#pinkerton detective agency

[sp1n3-ch1ll]

Sometimes I just can't BELIEVE how Dutch just left John to die, and how he just wanted to leave Abigail with Mr. Milton. Like, he practically raised John, since he was twelve years of age. TWELVE YEARS OF AGE. And then just leaves him to die whenever he gets shot in chapter 6. That was fifteen years of being together, and it's still fucking crazy how Dutch just lied to everyone telling them that he was dead, knowing damn well that he was probably alive. And as for Abigail, I think I understand that Dutch didn't want to get caught by the pinkertons, and by the agency while getting Abigail, but if he was as good as a man he said he fucking was, then he should have went and got Abigail. I just think Dutch was fucking horrible for doing those things, and I'm so GLAD he got what he deserved in red dead redemption 1.

[spoonsand]

CONTAINS SPOILERS

Just finished my second playthrough and I have to say: I hate Dutch more than Micah. Don’t get me wrong Micah is scum, but Dutch knew (mostly) everybody in the gang for over a year. Sometimes over a DECADE- and he still turns his back on them. All the kids he and Hosea raised, didn’t matter, the ‘last’ score mattered. The last robbery mattered. Not the orphans or runaways he raised, taught and loved.

Micah is a superficial type. You know he’s evil. When you first meet him, you know he’s bad. But I liked Dutch in definitely the first 3 chapters, I was still liking him in 4. Guarma was iffy. Beaver Hollow is where it all goes downhill. I noticed the decline since chapter 3, but I feel it really steepened in 4 and 6 (Guarma didn’t happen). But back to Micah- you know he’s evil. The way he talks, the way he acts, his beliefs, you just KNOW that this guy isn’t who you’d want to come to your rescue (RIP SADIE). Micah did what he had to do to survive. He never had loyalty in mind, he has his own being in mind.

The Van Der Linde’s whole gang/family was so BASED on loyalty that people killed and died for the gang. Miss Grimshaw mentions killing another traitor. Molly (mistakenly assumed as a traitor) is killed because that’s how strongly they value loyalty. Loyalty (mostly to Dutch) was how the whole gang was founded.

Hosea had the same loyalty, but he actually cared about the people. I think Dutch only cared about the image. Hosea said that he cared for the people that died following Blackwater- that they mattered to him. He wanted closure. Dutch used their deaths as ammunition for his speeches. As a reason for the gang to keep on going. The only thing that set him apart from the O’Driscolls was the fact he cultivated the image that they were a family and that he might have cared. The O’Driscolls didn’t have the same loyalty to their members. When Kieran was captured they didn’t try to get him back. He said he was as good as dead if he wasn’t with the Van Der Linde’s. Dutch took Kieran in to set himself apart. The loyalty. The image.

Hosea kept Dutch in check. After Hosea died, Dutch couldn’t be kept in check. He didn’t have someone he valued highly who truly cared anymore. Micah took over Hosea’s place as the highly valued peer. Micah’s influence was never for the good of the gang- and that wasn’t a secret. Micah’s influence was for his own gain. But what I can’t get over is once Micah had that influence, Dutch didn’t care about anyone anymore. Especially towards the end. He used Eagle Flies, he left Arthur, left John (TWICE), didn’t care about the women, didn’t care about little Jack. Dutch cared about Tahiti. One last score. Reallllly messing with the Pinkertons. Getting the gang to safety wasn’t a priority. As I mentioned earlier- loyalty to Dutch was how the whole gang was founded- Dutch says something about John and Abigail and that women are poison. At the end, John was more concerned with Abigail and Jack rather than Dutch. He didn’t like that. Dutch didn’t like that John was more loyal to his FAMILY than him. He didn’t like that Arthur was more loyal to John than him. Micah, Bill and Javier didn’t have family available to have that stronger loyalty to. They had Dutch and only Dutch. I’m sure that Dutch also had beef with Hosea and Bessie; especially when they left.

But Dutch turned his back on John and Arthur- his sons. He raised them. When Susan was shot, he didn’t bat an eye. He loved her at some point. All these people he’s known for 20 ish years. Or the newer ones, that again, he either raised or feigned affection. And nothing. Turned his back.

FUCK DUTCH YOU BASTARD I HOPE HELL IS AS NICE AS TAHITI

[cowboys-tshot]

if i see one more person go "🤓uh ackhtually micah was the good guy because he was reporting criminals to the authorities" im going to lose my mind

did yall just forget about how he shot up an entire goddamn town because he wanted his guns?? orphaned a child because some guy he used to know was going to let him hang?? how he was INCREDIBLY racist?? was overall creepy towards women??

micah may have been doing the right thing in the eyes of the law by snitching, but he was still an awful fucking person!!

and the same goes for agent milton, he may have been a detective/cop trying to bring justice to criminals but people seem to be forgetting that the pinkertons are literally known for how shitty they are in REAL LIFE—agent milton unloaded a goddamn GATLING GUN at a building that he fucking KNEW had a four year old boy in it, tortured a man to death (strauss), kidnapped a woman whose biggest crimes were petty theft and being in a gang (abigail)....how do people look at all of that and go 'well he was just trying to do his job'??? its insane to me

[silliestcreature196]

If there was an Evil Alternative Universe version of Chilchuck, he'd work for the fucking Pinkerton Detective Agency

[zombie-eats-world]

Hey the Pinkertons are trying to hire more people, wouldn’t it be a shame if their corrupt jobs got spammed with fake applicants?

[schneidt79]

HIP DEEP IN BAD COMPANY (Deadwood Undertaker Bk 5) by Ann Charles & Sam Lucky (Art by C.S. Kunkle)

My 5 Star Review:

Another thrilling tale of Clem and her posse as they discover underground mysteries beneath their very feet! Join the Santa Fe Sidewinders & Lucky Hank as they go to hilarious lengths to avoid & surveil Pinkertons & trap a soul tormenting Sorcerer to protect Uncle Mort.

Follow Clem as she balances Undertaker duties, searches for underground tunnels, attempts keeping a cool head when dealing with Masterson & the Rogue, battles a Sorcerer, & still manages a little romance with a certain Sidewinder (finally ;)).

This installment answers some old questions & introduces a new ally from a very near & unexpected place. Plus, Ms. Hundt actually speaks!

