Hello, everyone, and welcome back to my literary adaptation of Red Dead Redemption 2! I haven't posted any new chapters for a wee while now, as I've been quite busy, but I've come back with a new grand piece to add to my collection! Though I wrote this months ago (just posted it now), it was a joy to write and a bit challenging to convey Arthur's drunkenness into literary form. Regardless, for those two or three of you who actually read this, enjoy! For those who don't even know what I'm talking about, here's a little background:
All the way back in 2022, I started this adaptation with the goal of tackling the six missions in the Colter Chapter. After that, I moved on to the Horseshoe Overlook Chapter, and I'm still going (albeit at a slower pace). In total, including this chapter, I've written 15 chapters that you know of, so there's plenty to read when you're bored. If you haven't read any of these chapters yet, I strongly encourage you to do so, as it not only helps me with feedback, but it might be just a wee bit of fun. You can find all the previous chapters linked on my profile page.
This chapter adapts the mission "A Quiet Time," which I'm sure all Red Dead fans know, and it picks up from the previous chapter I wrote, "We Loved Once and True."
Anyway, now that I'm done with my explanation, I hope you enjoy this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it. As always, your thoughts and feedback are welcome.
P.S.: Please bear with the formatting, as the content was transferred from a Google Doc.
Chapter Nine - A Quiet Time[]
You’ll never change, Arthur.
The words were a shadow lurking behind my thoughts, casting a chilly pall over an otherwise warm evening at Horseshoe Overlook. Each time the phrase echoed, it felt like an arrow, piercing deep, yanking at scars long buried. The savory aroma of the stew before me, once a lure, seemed to lose its appeal. Why did Mary have to say that? After all the dust and years between us, she pushes me back down when I finally stand tall. I went to lengths for her, faced down zealots for her brother, and for what?
A rustling sound drew my gaze upward. Mary-Beth Gaskill approached in her elegant red dress, the turquoise brooch shimmering as if trying to draw attention away from the concern on her face. “You haven’t touched your stew at all. Everything alright?”
I feigned a grin and bluffed, “I think Pearson’s found a way to cook out all the flavor.” Her knowing smile told me she wasn't buying it. My effort to hide away at the outskirts of Horseshoe Overlook had apparently been more noticeable than I thought.
Tilly, exuding a warm confidence in her golden blouse, was quick to follow Mary-Beth, with Karen’s distinctive gait not far behind, the hem of her gray sweater brushing against the muted purple of her skirt. “Hey, Arthur,” Tilly began.
But before continuing, Karen asked bluntly, “Been daydreaming, haven’t we?”
Drawing a weary sigh, memories of the day with Mary flashing back, I replied, “Nothin’ good, Miss Jones. It’s been… a helluva day.”
Mary-Beth’s delicate fingers brushed against my hand while Tilly placed herself before me, her gaze unwavering. “Whatever’s eating at you, Arthur, you know you’ve got folk to talk to.”
I smiled wryly, a genuine warmth tickling my chest, “I reckon I’m lucky to have you lot around, even if you do interrupt my brooding.”
The trio’s laughter mingled with the evening air, a brief respite from my inner turmoil. Just as I began to lose myself in the laughter, a loud and commanding voice cut through from ahead. “Arthur.”
Dutch’s unmistakable silhouette leaned against the barrel perched beside his tent. “A moment, son?” He asked, with a tinge of concern.
Nodding to the ladies, I stood up, “Excuse me.” And with a deep breath, I headed for Dutch. The inside of Dutch’s tent at the center of camp was like stepping into another world. It was a haven of collected items, trinkets from across the country, souvenirs of our exploits, and memories of days long past. Animal rugs lined the floor, and the drapes, lined with shelves, were adorned with maps and posters. A desk, burdened with papers and books, occupied the other end. The golden glow of strategically placed lanterns bathed everything in a warm hue, casting shadows that seemed to dance with the memories they hid.
Dutch was leaning against his desk, his eyes piercing as always, but they held a hint of concern. “You okay, Arthur?”
I hesitated for a moment. “I’ve talked about this already, Dutch. It’s all under the bridge.”
Dutch held his closed fist on his chin. “It ain’t. That’s the problem. Miss Gillis… that woman will only bring you trouble.”
I defended her, “None of that happened, Dutch. All she wanted was a favor.”
Dutch straightened his back and paced about his dimly lit tent. “I’m not a fool, Mr. Morgan. I know she wants you to run… to abandon your family.”
I stared into his cold eyes. “It was only a favor.” Dutch ambled for a box on a shelf, grabbed two thick cigars, and walked over to me.
He passed one to me as he lit his cigar, popping it in his mouth. We stared at the mountain view ahead of Horseshoe Overlook momentarily before Dutch released his cigar in a puff of smoke and mused, “Y’know… Evelyn Miller once said, ‘Mountains are the cathedrals where I practice my religion.’” Dutch’s voice had a far-off quality as he gestured toward the view beyond the camp. “Makes you wonder about all this beauty, and how we fit into it.”
