware—”

He talked over her, his voice growing in volume and open anger with every word, as if they were being pumped fresh from the open sore that had flared to feeling inside him, “— so as to keep safe our free way of life. We do as needs doin’, Miss Schofield. I’ll do whatever necessary to keep these folk safe, and I ain’t gonna go out of my way to mind your ‘delicate sensibilities’ whilst I do it. I ain’t gonna dissemble with you ‘bout that. If you feel strongly about it, miss, I advise you to mind your peace!”

The sudden quiet informed that much of the camp had overheard. Catherine’s face remained expressionless, however, as she watched his face, remaining silent long enough for the usual camp activity to resume.

Also long enough for Arthur to feel the niggling discomfort of guilt for his outburst.

"... Don't do that." Her words cracked with frost, "Don't look at me and see somebody else— don’t speak to me like I'm someone else."

"Well I'm sorry—”

“—You're not sorry! You don't understand at all what I mean. But I see you, well enough, and I thought that was your own blood. I thought you were hurt. Don't confuse me with some noble soul who cares about the general suffering of others, Arthur. You're making it enough trouble worrying about those in my vicinity..."

Clearing his throat, uncomfortable with her inspection of the deeper goings-on of his self, Arthur reached into his satchel and wordlessly handed her the photo he’d taken from Donald.

“… Man from Michigan showed me this,” He explained quietly, “Offered me four-hundred dollars for any information I could give him. Says your father hired him.”

Her expression was closed, despite the sudden blood-drained pallor of her skin, “… I see. Are you hurt?”

“No. No, I’m fine…”

“That’s good,” The lady nodded and handed him back the photo, “… You should wash up before Miss Grimshaw finds you like this.”

Without another word, he turned to do so.

Catherine chewed her lip, turning over these troubling tidings in her thoughts. She would need to plan wisely and keep even more sharply aware of any news…

More than once, however, her thoughts snagged on the fact that Arthur Morgan had killed a man, seemingly in cold blood, for her.

For her freedom? Or simply to keep her?

Or should she take him at his word— that he’d done it to protect the Van der Linde gang?

#my mic #rdr2 fic #red dead redemption 2 fic #arthur morgan #ao3fic #prowlingthunder #revolver fic

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