This series delivers laughs, chills, and "the feels"! I'm addicted & can't wait for the next book! Set in the historic western town of Deadwood, South Dakota, these books are part comedy, mystery, & thriller with supernatural & paranormal fights to the death...& just a touch of romance. This series is a romping good time!

Clementines is a Slayer hired to clean up the mining town of Deadwood, South Dakota (& it's territory). She signed up for more than she bargained for but she's found help in her friends. As she trains them to get ready to face the next deadly paranormal foe, she wonders if she is signing their death warrants. These friends and allies won't give her much choice though, since they have committed themselves to be her posse.

The monsters are real & the stakes couldn't be higher. They ban together to protect the innocent (& not so innocent) citizens of Deadwood & other mining camps nearby. All while bonding & learning more about themselves, each other, & this crazy supernatural world they've been thrust into. They bear it all with humor, bravery, caring, & a little bit of crazy! I highly recommend this series by husband & wife team, Ann Charles & Sam Lucky.

*Trigger Warning: There is adult language & violence & comical cross-dressing.*

Find your copy @ any if the following links:

Amazon:

Apple Books:

Barnes & Noble/Nook:

https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/hip-deep-in-bad-company-ann-charles/1145828171?ean=2940186144700

Rakuten/Kobo:

Google Play:

Author Webstore:

[danieldukeauthor]

The Dark Legacy of Allan Pinkerton and the Pinkerton Detective Agency

[plotsjotsandespressoshot]

I just finished reading a case study from 1850 where the Pinkerton detective agency tricked a guy into confessing by making him think he was seeing the ghost of the man he killed for weeks.

Like literally made a guy dress up as the victim but dead and jump in and out of bushes.

Another guy befriended the murderer and everytime he was like ���omg do you see him!? He’s right there!” The guy would ask if he was okay.

And another (first woman deceive in the US) befriended his wife so she could spread (fake?) blood around the house.

History is WILD.

[historydailyfrancischappellblack]

John Kehoe, the Last of the “Molly Maguires,” is Executed in Pennsylvania. December 18, 1878.

Image: John “Black Jack” Kehoe (Public Domain) On this day in history, December 18, 1878, John Kehoe, the last of the “Molly Maguires,” is executed in Pennsylvania. The Molly Maguires, an Irish secret society that had purportedly been accountable for some vigilante justice occurrences in eastern Pennsylvania’s coalfields, upheld their acts as efforts to protect abused Irish-American workers.…

[talgra]

I know the debate is hot around the tentatively discussed Red Dead Redemption 3, and where I find a lot of the arguments are over WHO it’s going to be, (which are viable pretty much the whole time - so far the RDR series has arguably followed John Marston and his family (secretly I believe the RDR series so far is about Jack Marston’s story, which gets a bit heated when trying to guess if it’ll be about him)

But I think a great discussion needs to be held over WHERE and WHEN it’s going to be, more importantly what aspect of the cowboy western that it’s going to follow

Because so far the RDR series follows the mythology of cowboys in both America and Mexico (which is HUGELY important because Mexican ranchers and cowboys made up a huge majority of what the preconceived notion of what a cowboy WAS in that time period)

We’ve got the American West and Northern Mexico in Red Dead 1 and the American West, arguably South, and East in Red Dead 2 (and ps. shoutout to Red Dead Revolver, which was I believe set in the prime of the American West)

Then of course, what time period it’s going to be in.

Red Dead 1 followed the last wisps of the dying outlaw age (which historians did IRL place around 1911-1912, which is when we last play as Jack Marston)

Red Dead 2 follows the last age of gangs and by proxy, cowboys in the Old West - with the a real life event of the last recorded stagecoach robbery that was mirrored for the date of the Blackwater robbery (around May of 1899, which has now been confirmed! Thank you pineapple-boy :-)

Which again, does NOT leave a lot of room for the third installment of the series.

If we have to throw our hats into the ring to guess what age it’ll be set in and who arguably will be the character, I’m guessing wholeheartedly that it’ll be set around 1870, which was the original time period for Red Dead Revolver. As for who it’s going to follow, I think that a lot of people are considering that it’ll be a story linked directly to the Van der Linde gang, like both RDR and RDR2 are. But that would be too easy for R*.

I’m putting my hat in for it happening around 1870, for a new character that is loosely based around the Van der Linde gang and that somehow enhances the stories of the first two games, which has been done in the past. (Rdr2 grows on John Marston’s story, so what, or who, will Rdr3 enhance?)

I also would like to add that since I’m guessing 1870, it’ll be set in the American West, as the prime concentration of gangs and “cowboy” activity reflected in real life happened around the plains and west of America.

(ps. i know it’s long. the argument that it’ll be about charles smith completely undermines what the story about red dead redemption is as a whole. Ik that I believe pinky has mentioned it before (go follow them they’re wicked great at deciphering rdr and has some of the best insight into the depths of characters!!!!) but to say that charles smith will be the protagonist ignores that rdr is about REDEMPTION. charles has nothing to redeem!! the last we see of him he’s gone straight, gone to canada to start a family and settle down just like john marston had. we gotta get creative and not just hope its about charles because we miss him 😿) anyway ill give somebody $20 if rdr3 comes out and its about charles

[sp1n3-ch1ll]

IS IS IS IS THIS A RED DEAD REDEMPTION 2 REFERENCE????????????????

[bones-ivy-breath]

The watchful Detective will seize the Criminal in his weakest moments and force from him, by his sympathy and the confidence which the Criminal has in him, the secret which devours him.

General Principles and Rules of Pinkerton's National Police Agency by Allan Pinkerton, as quoted in Killers of the Flower Moon by David Grann

[walker-extended-universe]

My article on the history of the Pinkerton National Detective agency is up and running! It's a long read but it's more than worth it

WFB link for those interested (I recommend doing so because I have some excellent pictures in here that I couldn't find a way to add on my own site): https://www.thewinchesterfamilybusiness.com/articles-40/149-extended-family/22711-historical-context-for-walker-independence-pinkerton-s-national-detective-agency

[howtofightwrite]

Was bounty hunting in the Old West as popular as the movies make it out to be? The actual history I've read suggests that that niche was mostly taken up either by private detectives from agencies like Pinkerton or by straight outlaws. Were movie-style bounty hunters mostly a myth?

Movie style bounty hunters were almost exclusively a myth. There were the odd exception here or there, but the concept of an old west bounty hunter didn't really exist until the 1950s.