I watched him, the setting sun reflecting in his eyes, and for a moment, I could see the dreamer, the idealist who always believed in a better tomorrow. But dusk fell swiftly, and the mountains became silhouettes against a darkening indigo sky.
Drawing my gaze back to the Dutch, he continued, “Our pasts, our issues... they’ll keep us anchored, prevent us from soaring. We have to be free, Arthur. Free to find our own way, our own paradise.”
I let out a slow breath, watching the cigar smolder between my fingers. “Was that why you called me here, Dutch? To talk philosophy?”
“Unfortunately, no,” Dutch responded. He beckoned me to follow him, and we walked for the other side of his tent, facing the back of Horseshoe Overlook- the thickets of trees. The drapes were tied shut, leaving the dim lamplight to fill the room. Dutch sat on his springy cot, sliding his boots off. He pointed at a flimsy chair opposite of him, beside me. “Have a seat, Mr. Morgan.”
Positioning myself, I snuffed out my cigar, the embers dying with a soft hiss. Dutch’s voice turned serious, “Lenny and Micah have been gone too long.” He gazed into my soul. “Far too long. I had only sent them for some simple reconnaissance. It’s been weeks!”
I almost forgot about Lenny and Micah- they’ve been gone so long that they don’t even know Sean’s alive. I’m sure Lenny will be happy to hear about that. Then again, Micah, that contemptuous bastard, has probably got the pair of them killed. “Can’t say I ain’t surprised,” I mused. “You know Micah, always finding trouble, and if he can’t, he’ll sure as hell make some.”
Dutch gave a slight, anxious chuckle, albeit without any humor. “True, but Lenny? He’s sensible and knows when to duck and when to shoot. Outta anybody, he’d be alive.” Dutch took a deep draw from his cigar, the orange glow at its tip illuminating his face in the dim tent.
Just then, the entrance of Dutch’s tent fluttered open, revealing Molly O’Shea in her usual elegant dress. She sat beside Dutch on the springy cot. Her red hair, usually so vibrant under the sun, appeared almost black in the lantern’s soft glow. As she snuggled herself by the pillows, the subtle scent of lilac filled the air, softly contrasting with the pervasive aroma of tobacco and leather.
Her green eyes reflected the flickering lantern light. “Dutch,” she began with her thick Irish accent, “maybe we should send someone after them?”
Dutch’s face tightened. “Not yet, Molly. We have to be smart about this.”
I was already picturing the worst. “If they’re in trouble, waiting might cost them their lives.” A smirk broke my face as I continued, “Then again… it would be a treat to see Micah hang.”
Dutch shook his head and sternly chided, “Not now, Arthur. This is serious.” He swiveled his head at a map pinned on the walls of his tent. “Strawberry ain’t too far… Charles an’ Javier can ride out there come sunrise. We’ll get them boys home.”
“Sounds good to me, Dutch,” I conceded, rising from the crooked chair and Dutch from his springy cot.
“Let’s get some air,” he suggested. He pulled open the drape, and we both left his tent and went back into Horseshoe Overlook. We were facing the thickets of woods surrounding the camp. It was not as pretty as the mountain view on the other side, but I guess seeing all of the camp’s wagons circled by the trees and horses has its unusual merits.
Hosea Matthews sat idly at the rectangular table in front of us, dealing a hand of poker with Leopold Strauss and Uncle. The ladies rested under the drapes of their wagon, the buzzing lamps slowly turning on with the encroaching evening; like always, Miss Grimshaw was berating them for “Being as useful as tits on a bull in this godforsaken camp!”
Beside Dutch, I stood in silence, letting the evening’s crisp air fill my lungs, letting the soft murmurs of the camp wash over me. My gaze drifted to my wagon, seeing Bill Williamson rifling through ammunition. He’s a good shot, but the damn fool couldn’t save a bullet if it meant stopping the apocalypse. Yet, we still stood, gallantly staring into the forests like we had saved the world.
But all of a sudden, our trance was interrupted by the sudden noise of hoofbeats coming from the triangular arch of fallen trees. Voices raised in alarm, and yells echoed around us. Dutch and I quickly turned and saw a horse galloping towards us. John Marston sprinted past, hot on the heels of the rider who tore through the arch of trees and into the heart of camp.
“THEY GOT MICAH!” The voice cut through the evening’s calm, desperate, and ragged. The dust-covered gray coat, orange tie- it was Lenny Summers. He quickly dismounted, his dark face pale with panic.
Dutch immediately strode for Lenny, who stood by his horse, practically hyperventilating. I followed as Dutch asked with tense concern, “What happened?”
