Saviors
1899- Ambarino
John was silent as a ghost mocked him, not fully comprehending what he was exactly seeing. His first thought was that he’d been sent to hell but…. He had never been one to put too much stock into religion. One way or the other. Besides, he was here and if God wouldn’t take him of all people, than everyone was damned. “You still with us John?”
The worried glance between the two outlaws didn’t go unnoticed by John. Not that he blamed them, considering that around this time, he wouldn’t have been able to shut up about his wounds. They were used to an idiot. Not that he still wasn’t an idiot. Just a bit older. A bit more… tired. ”He’ll be fine Javier…” Arthur took a moment to direct his horse before continuing, “Reckon we should be thankful for the moments of quiet we get. God knows this fool won’t shut up the moment he’s lucid.” Both laughed to themselves for awhile. Least till the wind silenced the both of them as they followed the river up towards wherever the group had camped. He couldn’t remember, nor did he try to. They were all the same, till the very end. Eventually, both their horses stopped, nearly bucking him off of Boaz in the process. Luckily Javier caught his collar before anything could happen.
Small mercies.
As he was laid down in the uncomfortably cramped cabin, John couldn’t help but shiver as the cold breeze found its way through the cracks in the walls. Abigail was saying… something. Hosea was also saying…. something. But he was alive. Him and Javier and Arthur and- He couldn’t help the cough of blood that escaped him. Couldn’t help frightening his son. Couldn’t help nobody, not in 1899 or 1907 or even 1911.… As the adults in the room started panicking and fussing, John kept his eyes on his boy, so very young and still innocent.
Small mercies indeed.
A deep ache to his left knee was what woke him up. That or the freezing chill to his bones. Godforsaken weather. Gingerly sitting up on his bed, John reached out for the only thing near him that was in anyway familiar. His gun.
Grabbing a cloth and the bit of gun oil he’d had near him, John went to work on his cattlemen while he tried to process everything that had gone on. From dying/not dying by a shootout, dealing with being half eaten alive, and having to see folk who should be dead, well things sure as shit felt bad. Overwhelming even. Unconsciously opening his revolver, John didn't know what to think about anything. Seeing Arthur and Javier again, seemingly being back to a time of outlaws, and-
That Strange man! He had done this, somehow that man had brought John back in time or his own personal hell or well, pick your poison. Roughly running his fingers over his fresh/old scars, John tried to imagine just what had brought him here. Witchcraft? Or was it all a dream, his mind showing him his every failure while he bled out in Beechers Hope? How could somebody push someone else through a time? "A devil maybe but..... oh damn it all!" Coughing soon took over, but that didnt stop him from making to get up before quickly lying back down, as his leg screamed, his ribs screamed, hell, his whole body screamed for him to seated. "Least Jack and Abigail should be okay, hopefully my death bought 'em enough time." John quietly brought a rag to the inside of his revolver, resolving to put his thoughts of the devil and Witchcraft on hold. For now, he figured, he may as well focus on the glaring issues. Namely, the bunch of outlaws surrounding his little cabin outside.
He wasn't going to just grab his family and run off. For one Abigail wouldn't go for it, not with him, and it's not like it was ever really an option. Not after seeing Arthur. But what of Dutch? "What of him? That damned fool will kill us all if I let him....." Even still John couldn't find it within him to hate the man who raised him. Back in 1899, sure. Even back in 1907 he still hated Dutch with a vengeance. But now, after everything that had happened. Everything he did? He just didn't know what to think no more. "A man who lost his way or someone who got revealed for what they was?" Grabbing for a pack of bullets by the drawer nearest to his bed, John went to work reloading his old relaible. Letting his hands work their magic, he found that he couldn’t remember everything that had, or would, happen. He remembered Sisika penitentiary, of course. How could he forget? He knew that Arthur got sick with TB sometime between now and the end of the year, the man's journal had pinpointed where from, not that he could remember off the top of his head. He remembered Lenny dying during that whole robbery fiasco, along with Hosea’s death to Ross and agent…. something. Mrs Grimshaw, obviously. The thought of Micah Bell wouldn’t let him forget that. But even with hearing hushed whispers of Sean, he couldn’t for the life of him remember how he got killed, only faintly remembering that it was around the time his son was taken to Saint Denis. Suppose it made sense as to why he couldn't remember. Damned southern inbred trash. His musings were cut short as a loud bit of trampling occured, with the sound of Dutch and the gang riding out giving him pause for a moment. “What exactly did they get up to in them mountains…?” Though he was mumbling to himself, John still sat there, watching as his cabins door was gently opened by- ah shit.
"Well ain't you a sight for sore eyes John, wolves werent very kind to you were they?" As the man had to fight against the wind to shut the door behind him, John placed his revolver by his bedside, recollecting himself while internally panicking. "I'm alright Hosea. A couple scars, could've been alot worse." Damn, his voice sounded shot, even to his own ears. Damned sickness from the damned infection. Or the damn cold which again, pick your poison.
Hosea fiddled with the rooms only chair, before settling in with a sigh. "Yes it very well could have been, shoulve been actually, what with your coat seemingly have grown a pair of legs." The old man looked lost in his head for a moment. Lord, was it unnerving to hear his crackling voice again.
"Well, I ain't dead Hosea so no point worrying over nothing. But uh, where'd the boys go off to, heard them riding out before you came in."
"Is my company not enough for you-" Coughing overtook Hosea for a second, ruining the ribbing that was about to occur. "-But yes, you heard right. Dutch thought it would be a brilliant idea to attack a group of O'Driscolls we stumbled upon a little over a week ago. Damned foolishness when we should be focusing on getting food but that don't concern you boy, you just keep getting rest." Their conversation became more muddled after that; a brief rundown of what he'd missed and how most folk were feeling but Hosea couldn't stay long, still having duties to the rest of the camp and all. Still, he supposed that it was nice talking to him, for however short that talk might have been.
Left alone in his cabin John went back to fiddling with his cattlemen, intent on finishing the job he started, all the while trying to avoid thinking. It still felt so overwhelming and- raw he guessed. One moment he was choking on his own blood and in the next he was left out on a freezing mountain in the middle of nowhere. But still, what worried him was all the folk outside. All them folk and over half of them would be dead before new years hit.
"Shit..."
Grabbing for his hat, John mustered what little strength he had to at least get off his bed. Biting at his cheek, John used the detiorating wall to hobble himself towards the chair Hosea had so kindly left near the only window and sat down. Thoughts of saving folk still screamed out at him, but he couldn't even remember how a third of them had died. It had been too long. Too many years and too much suffering in between it all for his memory to be as accurate as he might've wished it were. But his son and wife. He could get closer to them both, something he figured wouldnt mess anything of real importance up. Hell, if the O'Driscolls precence didnt make it clear enough that he didn't remember squat than he was a damn fool.
Getting a halfway decent relationship with both, it was at least something to aim for while he figured out what he was going to do about everything. Hearing yelling outside, John squinted and could just barely make out Uncle holding a bottle of whiskey, something that forced a chuckle out of him. "O'course I was brought back with him. Guess God truly ain't have no mercy."
Thoughts of Uncle messing around, of Abigail pulling him to bed, of Jack having that starry look in his eye when he forgot to fear his own shadow, all of that was what played through his mind as he listened to the shouts of Uncle, to the wind that wouldn't stop trying to get inside. From there his mind started to shut down as his body dragged itself back to bed and his eyes got to the closing he'd hadn't realized they'd needed.