The term, “bounty hunter,” is a little anachronistic as well. While there were people called bounty hunters in the 19th century, the term primarily referred to mercenaries. Specifically this was in the context of any signing or campaign completion bonuses that they would receive. That was the, “bounty.”

Using the modern term, most bounty hunters in the old west were actually local law enforcement officers, who relied on the cash payout bonuses from arrests. (And, in the case of these bounties, thinking of it as a pay bonus for law enforcement really is instructive.) In other cases, law enforcement officers would use a portion of those payouts to entice civilians to assist them in making potentially dangerous arrests.

Private detectives, including the Pinkertons, also sometimes tracked down outlaws, and as with law enforcement, the bonus pay was an enticement. Amusingly, Wells Fargo used to also operate bounty hunters specifically tracking outlaws who'd targeted their property. Though, other contemporary companies did the same. In this case, it's less of a “bounty hunter,” and more of a corporate enforcer, hunting down someone who'd crossed the company.

Another interesting thing to be aware of is that those wanted posters were not publicly distributed. There also wasn't a universal format, or source. Some were distributed by the Pinkertons (though, I'm not entirely clear on whether those were given to law enforcement or primarily kept for internal use, though at least some of their circulars did end up in the public record and have been preserved.) In a lot of cases, these were just a written description of the criminal, and a posted bonus (usually $100 or less.) I'm not completely sure how rare the posters were at the time, but very few have survived into the modern day. So, this was more of a resource for law enforcement, rather than something offered for public consumption. The image of a board of wanted posters presented for anyone wandering psychopath to peruse is a fantasy.

Freelancers, such as they were, seem to have been mostly working for private interests. These were often military veterans who would happily hunt down suspected criminals (such as cattle rustlers) and dispatch them. In general, that ends up looking a bit more like murder-for-hire, rather than what you'd think of as a modern bounty hunter, though it may inform some of the modern perspectives on the job. These are the ones you're probably seeing that get categorized as outlaws, and there is quite a bit of truth to that.

A sort of neat bit of trivia, the modern bounty hunter, (also, more commonly known as a bail bondsman, or bail bond agent), is a very old profession. However their history in the United States originated in San Francisco in 1898. The Old West came to an end in 1912 (generally), so there was a period of 14 years where modern bounty hunters existed in America, before the wild west was officially over. So, in that sense, there is some actual overlap, but it's not what most people think of when talking about a “wild west bounty hunter.” (And, on the subject of, “officially over,” it's worth remembering that the last range war in Wyoming took place in 1909.)

The image of the bounty hunter as a sort of freelance cop, who wanders around arresting outlaws, is a product of highly sanitized 1950s westerns.

-Starke

This blog is supported through Patreon. Patrons get access to new posts three days early, and direct access to us through Discord. If you’re already a Patron, thank you. If you’d like to support us, please consider becoming a Patron.

[dalekofchaos]

There was never a rat in the Van Der Linde Gang

I'm gonna be honest. Micah is a conniving snake. But there was never a rat.

Why did Blackwater fail? Dutch killed a mother in cold blood and then a massacre happened. The money was a set up and Dutch took the bait. Pinkertons swarmed the area and even Landon Rickets was there.

How did they find them at Horseshoe? By chance the Pinkertons found Arthur and Jack fishing, but was it really by chance? What happens in chapter 2?

A bar fight where fucking everyone in town is there, which afterwords Dutch is there

You sprang Sean free and there are bounty hunters who flee, you seriously don't think they talked??

Oh yeah, ARTHUR AND MICAH SHOOT UP A FUCKING TOWN

John killing Micah led to Ross and Fordham finding him. Any of the missions I mentioned practically led Milton and Ross to finding Arthur near Horseshoe.

How did the Gray/Braithewaite scheme fail?

The Grays knew what they were doing and so did the Braithewaites. They played both families instead of just one and instead of LYING LOW. Dutch's vanity, ego and sense of wanting petty revenge against Confederate white trash caused Sean to be killed and Jack to be abducted.

How did Saint Denis fail?

Dutch played Bronte in his own city, refused a favor(you do NOT refuse the Mob asking a favor) which caused the set up, then Bronte's murder and finally the Bank Robbery which they knew they were there.

The common theory is someone from the gang snitched and talked to the Pinkertons. Who exactly ? Micah ? Well, Agent Milton said they picked up Micah AFTER they came back from Guarma, so it could not have been him. Molly ? Again, Milton said they did pick her up (not mentioned when), but she did not say anything. I have also read theories that it might have been Agibail who snitched to which my response is - pure BS.

The truth is, nobody snitched, nobody talked. Yes. Yet the reaction of the Pinkertons was insanely fast, as if they knew the robbery was going to go down. How you wonder ? Well, it's simple. It's a long one, but have a read.

From the very beginning of the game, Dutch has been claiming that they are a few steps ahead of everyone else, but his arrogance proved to be the downfall. You see, the Pinkertons are not as dull and foolish as Dutch claim them to be, they are extremely efficient as a detective agency proven by the fact that they tracked down Arthur in Valentine. Now, when the gang moved to Clemens Point near Rhodes, the Pinkertons lost their trail for a while. However the gang contradicted their own plan of staying low by creating a huge chaos in Rhodes after killing both the Gray's and the Braithwaite's (best mission in the game btw). As soon as the word spread of the massacre of both the families in Rhodes all over the place, the Pinkertons connected the dots and knew that it could be the Van Der Lind gang who created the fuss and if so, they must be camping somewhere near Rhodes. Nonetheless, they found the gang hideout after sniffing around, a day or two after the Braithwaite massacre. At this point Agent Milton knew these bunch of people would not be too hard to find as all you need to do is to sniff around an area where there has been murder and madness.

Now to Saint Denis, Dutch dismissed Hosea's idea and went after Angelo Bronte just after the failed trolley station robbery. If he listened to Hosea, hit the bank at once, then vanished, the Pinkertons would have never caught on and they would be harvesting mango's in Tahiti. But a failed trolley station robbery followed by a huge shootout in the city killing dozens of cops then followed by a kidnapping and murder of the most powerful man in the city was enough chaos for the Pinkertons to realize it's the Van Der Lind gang. So they knew the gang is around this city and increased security in Saint Denis hoping that the next time they attempt a robbery, it would be the endgame. That is why as soon as the bank robbery started, the Pinkertons were all over the place.