Lenny panted and met Dutch’s eyes. “They… they got Micah, Dutch! H-he’s been arrested for murder. W-we was in Strawberry…”
As Lenny recounted the tale of Micah’s capture, the very air seemed to tighten around us. The joviality of the poker game wilted, Hosea’s cards fluttering forgotten to the table, Uncle’s quip cut short, and Strauss’s calculating gaze now fixed on the young man before us. Dutch calmly consoled Lenny, “It’s okay, son. Breathe.” Molly then emerged from Dutch’s tent, drawn by the unfolding drama.
Lenny’s breaths were labored as he bent down, placing his hands on his knees. “They nearly lynched me,” he gasped out. “They… they got Micah in the sheriff’s in Strawberry. There’s talk of hanging him.”
I looked away from Lenny. It was ironic- to the point of pure comedy that Micah was getting hung. Out of everyone in this gang, the only one I’ve ever wanted to tie a noose over was Micah himself. As I thought, a mutter escaped my lips, “There’s hoping.”
“Arthur!” Both Dutch and Hosea quickly scolded.
“What?” I feigned innocence. “That fool brought this onto himself. You know my feelings about him, Dutch!”
“You think I can’t see past his bluster to the heart inside?” Dutch promptly retorted. “Mr. Bell is a fine man… and we are going to get him back!”
Of course, Dutch, out of all people, is siding with him. “Well, I ain’t saving ‘im,” I sneered. Micah’s only been a part of this gang for six months, and he acts like he’s been here as long as I have. Everything’s gone downhill with him. If it weren’t for that tip in Blackwater or anything else, we’d be outta here by now!
Dutch shook his head and raised his fist in the air. “Well I can’t go! My face is all over West Elizabeth. I am asking you. You ain’t wanted there… and if things were reversed, he’d do it for you.”
I shrugged. “Micah wouldn’t… but fine. I’ll go, but gimme a day.”
Hosea approached Lenny, sitting at the rectangular table, his arms sprawled across the wood and over the cards. Hosea patted his shoulder and asked, “You okay, Lenny?”
Lenny looked up. “Yeah,” he feigned a grin. “Of course, I’m okay.”
“Ya don’t seem okay,” Uncle interjected obliviously from behind the crowd surrounding us. We all side-eyed him, but Dutch returned to the focus.
“Why don’t you take Lenny into Valentine, Arthur?” Dutch asked. What the hell? Am I the gang’s errand boy all of a sudden? First, go save Micah. Now, take the boy into town! Might as well find the holy grail while I’m at it. I tried to speak in confusion, but Dutch raised his finger. “Get him drunk. Anybody else here would start a firefight. So, no crazy business! No brawls like last time.”
“Pfft,” I spat. “That was two weeks ago, and it was all Bill’s fault.” In response, I heard a gargled “HEY!” from across the crowd. It wasn’t any less true. I haven’t gone to that Smithfield’s Saloon since the brawl; I probably couldn’t. Like Miss Grimshaw told me, people don’t forget. Every time I go into Valentine, I still feel like I get ugly stares from storekeepers and people. There’s a reason why I hang out in Keane’s Saloon, after all.
Speaking of, I wonder if Tommy’s still around. Haven’t seen him since I pummeled his brains out. But my train of thought was interrupted by Dutch, who adamantly reminded me, “Take Lenny to that nice saloon. And find Micah!”
In defeat, I sighed. “Alright, Dutch.” Dutch nodded proudly as he began stepping back to his tent. The other folk surrounding us began to disperse, Hosea, Uncle, and Strauss returning back to their poker game. I patted Lenny firmly on the shoulder and helped him up. “Let’s go, Lenny.”
“Aight,” Lenny sighed. We began trudging to our horses. My horse, Isaac, was hitched to the posts by the path leading outwards to the exit. Lenny’s horse, Maggie, I think, was still a little skittish from all the drama. She was a bulky, brown Mustang. As we neared our horses and mounted up, Lenny said, “I suppose I could use a drink.”
“Good,” I smiled, tightly holding onto Isaac’s reins. With a slight flick, we began trotting down the path to the arch of fallen trees out of camp and to Valentine. It wasn’t particularly what I wanted to do tonight, but I guess it would be nice to go out for a drink and clear my head. I especially wanted to get Mary Linton out of my head. I think Dutch was somewhat right, in a way… she did stir up trouble, more so in my head. But nonetheless, we rode out of the thickets of woods surrounding Horseshoe Overlook and into the twilight landscape.
Following the beaten path to Valentine, Lenny sighed and said, “I rode here as fast as I could. Didn’t stop for nothing!”
“You look like you’ve been through it,” I remarked as we sped up to a slow canter. “Why did y’all take so long up there anyways?”
“Oh, I’ll tell ya,” Lenny shuddered. “I swear, we jus’ got off them Grizzlies, a-an’ then Micah… oh Micah…” He scowled. “This damn fool’s got a crazy side, Arthur!”
