'Are you gonna hurt me now?
Or are you gonna hurt me later?'

-

Fuelled by anger, you pushed the horses on forcefully back to camp. You didn't want to risk the chance of Micah being able to catch up with you.

The two heavy-weighs whinnied loudly as they charged back towards camp; yet still at a pace steady enough it would not cause any damage or risk to the wagon. Your hands gripped tightly to the long leather reins, white knuckled. Your jaw was tensed the whole way home, your entire system riddled with disgust and contempt.

You had a bone to pick with Sean MacGuire too.

Sun beating it's hot and heavy rays down upon the unforgiving landscape, you were glad to meet the cool relief of the forest shade when making your way up the final stretch to Horseshoe Overlook.

Among the constant knocking and rumbling of the wagon's movement, you heard a familiar voice call out to you, demanding to know who was there. It was none other than John Marston, but you were too angry to respond – as you guided the two horses through the other side of the forest and into the tree-encircled area of the camp.

"Ah- she's back!" Pearson's voice called, and the portly man strode his way over to the wagon where you were quickly dismounting from it's seat. After the intense ride back, you were overly hot, bothered and severely angered by what had just happened back in Valentine.

"Nice of you to just wander off like that, MacGuire." You snapped, the worn wooden steps of the wagon creaking under foot- before your white kid-boots hit the grassy ground beneath you. Sean gazed around in nonchalant confusion, acting as if he knew nothing of what was going on.

"I thought you didn't need me?" he replied back, Irish tones ringing with innocence. The sound merely made you scoff, and your inner self decided it best to just get on with sorting the horses, lest you get really pissed off and say something you might regret.

The conversation had drawn Arthur out from by the cliff's edge, where he had been quietly sketching in his journal. The gunslinger closed the leather bound book, slipping it into his satchel – as he reached the inner space of the camp; and could immediately sense the hostility and tension radiating.

Your stout manner had rather pissed Sean off, he didn't like to feel as if he had done something wrong – ever. The man was always out to prove himself, and you assumed that must've come from this gang mentality.

"You know, (name)," Sean had been saying, chewing annoyingly loudly on an apple, "I ain't my job to be your chaperone. I don't know why you've got your drawers in a twist-" you managed to make out behind the sloppy chewing sounds that just further aggravated you.

Quietly observing, Arthur had now come to realise what had happened. Sean had not really done what was asked of him... and already, Arthur's pallid blue eyes were searching around nearby for Micah, the man he had been so worried about you being left alone with.... But he was nowhere to be seen.

A guttural growl escaped you suddenly, and you lashed around, haughtily removing the heavy leather neck piece from around the Belguim Draft's thick neck. Your arms slung it over the nearest post, and in every movement your anger and frustration was clearly represented.

"I know you are not my chaperone, Sean." You started defensively, "But when I'm in he company of that... slimy bastard-" you snapped, referring to Micah, "You might understand that I do not wish to be left on my own."

You hadn't really realised it, but as you had been gesturing your hands to enforce your anger, you had become shaky, and salted tears had become to brim at your glassy eyes. Everyone was now looking intently at you, growing concern on their faces.

With a careful half step, Arthur moved forwards slightly – still giving you plenty of space.

"Did... did somethin' happen, (name)?" he asked, his voice was withheld, not the usual broad pitch. It was a sensitive tone, to say the least.

Your lips parted and then abruptly closed, multiple times – you felt like a foolish goldfish, faltering and stumbling over every word. In the end, you just closed your arms around yourself and hung your head – it had taken a few seconds for you to come to realise that you did not want to discuss the events that happened in Valentine. Not just yet anyway, and not in front of everyone like this.

However, you barely given much time to withdraw into yourself when the thundering gallop of hooves could be heard, closing in through the canopy of the trees that surrounded the camp. They slowed alarmingly fast into a skidding sound, twigs and mud crunching and crackling under the severe braking of a horse.

Turning back to see what exactly was going on, you first caught sight of the wild look in the skinny appaloosa horse's eyes. They were shot wide, like it had been severely spooked – and then just bolted all the way here. Next, you rather reluctantly looked up – and your stomach felt as if it had turned itself inside out.

A top of the snorting horse's back, was Micah Bell. His eyes were crazed wide, much like that of the stallion's, his face spattered with flecks of red... blood? The more you looked the more you noticed the blood, all over his neck, on his shirt. There were even huge chunks of blood tattered in the horse's mane... you had some idea of what had happened. He'd obviously shot an innocent passer-by and stolen their horse.

"Glad to see you made it back alright!" Micah chimed, but it was a very unsettling tone – turbulent, like he could easily sway into a crazed killing spree in the next second.