It is also easy to explain why Hosea was captured and Abigail escaped. While causing the distraction, both of them did not realise how fast the response is going to be. The Pinkertons caught Hosea as his face along with other male members of the gang was known to them, specially Hosea, Dutch and Arthur as they have been the oldest members of the gang. But Abigail at this point was unknown to them so it was easy for her to walk right past them without them realizing.

Why did the gang fell?

Micah got into Dutch's ear, Hosea died and Arthur got sick.

Micah promised him riches and the glorious scores that appealed to Dutch's ego and vanity. But he wasn't the rat.

If he did rat, he was playing Dutch and the Pinkertons to get the Blackwater money and the money for turning in Dutch.

However.

It was all Dutch.

Dutch. killed Cornwall in broad fucking daylight. Arthur sprung John out of prison, they blew up a fucking bridge, Dutch led the Natives to their doom, Colm's execution turned into a bloodbath, an attack on the Oil Refinery which led to the deaths of Colonel Favors and Eagle Flies and to top it all with robbing the military. It's no fucking wonder the Pinkertons found them.

There was no rat. The Pinkerton’s were actually just good at their jobs. Micah being a rat makes no sense if you actually think about it. There’s NO WAY the pinkertons would have been ok with the death of Leviticus Cornwall as he was paying their wages. Micah and Dutch planned to kill him together. There’s also the fact that Micah straight up killed Pinkertons in the firefight that ensued cornwall’s death. Micah was an asshole but not a rat. Watch that scene with Milton and Arthur again…Milton would have most likely let Arthur go with that false information but Arthur decided to attack him. There was never a rat, they got played.

It's a combination of things on why they all failed.

Reason 1. Dutch's vanity and ego. Dutch desperately needed to be seen as this great American hero. He cares more of the thrill of “one last score” it’s all about his ego and how he has to be seen as this Evelyn Millerian figure. This great American Literature hero when he’s really as bad as the greed that he says poisons America. He never cared about the people in the gang. It was the prestige of the name "The VAN DER LINDE Gang" HIM. He wanted to be seen as this infamous outlaw and righteous leader. He didn't care about the people in the gang. Arthur? He was dying and he didn't care. John? He wanted him to hang. Abigail? He left her behind the first chance he got. Micah killed Susan RIGHT IN FRONT OF HIM and Dutch didn't care. He considerd Mary-Beth, Pearson and Uncle leaving as a betrayal. Dutch never cared for the people within the VDL Gang. He cared what they could do for him and the glory they could bring him. It was never of settling down to become farmers, it was always about the thrill of being an outlaw the that great big score.

There are a lot of people who think if Hosea never died, then Dutch never would've lost it. He was always bad. He just had good ways of masking it. Hosea failed at every venture to talk out of getting Dutch to see sense and avoid bloodshed. If Hosea lived, there is a very good chance that Dutch would've lost it and had Hosea killed. Either it would've been an accidental death like he tried by leaving Arthur behind, he would've went into full paranoid mode "You're trying to undermine me and take the group from me" and order Hosea to draw his gun and then shoot him. Like Hosea said "You'll damn us all" and he did.

Reason 2. Loyalty to a fault.

Loyalty held the gang together. Loyalty was what Dutch valued - blind, obedient loyalty. “He had a plan,” after all.

Doubt broke the gang apart. Dutch became suspicious, uncertain of the faith of even his most dedicated friends. This undermined the entire operation and caused its eventual downfall.

“You’ll betray me, Arthur,” Dutch says, “You’re the type.” Dutch couldn’t be more wrong on that account.

Micah is named by the Pinkertons as a rat, but according to them, he wasn’t approached until after they’d returned from Guarma. So, by that timeline, the Pinkerton’s hadn’t needed a rat to foil their plans in Blackwater, or to find Arthur fishing by the side of a stream, or for the bank robbery in Saint Denis.

The Pinkertons always knew where Dutch was and what he was up to. They didn’t need a rat, especially not after their return from Guarma. So, why drop Micah’s name?

Well, the Pinkertons knew the gang was scrambling, that they were on the run, and that it was damn near impossible to arrest one of them at a time without a successful rescue of said gang member, ie Micah, John, Abigail and Sean. They are not the local sheriff’s office, after all. They are the federals and they want Dutch Vander Linde done in for good.

Staring down the barrel of a gun, why would a Pinkerton agent spill their collateral to the enemy? Arthur wasn’t even asking for any information at the time. Why would this agent, in his dying moments, tell Arthur that Micah was the rat?

Unless the agent knew the gang was on thin ice, and that loyalty was all that was keeping it together. He introduced what he hoped would be a final blow to the gang, accomplishing post-huminously what had been his career goal in life.

Also, why would Micah become an informant after Guarma? What were the promising him? After all, he stuck with Dutch and formed a new gang after Arthur died. He never took a big cut from the government and ran. He was a brown-noser and an asshole, but stood nothing to gain from becoming a rat.

Arthur hated Micah, so he took the bait. He wanted a reason to hate him, to have him kicked out of the gang. Micah was pragmatic and greedy and he hardened Dutch’s humanitarian side - the side that Arthur valued. But, Micah being a rat wasn’t the truth.

After all, we know who became a rat - John Marston.

Arthur’s readiness to believe a Pinkerton’s dying words proved the point of the narrative - the gang fell apart because they lost faith in Dutch, and because Dutch grew jealous and fearful as their doubts became apparent.

Loyalty kept the gang together, and its absence tore the gang apart.

Reason 3. "We didn't need a rat. We got sloppier than the town drunk."

The gang was careless. It got sloppy and their overconfidence and ego was their downfall.

Micah wasn’t the cause of their downfall he simply hastened it. The game tells you from the opening titles how it’s going to end and why. It mentions that the remaining gangs are being hunted down and destroyed with the word underlined for emphasis. It was always going to end in their demise, it just happened quicker than it would have because they got sloppy, careless, conceited, and arrogant.

[twola]

Devil's Backbone - Owanjila VII

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x FemOC/Reader POV 

Tags: Longfic, Slow Burn, Smut (18+), Violence, Canon-Typical Injuries

Limpany’s burning was a lot more than meets the eye. Deception, greed, and murder follow everyone touched by Leviticus Cornwall. A story where the Van der Linde gang gets even more inescapably involved in Cornwall’s dealings, with the survivor of the massacre at the heart of it all. Slow burn. Pre-Blackwater and beyond.