“What the hell were you boys doin’ that took three weeks?” I asked. “All Dutch asked for was some scouting, nothing more.”
“Well, I thought the same too. I kept askin’ Micah what he was doin’, but he was awl, ‘You worry too much, kid,’ or ‘Just some business to attend to, kid.’ You know how he is.”
“Yes, I do,” I responded. It only now came to my head how much Lenny probably suffered through those three weeks. With all of Micah’s yammering, I’m surprised he ain’t insane! As we took a hard left, the dim, buzzing lights of Valentine’s orange post office coming into view, Lenny continued, still anxious.
“He was half-soaked before we even got to Strawberry! Then we ran into some fellers, one of them Micah knew, drank some more… and this is supposed to be a dry town we’re in, too. Then, Micah shoots one of ‘em… Couldn’t even tell ya quite how! It happened like the strike of a match.”
Lenny paused briefly, recollecting his thoughts. I gave him a worried glance. The kid’s been through hell and back, only at nineteen. I swear, most kids his age probably haven’t even picked up a gun. It’s good that we’re getting him a drink or two. “The law was fast on us, too,” Lenny recounted. “They was ready to string me up then an’ there, but I got away. Micah didn’t.”
“You’re alright now, kid,” I smiled. “I’ll take care of it tomorrow. You just get some rest.” We drew nearer to Valentine. Its daytime sounds of construction tools and squishing mud were quieter now. Lights buzzed off buildings lining the muddy streets, and those still outside likely were walking for the saloons. We passed the orange post office, now officially in Valentine, and followed the road leading to the town’s main street.
“Alright,” I declared. “Almost there. We’ll have a drink or two… calm our nerves.”
“It was a drink that started all this,” Lenny sighed.
As Valentine embraced us in its sleepy fold, I realized Lenny was out of the loop on everything that had happened— Sean, the brawl, all of it. I couldn't help but chuckle at the prospect of his reaction. “Now I should warn you, the boys and I got into a bit of a fight a few weeks ago.”
“What kind of fight?”
“Nothin’ for you to worry about,” I laughed. “But try not to bring anything up. Best we lay low.”
“If you say so,” Lenny chuckled. We passed the wooden houses and large church, turning left and into the main street of Valentine.
The street was quiet, much unlike its daytime counterpart. Night draped the town in a sleepy calm, with the cold air settling like a blanket. The ground, churned to a goopy mud, now only shifted with the occasional boot prints.
As Lenny and I rode in, our horses’ hooves splashed on the wet mud. It sounded gross, but I’ve heard worse. The cool air began to feel slightly nippy, and I pulled my tan leather jacket tighter around me.
We passed the quiet buildings lining the street’s sides- the sheriff and doctor’s office to the right and the gunsmith to the left. Our destination, Smithfield’s Saloon, was just to the right, and it made sure to make its presence clear.
Smithfield’s Saloon spilled bright lights outside, the muffled sounds of laughter and boisterous piano reaching my ears. The saloon was more or less the same, with the same peeling red paint and sagging balcony. The windows that were broken in the brawl were now temporarily boarded up. I still remember being thrown through those windows. That was some hell of a day.
Nonetheless, we hitched up in front of the “grandest” saloon in all of New Hanover, getting ready to dismount. “Have you been before, Lenny?” I asked as I firmly patted Isaac before leaving him be.
Lenny, who finished tethering up Maggie, grunted, “No, but I’ve heard talk about it. ‘Sposed to be the best drink in the area.”
“That ain’t setting the bar too high,” I mused. We both began walking up the precariously set steps onto the wooden patio. I swung open the saloon doors and stepped inside, and I was not disappointed.
Stepping into Smithfield’s Saloon was like entering a different world compared to the muted streets outside. Warm light bathed the open wooden interior, the walls and floorboards absorbing years of stories and tobacco smoke. The ornate bar stretched along the left wall, nicks, scratches, and bottles of every conceivable spirit reflecting the lamplight. At the same time, beside it, a man was lost in the joyous music of Chopin from the piano. His melodies filled the air, making the night a rather uplifting scene.
To the right, near the newly boarded windows, a group of men was hunched over a poker table. Their faces were a mix of concentration and barely concealed eagerness as cards were dealt and hands revealed.
And there, at the far end of the saloon, stood the grand staircase, splitting into two directions as it ascended to the second floor. Its banister gleamed under the lamplight, the stairs worn smooth from the passage of countless patrons.
As I entered, I half-expected eyes to swivel our way, half-expected the tension to snap, but nobody so much as batted an eye. It seemed the brawl, while it might still have been the talk of the town, had lost its immediate sting— a good sign for us. Lenny and I walked further in, the saloon’s atmosphere washing over us. It was a living, breathing place that promised to swallow your worries for as long as your money lasted- or your senses held out.