Your lips were sealed shut, half out of fear and half out of anger. You weren't going to give this brute the satisfaction.

"Micah – just what the hell has happened!?" Hosea suddenly piped up, the older man stood there with a confused and contempt look on his aged face.

A sarcastically-triumphant laugh left the despicable outlaw then, and he gestured his arms out wide in a satirical manner.

"Oh? She hasn't told you!" Micah harked, lashing around to send a glare your way. The intensity of it forced you to look down at your now muddy covered boots.

Micah was now pacing around, like some grand showman about to entice everyone with the greatest tale ever told. You were worried everyone at camp would believe Micah... and not believe you.

"This stuck-up bitch," he snarled, pointing back at you like you were some kind of creature, "Left me in the middle of Valentine – surrounded by O Driscolls!"

The gasp that emitted from some of the people at camp instilled the biggest sense of dread in you for some while. In this moment, Dutch's words regarding 'the rules' came into your head... you were scared for your life... Micah may've convinced them enough to shoot you.

Despite terror's hand that clapped itself over your mouth, you knew you had to push past the consternation and speak up for yourself – for if you didn't, your life may be the cost.

"I left him there because he was making unwanted advances on me." You blurted out, and felt all pairs of eyes settle on your shaking form. The measure of dread you felt was the type that made your knees tremble, and the inside of your legs feel weaker than a new-born kitten.

Micah too was glaring back at you, he almost looked horrified that you had actually gained the courage to speak up against him. Clearly a lot of people did not do that sort of thing against him.

"...I'm sure you girls understand me... right?" you asked, searching the eyes of Karen, Mary-Beth and Tilly just because there were near enough right in front of you. The three of them looked uncomfortably between each other, before dropping their heads.

Micah's defiant chuckles entered the tense air around you, and your heart dropped that the girls felt they could not speak up because of Micah. He had should a horrible hold over this camp, and you were angry that Dutch was too blind to bloody see it.

"Forget all that," Micah dismissed, looking to Dutch who was stood just to the left of Arthur. His dark eyes were observing, but he had not said a word. He twisted his cigar between his fingers in a musing fashion, as if he was taking it all in.

"She left me alone with our enemies, Dutch!" Micah called out to Dutch, putting on these woeful eyes like he was the victim in all of this. A sly sneer captured his lips, hidden beneath that stupidly large moustache.

"Ain't that punishable by somethin', boss?" was added soon after, and the delivery of the statement from Micah just made you shudder.

A pressing silence fell into the camp like thick fog, suddenly it felt like everyone was merely waiting on a word from Dutch.

But the leader was taking his time, intaking slow draws of his cigar, narrowing his eyes a little between yourself and Micah.

"This is pointless, Dutch." Hosea stepped forwards, laying his calloused hand on Dutch's shoulder, gesturing the other hand out to you. "She's just a girl, hasn't she had enough turmoil already?"

Like a self-assured slimy serpent, Micah snaked forwards towards Dutch, and shed a slightly disgusted glance that was dusted in nonchalance – aiming it straight at Hosea.

"Don't listen to him, boss. You know what I say about the old, they're delusional." Micah crooned, "This floozy deserves all that she gets." His finger was pointing back in your direction.

Your heart was hammering away wildly in your chest, you were fearful that if it pumped any faster – it would surely explode. Your fight or flight kicked in, and your primal instinct told you stay and fight this one out.

"Dutch, please!" you started, flurrying forwards, skirts of dress sweeping widely with the movement. "I would do no wrong by any member of this camp, I was doing what I had to.. to protect myself." You argued, hoping to find the emotion you wanted in his eyes when he looked at you. You gave Dutch every ounce of honesty in your eyes when you pleadingly looked at him.

"Nonsense, we were just talkin', and she took the first chance to leave me in the shit with them O'Driscolls." Micah fought back quickly, giving you a discerning look. "Boss, you know I ain't a bad guy. It's this one... she's a liar. We should be careful, 'cause she'll throw us in hot oil to save her own skin."

These lies; you were watching the web be spun right before your eyes – you, the helpless fly, entangled in the silken fibres whilst the giant spider laughed so openly in your face.

"That is not true!" you shouted now, clenching your fists tightly. Oh how you wanted to punch his smug little face right in.

"In fact, If I'd a' found ya' in that O Driscoll camp... I'da' left you there." Micah hissed, right in your face as if to really bury the stake in. "Left you there to die. Like you deserve." He spat

"Alright – that's ENOUGH!" a sudden shout erupted, and all you were aware of was a tall frame standing between you and Micah, forcing him out of your face. You very quickly twigged it was Arthur.

"You get outta her face right now, goddamnit." Arthur growled lowly, keeping himself firmly planted in the ground just in front of you – large arms forcing Micah backwards in one shift and heavy shove. Mr Bell stumbled about the grass, a look of pure animosity on his vexatious expression.