Owanjila VII: You, Amongst the Lupines

Time passes, and Arthur jumps at the chance to take you out of camp.

CW: References to child loss, violence, and Arthur being a big mean outlaw.

➵ AO3 Link ➵ Fic Masterlist ➵ Previous | ➵ Next

Mud squelches under his boot. It is everything he is not to scowl at the sound. 

Ain’t no way that Genevieve was going to stay with him now. Not with him sent on this fool’s errand. He was supposed to stay on assignment in Saint Denis, not get his boots covered in mud and horseshit in this backwater town. Genevieve was far too cosmopolitan to be following him around anywhere but Saint Denis. 

Strawberry was just a blip on a map, no matter how the mayor of this town was trying to push it.

Angus Carmody kicks the muck from his boot against the wooden step up to the mail depot. He scowls as the stink of meat from the butcher’s tent wafts his way.  This was a goddamn fool’s errand. He knows that Milton has it out for him. How angry he is about that damned woman being in the wind. He knows also that his trekking around West Elizabeth is a punishment instead of leading the search back in Lemoyne. 

The Pinkerton steps up to the depot’s clerk, standing behind the counter full of mail and other parcels.

“Mornin’.” The man greets, shuffling between boxes and baskets of letters. His full mustache and beard certainly made him blend in with the rough and tumble nature of the town that the mayor was so desperately trying to rid of.

“Mornin’, sir. Agent Carmody with the Pinkerton Detective Agency.”

The clerk stops, setting down a pile of papers on the counter. He looks Carmody up and down, eyes lingering on his polished badge, pinned to his breast pocket.

“Hector Barlow. How can I help you, Agent?” He responds, measured and wary. Carmody is used to this. It is often, out in the West, that folk respond to him with caution and wariness rather than respect. Some sort of Western mistrust of government and authority, he always thought.

“You heard talk of a widow from that town that burned down on the Dakota?”

Hector Barlow strokes his mustache, nodding his head, “Heard about the fire, but not about anyone who survived it.”

“I’m tryin’ to find a Missus Shaw. She survived the fire and my employer is tryin’ to locate her to finalize some business items he had ongoin’ with her husband.” Angus responds, annoyed that this also seemed like a dead end. 

Barlow remains quiet for a moment, “I’ll keep an ear out. She supposed to be around here?”

Carmody pulls a stack of papers that he had tucked within his jacket, “Yes - petite woman, blonde hair if she finds herself up this way.”

“These also - a bunch of bounty posters we don’t got time to chase down.  A few thousand for these. Out of Blackwater. Some hillbilly could find ‘imself real rich if he tries hard enough.”  He shoves several crinkled pieces of paper forward on the worn finish of the counter. Hector nods, mumbling something about bringing them up to the sheriff’s office. Angus lifts his chin in response, before leaving the mail depot. The bright sunshine is an assault on his eyes as he steps outside.

Two other Pinkerton agents stand across the street, near the small town’s general store. Smoking cigarettes, the two men clad in bowler hats seem to stand out amongst the rough and tumble mountain men that peruse the muddy street. 

“Anythin’ here?” One pipes up as Carmody approaches, holding out a cigarette that Angus quickly takes. 

“Nothin’,” Carmody grunts, rooting around his pocket for his matchbook, “We’ll head north, to Wallace Station, to see if there is any word around there.”

He knows there won’t be, but alas, Carmody breathes out heavily before striking a match against his boot, he has his orders.

-

The cold mountain waters of the stream that feeds Owanjila are a shock to the system at first, but you figure that the clean, clear stream could do you no harm as you hoist your skirts to bare your calves, stepping ankle deep into the current.

A sob claws its way up from your throat, and you cover your mouth with one hand, one side of your skirts dipping under the stream.

“Ruth, what are you doing up here?” 

You sniff, wiping your eyes quickly, giving up on keeping your skirts dry as both of your hands cover your face. 

“Oh, sweet girl,” Hosea’s pace picks up as he walks closer to you, and he ignores the ache in his knees as steps down into the stream next to you where you stand, uncaring of the water starting to run over his boots.

“I- I just-”  You hiccup, dropping your hands and looking back into the rushing waters at your feet. 

“C’mon, let's get you out of the stream. Are y’still feelin’ ill?” Hosea pulls you, delicately, back to the shore, where the two of you step onto higher, drier ground.

“No- no, it’s just-” You let go of a shuddering breath as you feel his hand rub gently, slowly between your shoulder blades, “It’s…”

“Missin’ your husband?” Hosea offers.

“Y-yes…” You hiccup, closing your eyes again, unable to stop the tears from pouring forth, “And… and-”

Silence falls between you, interrupted only by the sniffles you cannot stifle and the bubbling of the creek waters as they rush down to collect in the lake. Another harrowing exhale, and you turn to look at Hosea, the older man’s silhouette blurred in your vision over your shoulder. 

“I look at Jack and… my…my little-” You sob, voice cracking,  “He came too early. I-in the winter - he… he just- he was so tiny…my boy-” 

Hosea’s hand immediately moves from your back to cup the back of your head, and he pulls you into his chest, you slightly stumble as you have to readjust your bare feet on the ground. The fur trim on his coat smells of the tobacco he smokes in his pipe. It’s something familiar - comforting - and the fight in you - what little you have left, leaves you as you sink into his embrace. You sob, the ache in your chest clawing its way out like a rabid animal. 

He holds you, rubbing your back, murmuring random words of comfort into your hair. 

-

The coffee is strong and bitter this morning. Maybe the off-handed threats he had been making to Pearson about the quality of his coffee finally sunk in. Or someone else had made it.

Arthur blows on the cup before taking another sip, trying to spare his mouth from getting burned.

His gaze floats, unknowingly searching for those soft golden curls amongst the women. He finds himself seeking out the soft-spoken widow. Missus Adler seethed in her grief. Missus Shaw, well, other than the time he certainly deserved her ire, didn’t seem to have a mean bone in her body. 

She’d been sick as of recent, catching whatever poor Jack had. Abigail was apoplectic, the lantern in the sick tent blazing at all hours of the night. It was only in the past few days he had seen her out of the sick tent for longer periods.