As Lenny and I squeezed in at the bar, elbow-to-elbow with the evening crowd, the familiar tang of alcohol hung heavy in the air. Glasses clinked, and laughter punctuated the bartender’s dance along the shelves of liquor bottles of every color and creed. Lenny and I shared a smile.
“Just a drink or two… right Arthur?” Lenny grinned.
“That’s the plan,” I assured him. I turned to the bartender and knocked on the counter. “Can we get two beers here?”
Originally nonchalant, he gasped at the sight of me. His mustache twitched above a frown as he pointed an accusing finger toward me. Oh shit, out of all people, the one handing out the drinks remembers me! “You! I don’t want ANY more trouble.”
“You’ll get none from me, sir,” I promised, holding my hand out. “I was defending myself last time.”
The bartender stuttered, “But Tommy, he ain’t-”
“He’ll be fine,” I groaned. I flicked three coins at him and said, “Here, have a bottle for yourself.”
His stance suddenly softened, his scowl giving way to a friendly smile. “Thank yeh!” He said, tucking the money away and pouring our drinks. Lenny chuckled as we both began drinking. The beer was cold and refreshing, clearing the dust out of my throat. But I had to remember, just one drink or two.
Lenny started some conversation. “So, what did I miss all these weeks?” he asked, sipping away.
Almost spitting my beer out in laughter, I responded, “A whole lot, Lenny. A whole lot.” I thought for a minute, recollecting the past few weeks. Out of everything, the most important was probably saving Sean from Blackwater. “You remember Sean?” I asked.
“That Irish bastard? How wouldn’t I remember him?” Lenny grinned, then set his bottle down, and his eyes widened. “Wait a minute… he’s alive?”
“Alive and well, unfortunately,” I recounted. “Trelawny found him in Blackwater just after you and Micah left. We saved him and had a big ol’ party. You shoulda seen it.”
Lenny laughed, “I think I’ve heard enough-”
He was interrupted mid-sentence by a feller beside us, obviously drunk as hell. He slurred, mocking Lenny, “I think I’ve heard enough…”
With a sigh, I looked at the feller; he looked like a shabby young man with unkempt hair. “Will you shut up?” I scowled.
The feller laughed and responded, “Will you shut up?” Smacking my lips, I straightened my back and stared into the man’s eyes. All he did was belly laugh and chug his beer. “Y’all’re dullards! My lord, you men is dull!”
I sighed once more. Of course, this would happen. With every saloon trip, there’s a moron to deal with. But fighting ain’t gonna do nothing. So, instead, I set my bottle down and feigned a smile, patting the feller’s shoulders. “Listen, you’re a charming feller… one of the best. But me and the kid here, we’re tryna talk business. So, could you possibly leave us alone- No offense intended!”
The moron slumped his shoulders and swiped his beer from the countertop. “Ain’t no pleasing’ some folk. J-just tryna be friendly…” His voice trailed off as he stumbled away. I avoided looking, as he would probably slip into four more people along the way.
As he staggered off, Lenny and I exchanged a look and clinked our bottles together; the disruption brushed aside as quickly as spilled beer on a saloon floor.
The beers were just the overture to the night’s symphony, a prelude that opened the way for something a little stronger. The bartender, now an ally bought with coin, lined up shots of whiskey like soldiers ready for inspection. Lenny and I traded nods, a silent agreement to the unspoken challenge, and raised the first glasses.
Laughter bubbled up from somewhere deep, easier and freer than before. The amber liquid painted the room in a softer light, each shot a brushstroke over the canvas of the evening. The pianist’s tunes twisted, notes jumbling into a song only the whiskey could understand.
A few more drinks in, and the world tilted toward the jovial. Lenny and I shared tales of rides gone wrong, horses with more spirit than sense, and jobs that unraveled into chaos. Each story sounded more chaotic than the last, but we kept drinking.
“HAH!” I burst out laughing by the pianist. “That’s some great stories, Lenny.” I turned, the room swaying pleasantly as I did, and realized Lenny was gone. “L-Lenny?” My voice rose above the din.
No response came save for the piano’s undeterred melody and the continued folk chatter. I pushed myself off the bar, which took more coordination than I remembered needing. “Lennyy!” I called out again, the name bouncing off the walls.
I navigated through the crowds in this fine establishment, my gaze scanning overheads and hats, each face blurring into the next. Was that Lenny? No, just a mirror’s trick and the shadow’s play. Goddamnit, where is he? “Lenny, quit hidin’,” I yelled at three folks sitting at a table. They all looked at me. Blinking again, I saw that none of them were Lenny.
I moved on, my feet uncertain, but my mission was clear. Up the grand staircase I went, peering into the haze of tobacco and laughter for a sign of my friend. I pressed my hand, which felt disconnected from my body, to my mouth and called out, “OH, LENNEH! WHERE ARE YOU?”