This morning, he was hell-bent on finally getting a new horse - the old Walker he had been riding got run down by an angry farmer and his mount when he and Javier had robbed a homestead the other day. Finally, after a few jobs, he had enough money to get a horse that he wouldn’t have to rustle - it was just taking the time to go over to Valentine to get one. 

Herr Strauss cornered him the other day, needing collection from a debtor on a ranch near Valentine. He figured he’d get it all done in one day, maybe swing by Strawberry before crossing the state line. For too long he’d been jumping from job to job - homestead robberies and coaches, even sheep rustling with John. That went swimmingly.

Maybe he’d grab Missus Shaw and take her out on the errands he has to do. He finally finds her, sitting across the way near the women’s lean-to, working on a pile of sewing. Arthur dumps out the last bit of his coffee before stowing his cup back in his satchel. He takes the first step toward the women’s tent before being stopped.

“Arthur.”

Arthur looks back toward the campfire as the occupant stokes it. Hosea looks up at him with that weathered look about him that only comes about when he is serious about something.

“She’s fragile right now.” His brow furrows, jaw set, “Don’t you go upsettin’ her.”

“I ain’t an idiot, Hosea.” Arthur bristles, scowling back at his surrogate father. He also scowled at the thought of being so damn transparent that Hosea was that quickly able to figure out where he was going.

“You sure as hell are sometimes.” Hosea points up at him, “You can be a real ass-”

A cough interrupts his retort, and Hosea turns his head to hack into his bicep. After he clears his throat, he looks back at Arthur with hard eyes, “I’m tellin’ you, Arthur. The poor girl doesn’t deserve any shit from you. She’s gotten enough recently.” 

Arthur shifts, his hand gripping the buckle of his gunbelt in agitation. He scowls again, the lines betraying his age and lifestyle set in on his face. He dismissively waves at Hosea, stepping past the man and continuing on his original journey toward the women’s area.

“Missus Shaw.”

You look up from the sewing that you are doing - one of John’s shirts that he tore the armpit open. You grabbed it from Abigail’s pile the other night as she was scolding him for his carelessness.

“Was wonderin’ if you wanted to get outta camp for a bit - y’haven’t had much of a chance lately,” Arthur asks, his large hands draped over the buckle of his gun belt.

“Oh, I mean… maybe after I finish this shirt.” You nod down toward the fabric you are holding in your hands.

“Marston’s shirt can wait. Especially because it's his.” Arthur reaches down and yanks the shirt from your hands, surprising you with his speed. He tosses the shirt back in the pile and you scowl up at him, aggravated at his impetuousness.

“I was in the middle of that!” You complain, but nonetheless take the thread and needle you were working with and store it in the tin next to your seat.

“Serves the dumbass right. Not like he ripped his shirt doin’ any work around here.” Arthur chortles, holding his hand out for you to take, “C’mon, I’m sure you’re sick of staring at the same thing every day. I have some errands to do in Strawberry and Valentine.”

-

From the banks of Owanjila, Arthur leads his horse up through the hills to Strawberry, claiming to need to stop by the General Store for something. He was scant on details but shooed you off to check the mail in the freight depot after he had hitched the horse outside the Trackers Hotel.

You check to see if there is any mail under the pseudonyms that Arthur gave you, and upon finding none, set to leave before the clerk calls out to you.

“D’ya mind bringing these down to the Sheriff’s Office, ma’am?”

You nod and feel a slight unease as the clerk’s gaze lingers on you. In the months since Frederick’s death, you have once again become wary of men - the leering and possessive glares that you receive when it is obvious you are untied to a man. Like those leering and possessive gazes you received before you got married. Those gazes your daddy warned you about, all those years ago. 

Taking the stack of papers, you nod a hushed farewell as you move out of the mail depot and back to the street, sidestepping mud puddles as you lift your skirt above your ankles with one hand to avoid completely ruining the hems.

Your curiosity gets the best of you and as you pass the staircase, you pull the papers back from your chest and look at the contents of the first page.

$5000 Reward!

For the Capture Dead or Alive of 

ARTHUR MORGAN

You bite your lip to keep from gasping. Glancing around, you crush the first poster to your chest for a moment before crumbling it into a little ball that you shove into your skirt. 

You look at the other posters as you quickly duck into an alley next to the hotel, where a large, flowering cherry blossom stands before the cliff face. Shuffling past the gardens, you take a seat on a small bench and warily leaf through the papers.

John Marston. Hosea Matthews. Micah Bell. Javier Escuella. Bill Williamson. Dutch Van der Linde. Each piece of paper that you look at shows fearsome renderings of the men of the gang that you have been living alongside for the last months.

Larceny. Horse Theft. Burglary. Train Robbery. Bank Robbery. Assault. Murder.

The pit in your stomach opens; fear clawing up through your chest into your throat. Hosea, who just this morning dried your tears and held you as you cried? John, who struggled with the pressures of being a young father? Javier, who swears he will get you to dance with him one night around the fire to Dutch’s phonograph, even after your declination, always with a smile. 

Even Dutch, who welcomed you into this motley group when you had nothing but the clothes on your back. 

And Arthur. Arthur, whose cold, angry face stared back at you from the poster, the man who has been teaching you to shoot, who took you out on his errands today - who braved the raging fire at the Adler ranch to save you-

The jingle of spurs makes you look up.

“Arthur-” You hiss as he lopes across the road, moseying as he lights a cigarette.  He gives a grin as he tosses the match to the muddy ground, breathing out a plume of smoke as he comes closer, eyeing the cherry blossoms that wave in the cool mountain breeze. “Get over here!”

You nervously look around you before reaching up handing him the crumpled-up wad of paper you had shoved in your pocket. 

He frowns, then snorts, half a grin as he takes the cigarette from his mouth, dropping it to the ground and mashing it underfoot.

“Five thousand, for little ol’ me?” He looks back to you with a hint of mischief in his eye, “God, that’s one ugly lookin’ drawin’.”

“Arthur-” You scold, completely taken aback at his nonconcern at the situation. 

He shoves the poster into his satchel and holds his hand out for the other ones, curling his fingers in request before you hand the pile to him. He takes them and thrusts them all into that seemingly bottomless satchel of his before turning his gaze back to you.