Then I saw someone. That gray suit and orange tie… it sure looked like Lenny. He was leaning on the rail, holding a glass of whiskey. Marching towards him, I smiled, “Hey, Lenny! Found you!” I blinked once or twice, and he came fully into view. The glass of whiskey was placed atop his head as he tried to balance it. “What’re ya doin’?”
“You know what… I just…” His words trailed off into a tipsy giggle, cut short as the glass tumbled and shattered below, joining the cacophony of the saloon’s night. We were left gasping for air between fits of laughter, and for a moment, the chaos of our lives was nothing but a distant echo. The poor bartender has to clean it all up!
You know what? This calls for another drink!
By the fourth... or was it the fifth glass? I’d lost count, and by the looks of it, so had Lenny. The piano player had somehow grown a second head, and I was convinced he was playing two songs at once, each more rousing than the other. “Lenny, you seein’ this?” I said at the bar, but Lenny was busy befriending a chair, convinced it was his lost relative.
“I-I was just talking to Aunt Beulah!” Lenny slurred as he wobbled back to the bar. “You got family, Arthur?”
“Of course!” I declared louder than intended. “You… Dutch… and them all else.”
Lenny began to laugh. For some reason, I was laughing too! Strange world. Lenny’s voice was high-pitched, “Why ain’t you ever been married, Arthur?”
The question hung in the air, a bubble about to burst. “Nobody would have me...” I confessed, the words spilling out, a confession to the night, to the whiskey, to Lenny.
But Lenny’s response came as a cackle, sharp and joyful. “But you got me, Arthah!” He slung an arm around my shoulders, nearly toppling us both. The bar’s laughter rose again, joining ours, and any hint of sobriety was banished to the far corners of the room.
“Hell’s yeah, Lenny! We’re family tonight!” I screamed with joy. Another drink magically appeared in my hand, and I raised it high—a toast to brotherhood, to the night, to... “Lenny?” The space beside me was suddenly empty. That kid could give a ghost lessons on vanishing. “LENNEH! Where’s that slippery bastard?”
The next thing I knew, my boots clomped on the upstairs floorboards. How’d I get here? A raucous commotion from below drew my attention. “That’s gotta be Lenny,” I slurred, a detective on the trail of mischief. I descended what felt like a swaying ship’s ladder more than a staircase, my limbs apparently having decided to mutiny. “Steady, Arthur,” I to myself, gripping the banister with a white-knuckled hand.
Descending the stairs felt like navigating a shifting mountain path. Reaching the bottom, I saw Lenny in a tussle with another patron. “Hey!” I barked, wading into the scuffle. “Cut it out, y’hear?”
The man turned to me, literal fire coming out of his eyes! “You got a problem with me?” the patron growled, his face inches from mine.
“NO! You got a problem with ME?” I growled back, not about to be outdone. For a moment, we were locked in a standoff, spitting the same words back and forth like some absurd echo. The tension was as thick as the whiskey on my breath— until the world faded to black.
When my senses returned, I was in the middle of a dance, the whole saloon swirling around me. Lenny was laughing by my side, the bartender clapping along, and we were all moving to a rhythm that felt like it came from the earth beneath us. I don’t know how the hell I got here, but this is fun!
But then, all of a sudden, I blacked out again! My senses returned, and I was outside in the cold, by the back. I looked down and saw that I was pissing a stream. “Goddamn whiskey!” I muttered as I waited for the stream to stop.
When it did, I zipped up and staggered back inside Smithfield’s and into the warm, loud, and beautiful noises. Pushing through the back door, the warmth hit me, wrapping around my senses like a thick, whiskey-soaked blanket. I looked around at the bar, tables, poker table, and everything else, and I could not see Lenny for my life! Jesus Christ, the boy left me again!
“Whoo-wee,” I slurred, clinging to a table, steadying myself as best I could. “LENNEH! Lenn—oh, stars above—NEE!”
Everywhere I looked, there was Lenny. Laughing Lenny. Scowling Lenny. Singing Lenny. Too many damn Lennys, and not one of ‘em is the right one. I grabbed a shoulder, a face turned, and... nope, not my Lenny. The fella’s eyes were as wide as the bottom of a whiskey glass. “Pardon, ma’am,” slipped from my lips before I registered the bearded face turning to glare at me. Damn, this whiskey vision!
My boots felt like they were wading through mud, my head swimming in a barrel of beer as I walked up the wall of stairs leading to the second floor. As I reached the top, I looked back at the bottom floor and the sea of faces. The bartender had grown a third arm and was now serving cocktails to the patrons while the pianist seemingly played with his elbows!
But neither of them was Lenny. I turned my head, and the world began to shift. Halfway up, the whole room did a somersault, and I was sure I’d find myself embracing the floor. But then, a firm grip on my shoulders anchored me, and the dizziness settled. There he was— the unmistakable, the incomparable Lenny Summers, grinning like we’d discovered gold. His grin split his face, and for a moment, I wasn’t sure if I was grinning back or about to pass out. “FOUND YAH LENNY!” I exclaimed.