“Alright, alright. Let’s get. If these are comin’ from Blackwater we should get the whole gang outta West Elizabeth.” He reaches for your hand, almost gallantly, and pulls you up from your seat when you give it to him, “We’re gonna head toward Valentine. I gotta stop by a ranch out there for one of Strauss’s debtors. I’m gonna get a new horse and we’re gonna look for a new place to set up. Get on that side of the state line.”

He walks you out of the alley, back toward where his horse is hitched near the mail depot. He slows to allow you to try and duck the large mud puddles underfoot.

Through the main street of town, Arthur does not let go of your hand.

-

The ride to Valentine is long - long enough to be troublesome. You were able to convince Arthur to give you back the wanted poster of him, and you straighten it out as he guides the old Walker on the path out of the mountains and toward the Dakota.

You read the printed text, fearsome in its lettering, all capitalized, “Wanted for activities such as Larceny. Robbery. Burglary...”

Arthur snorts, interrupting, bemused.

“Gotta get money somehow.”

“Assault.” You reply, upping the ante.

“They usually deserve it.” He drawls in response.

“Murder.” You continue, stressing the severity of the crime.

“You’ve seen that. More than once.” Arthur nonchalantly replies, as if killing were the same as stealing a horse. 

It was true - from the O’Driscolls that he waylaid on the road the first day that you met him, the man threatening you at the campfire after the failed Blackwater job - he kills without hesitation. There is a pregnant pause as the poster crinkles under the tension of your fingers.

 “Have you ever raped a woman?”

Arthur stiffens in the saddle, then turns his entire torso to get the closest to facing you that he can. The easy conversation that you had been having immediately ended.

“No. Why the hell you askin’ that?”

“Seems like you’ve done everything else-” You defend your line of questioning, but immediately with that you hadn’t gone that far.

“Have I ever acted untoward to you?” Arthur interrupts, turning back to face the road. He bristles with agitation, rolling his shoulders as he tightly grasps the reins. The old Walker beneath you notices, and throws his head to the side, whinnying. 

“No….”  You try to push the intruding thoughts of Micah from your mind.

“Ain’t that type of degenerate.” He grumbles, “Sides, it wouldn’t speak highly of your smarts if you was out alone with a man who forces himself on women.”

You can tell he’s offended.

Unfortunately, the rest of the ride to Valentine is long, awkward, and silent.

-

By the time Arthur acquired himself a new horse, a strong and tall Kentucky Saddler mare, buttermilk-hide and blackmaned, his gruff silence makes you wish that you hadn’t come out with him at all. Wordlessly, he lifted you back onto the horse’s rump and mumbled something about a job he had to do on the way back to camp. Not far out of Valentine, Arthur guides the horse toward an old, ramshackle ranch house.

“Just stay here. Herr Strauss said this guy is tryin’ to weasel out of payin’.” 

Arthur approaches a thin, middle-aged man in the garden, “Mr. Thomas Downes…”

The man looks up, a hoe in his hand, and squints at the outlaw as he storms closer, “Yep, that’s me.”

“You owe me money.”

It is as if the floor was pulled out from underneath the man. He turns ghastly white in fear, stumbling backward from Arthur’s encroachment. The anger that radiates off the gunslinger is terrifying, even to yourself as an observer.

Downes holds the hoe in front of him as if to fight off the man twice his size, “Please, sir… I’m… I’ll…”

Arthur laughs cruelly, grabbing the hoe and throwing it across the garden. “Really? Threaten me, would you? How’s that debt looking now? You borrowed money from my business partner Herr Strauss. You owe him. You took the money. He wants it back. What’s not to understand?”

“I don’t have it all!”

You slide down from the horse as Arthur drags the man to the fence, throwing him against the post with frightening force.  You hurry toward the unfurling scene.

“Ruth-” Arthur growls as you push him away. Obviously, you could never move the man without his consent, but for some reason, he allows it.  You stand in front of this miserable man, who gazes up with fear-stricken eyes and a pale, clammy complexion.

“See, look, Mister Downes…. You could do this the easy way and give me the money now that we’re askin’ for it, or my friend over here can get the money from you the way he was gonna before.” You say over-sweetly, holding your hand out to help him up, “I think my way is better for you.”

“I… I don't have a-all of it.” Downes coughs, blood sputtering from his mouth as you recoil in surprise. God, this man was pitiful. 

“Then sell your place.” Arthur barks from behind you, having stepped closer as Downes goes into a coughing fit. 

“W-we already - hrgh - owe more than it’s worth.” The man coughs between words.

You frown, drawing your hand back from where the man wipes his mouth with his sleeve. You can feel Arthur tensing behind you, and one of his hands finds your waist, and you can tell he is about to yank you behind him. You brush away his arm before he has the chance to do so.

“Whatever you have is fine. We’ll give you more time for the rest. I’ll be sure to come - but Mister Downes-” You cross your arms, trying to look as composed as possible, “You do owe us.”

“Thomas-!” A woman rushes out of the house, followed by a teenage boy, and she falls to her knees next to the man, immediately taking a handkerchief and wiping the blood from his mouth.

“Can’t- can’t you see, my husband isn’t well, if we could just have more-”

Arthur does manage to grab you by the waist and maneuver you behind him, and you’re unable to move against his strength. He glares down at the woman and her pleading. “We ain’t nobody’s idea of charity.”

The woman frowns, desperate - “But-...”

“Give it to him.” The stricken man garbles, his breath heaving. With a set jaw, she reaches into her skirt and takes out a small wad of bills, standing up from her husband's side and shoving it into Arthur’s waiting hand. 

Arthur gives you a bemused look after he pockets the money. “Pleasure doin’ business with you.”

The gunslinger places his hand behind your back and pushes you back toward the horse, holding you upright as you stumble on the first step. 

“You’ll do alright, Missus Shaw.” His hands wrap around your waist like they have so many times before as he easily picks you up to place you on the horse’s rump, but you swear you feel his fingers pulse through the layers of fabric. You swear you feel his thumb press against the curve of the bottom of your ribcage.

Arthur swings himself up on the horse and urges it down the path leaving the ranch. With the horse’s jolting first steps, you wrap your arm around his waist to steady yourself before looking back toward the ranch.

You watch as the woman helps her struggling husband to her feet, and the teenage son stares after you with a vicious, hateful glare. You frown, before turning back around and pressing your forehead against Arthur’s back. They could have just as easily been you. These poor folks, already struggling, are now set back even farther.