Lenny beamed, slinging his arm around me as if he feared I’d float away if he didn’t hold me down. Together, we stumbled down those stairs, which felt more like sliding down the side of a mountain. “I thought I losted you, Arthur!” he chortled, propping me up against the bar.
My finger wobbled in the air as I ordered from the twin-headed barkeep. “Misters! Two more of your finest poisons, if you’d be so kind,” I declared with an exaggerated flourish.
Lenny and I toasted, but a third clink sounded as the golden nectar filled our glasses; my eyes, swimming in a sea of whiskey, traced the hand to its owner. It was him, the mocker, grinning like a possum.
“Not you again…” Lenny’s voice was a mix of resignation and annoyance. I blinked hard, and the feller’s face split into two, then four, like a multiplying demon.
Lenny and I locked eyes, a silent conversation passing between us. At that moment, we reached the pinnacle of human wisdom, the single most logical act two souls could muster in a sophisticated town like Valentine. You guessed it! Drown him in a horse trough!
Before the feller knew what was happening, we’d hoisted him up— Lenny on one side, me barely managing on the other. We were a stumbling, giggling wreck of a rescue team, hauling our cargo outside through the back and into the cool night air.
Reaching a pigpen by a house, which seemed red… blue… and yellow at the same time, Lenny and I dunked the feller headfirst in a trough full of brown water. He flopped like a fish. But I was tired, and my grip seemed to falter.
The feller jerked his head out of the trough and into the mud, coughing for ages while the world slipped sideways. I found myself rolling in the dirt with the pigs. Lenny joined me, and for a moment, we were pigs in heaven, the cold mud a welcome relief to our burning, whiskey-soaked skin.
Suddenly, Lenny was on his feet, his voice a whisper-shout that cut through the night. “Lawmen!” That word was like a bucket of ice down my back. “Arthur, let’s get outta-” He threw up, coughed, then continued. “Let’s get outta here!”
I tried to rise, my body as cooperative as a sack of doorknobs. Lenny hauled me up, and we were off like a pair of startled rabbits, running through the main street as the lawmen chased us.
Our- or Lenny’s escape was short-lived. Lenny stopped and lurched towards a water trough by the Doctor’s Office. He gasped, then retched into it. But his stopping gave the lawmen enough time to tackle him. The mountain of lawmen atop Lenny was a heartbreaking sight. I lost Lenny! But I had to run. I could die if I stayed here…
With the grace of a newborn calf, I veered into an alleyway between two wooden buildings, my voice an echoing battle cry in the night. “YOU’LL NEVER TAKE ME ALIVVEEE!”
I ran as if the devil were on my heels, but this devil was sure good at making me suffer! He made the ground shake and move; it just wouldn’t stay goddamn still! Because of that goddamn ground, I tripped, the world flipped, and I was flying—oh, how I was flying! Until a fence post caught me. As I lay there, too tired to breathe, I thought, “So this is what a fence feels like up close.”
And then, darkness rolled in. The last thing I remember was the clatter of boots, the distant calls of “He went this way!” and the feeling that maybe, just maybe, I should’ve stuck to one drink, not two... or was it three?
***
The first sensation was the hard, unforgiving surface beneath me. My eyes cracked open to a blur of gray and brown. The world swayed gently as if I were still on a drunken sea. I groaned, each sound echoing in my skull like a gunshot.
Where the hell am I?
The air was stale, tinged with the unmistakable scent of damp stone and old sweat. I tried to sit up from what seemed like a wooden bed, but my head protested with a sharp, piercing pain, anchoring me back down. Gritting my teeth, I forced my eyes to focus. Looking around, I could only see stone walls and metal bars. Wait a minute… Bars. A cell. Oh, goddamnit.
What the hell happened last night that got me and Lenny into a jail cell? It was just a drink or two, or at least that’s how I remembered it. I pushed myself up, my arms trembling under the weight of my body. I could see my surroundings clearly now. I was in a small and cramped cell, right next to the wooden desks of the sheriff’s office. A small, barred window let a blinding ray of light inside, almost as if it were mocking me.
My hand instinctively went to my holster, but it was empty. My gun belt was gone, and even worse, my hat too! My eyes darted around the cramped building, but I couldn’t see any sight of ‘em. I saw Lenny from the cell across me, and he woke up with a groan. But a heavy clanking sound drew my attention. A deputy, dressed in a beige coat and denim vest, was eating a sandwich, leaning on his desk as he stared at me and Lenny with amusement.
“Morning sunshine,” the deputy drawled, taking a big gulp of his sandwich. “Hope you enjoyed your stay at Valentine’s finest!”
I mustered the strength to stand up, but all I managed to do was wobble to the bars, my muscles still aching. “What the hell did we do?” I groaned.