The wave of guilt through your throat makes you swallow audibly.

Arthur’s large, gloved hand finds your own slung ‘round his waist, covering it with a gentle squeeze. His fingers press between your own, and for a selfish moment, all you can think about is how warm you feel. As Arthur leads the horse down the road to the east, the thoughts of the family whose miserable lives you just made worse flee from your mind.

How is it that all thought of the folk you just left more destitute than they had been left your mind as soon as Arthur touches your hand? How is it that you feel at ease pressed against a man who was just beating another one for money? How is it, that in this moment, with this murderer, you feel safer than you have felt in weeks?

Arthur hums, in a better mood than he had been all day. He holds your hand against the hard slab of muscle of his abdomen, and you lean further against his back to assuage the concern alight in your soul.

-

The ride northward along the Dakota is quiet. You surmise that Arthur doesn’t want to have further conversations about debt-collecting.  It is not until the two of you have ridden across Cumberland Falls and the pine forests of Big Valley have opened out to a large valley that he speaks again.

“C’mon, been riding for a while, let’s stop and stretch our legs.” He gruffly calls back as he leads the Saddler off of the trail and into the meadow, bright and sunny as the creek meanders through it.  The mountain air, cold and clean, burns your lungs slightly as you inhale, closing your eyes against the sun for a moment.

In that gentle, cold breeze, tall purple lupines sway among the grasses, reaching the horse’s knees as it slowly walks into the open plain. This place is so open and bright, its beauty takes you aback as Arthur slows the horse to a stop. Sliding out of the saddle, he immediately reaches up and takes you by the waist, as was customary, and helps you down.

“Nice out ‘here, ain’t it?”

“Beautiful,” you murmur, shielding your eyes from the sun as you survey the large valley.

Arthur pulls out a worn woolen blanket from his horse’s saddlebag. He lays it out upon the ground, nodding up at you to take a seat. You do so, and a comfortable silence falls between the two of you as Arthur sits opposite you and fiddles with his satchel, looping the strap over his head and hat, placing the bag next to him before flipping the lid open and searching around in it. 

You turn away and look on as a herd of pronghorn does graze in the distance.

“Saw this out the other day.”

You glance back at the gunslinger, to find him opening his leather-bound journal to a page and taking out a small, dried head of blossoms pressed between its pages. He holds it out to you, and your eyes widen as you gaze upon it - gaze upon the outrageousness of it all, the man with a five-thousand-dollar bounty, beating a debtor not two hours earlier, delicately holding the smallest, most fragile dried blossom between his thumb and trigger finger.

“That’s…” You trail off, incredulously.

“Never did tell me why you was named after a plant.”

You ignore the quip as you reach toward his gloved hand and the dried flower. The soft purple blossom, fragile and delicate, exchanges hands as he gently places it in your palm. His fingers linger for a moment, suspended in time.

The proper name, Latin, printed next to sketches in scientific books.

You smile, snorting lightly through your nose, “My mother… There was a heather bush outside her window on the farm she grew up on. Back in Ireland. She used to tell me seein’ those blossoms made her some kind of happy. Would tell me that when I was born, seeing me made her feel the same way. So, Calluna it was.”

There’s an ache in your chest. An ache of fondness. Not dissimilar to the ache that you felt when Abigail held your hand as you cradled her son to your chest in a feverish haze. Not dissimilar to the ache in your chest when Hosea held you to him when you sobbed on the banks of Owanjila. 

Someone thinking of you. These moments, they hack away at the depth of despair and loneliness that you have been drowning in. Maybe... Just maybe, you weren’t just Calluna Shaw, widow, alone in the world.

You look back up at Arthur, that ache fluttering up like a butterfly in flight.

“Thank you, Mister Morgan. You can be awful sweet.”

You smile, and with the way his battered heart aches in his chest, he knows he’s in trouble. He can feel the blush bloom across his cheeks and he looks away, desperate to save face. Movement in the distance of the meadow draws his attention.

“Look, how’s about we bring back somethin’ for Pearson’s stew, huh?” Arthur looks out past the waving lupines to where the creek meanders back and forth through the valley. In the soft light of sunset, he points about a hundred yards up the valley.

A pronghorn buck drinks from the stream, finally visible to you as you squint and pull a stray curl of hair back, tucking it behind your ear.

“Go on and shoot it.” He nods forward.

“Me?!”

“Yes you, Missus Shaw. Come on, here you go.” Arthur gets up from his seat and steps toward his horse, pulling out a rifle for you to take from his saddlebag. You carefully place the blossom on the blanket before standing up, dusting off your skirts as you step toward Arthur and the buttermilk-hided horse.

The firearm nearly drops from your hand when you grasp it, completely unprepared for the weight of the gun. Arthur snorts under his breath as you grasp the Springfield with both hands, holding it up in front of you, and pointing toward the pronghorn in the distance. You frown, the barrel of the rifle swaying as you try to point it. The gun is much heavier than the repeater that Arthur showed you to shoot with earlier.

“C’mere, little lady.”

Oh.

Before you can move, his arms quickly brace yours as he steadies the rifle, heavy in your grasp. Your back presses against his broad chest. A whole head taller than you, you just reach the curve of his shoulder.

You are positive you are blushing fiercely and extremely thankful that he cannot see your face as he leans over your shoulder to line up the sights of the gun. As he does so, you close your eyes, breathing softly out your nose. The leather of his worn jacket - the tobacco he so often smokes, the musk of horse, the tang of whiskey - they all invade your senses as your head spins.

You want to melt into his embrace - he’s tall and broad and handsome in a rugged way. He’s solid and warm and oh, how swept up you feel to be wrapped up in his arms - even if this is in no way intimate. 

You want. You want to keep your eyes shut, tilt your neck, and give him access to suckle at your skin. You want his arm to leave yours and his large hand to engulf your breast. You want to be covered by him, held and possessed, and smothered and cherished. Everything melts away. The debt earlier, Arthur’s anger and threats, the fearful man and his family. It all just…fades.

You want.

“Both eyes open, darlin’.”

At the term of endearment, you steady your arms, holding the firearm jointly with him. Arthur is warm and solid and oh, with his arms around you, you feel so safe.

The buck raises his head from the stream.

Arthur’s breath tickles your ear as his whiskered jaw brushes your temple.

“Now.”

You pull the trigger.