“You don’t know?” He chuckled, eyeing Lenny, who looked as if he were going to explode his guts out. “There’s a fine for drunken violence in this town. You’re just lucky nobody was killed.”
“Hey… we didn’t start nothing!” Lenny weakly said, pointing at the deputy.
The deputy shrugged. “I beg to differ.”
Lenny retorted, “Well, I don’t remember!”
Rolling his eyes, the deputy explained, “Any of y’all got money? Fifty bucks, an’ I’ll give your things back, and y’all are free to walk.”
Fifty bucks? What the hell was this place doing, robbing people? I leaned back against the cold wall, closing my eyes in frustration. “Fine…” I groaned, flopping my arm at the coat hanger by the door, where my satchel was. “Check my satchel, there’s cash in there.”
With a smirk that seemed permanently etched on his face, the deputy rummaged through my satchel and pulled out a wad of cash. He counted it slowly, his fingers lingering on each bill. “Fifty bucks... Looks like you’re free to go.”
He unlocked the cell doors with a clank that rang in my throbbing ears. Lenny and I gathered our belongings in silence. As I buckled my gun belt and settled my hat back on, the weight of the previous night’s follies pressed down on me. Whatever we did last night, it must have been a lot to end up in jail.
As the deputy gave me my revolvers and Lenny his, we stepped outside onto the porch. Stepping outside, the cool morning air hit me like a splash of cold water. The town sheriff stood to the side, silently observing us with a tinge of pity with his thick cigar and bushy mustache. It probably didn’t help when Lenny staggered to the edge of the porch, retching into the muddy street. I turned away, my own stomach churning in sympathy. But I held it together just then.
The sheriff still eyed us, now even more concerned than ever. “Good morning,” I awkwardly muttered to him, receiving a curt nod in return.
Still leaning on the wooden pillar for support, Lenny wiped his mouth and sighed. “What the hell happened last night?”
“Wish I could tell you,” I said, scanning the street for our horses. Isaac’s mahogany coat with white splotches stood out even from three buildings down beside Lenny’s bulkier Mustang, Maggie. “Feels like we stirred up half of Valentine. And the rest…” I shook my head, memories as murky as the muddy street.
Lenny chuckled weakly. “Probably for the best, we don’t remember it all.” We approached our horses, tethered in front of Smithfield's. Through the saloon windows, I caught sight of the bartender, methodically cleaning tables and nudging sleeping patrons awake. Poor Isaac had been waiting all night. I patted his neck and fed him a carrot from his saddlebag. Lenny, mounting Maggie, continued, “So, you gonna save Micah now?”
I sighed, the thought hitting me like a brick. Out of all of the things I forgot, the one thing that I remembered was Micah. Now, I had to save him sooner or later, or Dutch would lose his marbles. With a huff, I mounted Isaac and replied, “Unfortunately.”
“Well, Strawberry’s not a big town,” Lenny explained. “But they got some law there… a lot of law. Jus’ be careful out there, aight?”
I scoffed, tightly gripping Isaac’s reins. “You tryna make me feel better?”
Lenny, with a faint grin, shook his head. “Just saying, it won’t be easy. But if anyone can get Micah out, it’s you.” He nudged Maggie, preparing to leave. “I’ll head back to Horseshoe Overlook. Let Dutch know you’re on it.”
“Thanks, Lenny,” I said, watching as he trotted off, disappearing into the bustle of Valentine’s morning routine.
Left alone with Isaac, I took a moment to gather myself. The town was waking up, the early risers setting about their day. Storekeepers swept their porches while a few early patrons wandered into the saloon, perhaps to continue where we left off. The sounds of hooves meeting mud and the clanking of construction tools filled the air.
I guided Isaac away from Valentine, following the beaten paths out of town and to my destination. I looked up at the towering mountains from far ahead. A little before them were the forests of Big Valley, on the other side of the Dakota River. So Strawberry probably wasn’t too far, maybe half a day’s ride away if I put in some ground.
And so I did, nudging Isaac forward into a steady canter. As we followed the paths winding down towards the Dakota River, I looked back one last time at the wooden buildings of Valentine, the saloon’s red stature towering over the others.
I looked down at Isaac, his coat shining in the morning sun. “Looks like it’s just you and me, partner.” I patted his neck, offering another carrot as a token of gratitude for his patience. And we continued riding, no doubt for chaos.
Strawberry wouldn’t be an easy ride, and Micah was a man who attracted trouble like a moth to a flame. But I didn’t want to worry about what would inevitably go down, so I began to think back. The events of last night were a jigsaw puzzle with half the pieces missing. But one thing was clear: I’d stick to one drink next time. Maybe two, but definitely not three…
Little Note[]
If you've made it to the end (and actually read it), thanks. Next chapter, "Blessed Are the Meek," is my best chapter I've ever written in my opinion, so that's something to be excited for!