"Well ain't this a surprise, Mr Morgan come to save the day!" Micah declared in a dramatic tone of voice. "When will you learn to stay out of stuff that ain't your business?"

You were glad in some ways you were safely behind Arthur, that way you couldn't see the stupid smug look that was on Micah's face no doubt.

"When will you learn to stop disgracing all the women in this goddamn camp? Then maybe I won't have to step in." Arthur defended heatedly, "You need to sort your head out, Micah." His voice was calming down a little now. Arthur knew best of all people, that escalating and screaming and shouting and Micah usually ended up in bullets being exchanged, and blood being spilt.

You stared worriedly at the grey material of Arthur's shirt, glad it somewhat concealed you from Micah's harrowing glares. Right now, you just wanted to crush yourself into Arthur's back and hide away from the horror that was closing in around you.

"You're only gettin' involved because you're sweet on her." Micah retorted back... oh great, it was going in this direction now.

Arthur narrowed his gaze at Micah, who was swaggering almost in his steps like he was so high and mighty, smirking away like he'd cracked the code.

"Yeah.. you're only doing this 'cause it makes you look like a hero in front of your damsel." Micah taunted further. This was turning very quickly into a childish game. "I'd be more discreet about it, but it's so painfully obvious anyway." The idiot furthered, cocking his head at Arthur.

"Cause see, Arthur... you just got no backbone to do anythin' about it." Micah whispered, a punch-worthy smirk on his face. "And out in the wild, if a lion was like that – another one would come and take his mate..."

"Look, where's this goin'?" Arthur suddenly sighed, and you could tell by his tone of voice he was more tired of Micah than anything. He didn't seem threatened at all. "In case you ain't noticed, we ain't big cats. And I don't need a lesson on wildlife politics." Arthur added sassily.

"Hide behind that wall of sarcasm, Arthur. Just like you always do." Micah snickered, backing up slowly. With a heavy sigh, Mrs Grimshaw went to grab his arm, covered in that thick leather coat.

"Come on, Mr Bell – you need to get cleaned up..." Susan said, but Micah snatchily pulled his arm away.

"Just get the hell away from me." He grumbled, and stormed across the camp.

Everyone slowly began to disperse then, it felt far too awkward from them all to just stand there and watch you still stood looking very small behind Arthur's figure.

Eventually, after balling his fists intermittently, Arthur slowly turned to face you. A look of concern had crossed his handsome features.

"... you okay?" was all he could ask, sounding slightly uncertain. Even after all that, he couldn't just be frank and sincere about any of his feelings.

"I'm fine. I'll be fine." You reiterated, nodding your head simply and picking up your skirts so that they wouldn't drag in the dirt. "Thank you, Arthur." You replied, wanting to make a point of being sincere about your current feelings.

Glad that Micah was out of the way, you simply carried on sorting out to the two wagon horses, quietly keeping to yourself.

Arthur stayed and quietly observed you for a few moments, he looked upon your somewhat exhausted expression, your eyes looked so tired and you seemed devoid of any emotion at that point.

"For gods sake..." the gunslinger hissed to himself quietly, and kicked a stone just by his feet before heading off to the quiet seclusion of his tent. He was angry with himself that he couldn't sum up the courage to just take you to one side, to speak to you and console you like he really wanted. He was still holding back. Micah's poisonous words now seeped in deep, and stung more than ever. In Arthur's despair, he couldn't help but force himself to believe what Bell had said... 'you just got no backbone to do anythin' about it'

Grumbling, Arthur put his head down in his hands, fighting with his own frustration.

Yes, he had been able to protect you – but to open up to you properly? It was a task proving ever difficult to come to terms with.

--

Nightfall soon descended on Horseshoe Overlook. The campfire crackled loudly with a gloriously warm flame, and fragments of embers danced up into the darkness above.

From your spot on a log by the cliff, you could hear Javier's dulcet tones singing away, the gentle harmony of the guitar and the chorus of voices singing along to an old rhyme. Usually you would stop by to have a little join in, but tonight, you rather wanted to be left on your own.

In the dry dirt by your feet, you had been drawing shapes with a narrow, bone-dry stick. It was a mindless little task but it was better than wallowing in misery in your bed.

Exalting a sigh, you carefully cast your melancholy (eye colour) eyes across the view of the darkened landscape before you. Without the sun's brilliant light, it looked fairly formidable in the dark. Mountains loomed like great monsters against the pitch blackness, and there was an abundant eerie chill in the air.

Movement sounded from to your right, and you were surprised to see Abigail skirting past the back of one of the tents, a bowl of stew in her hand. The smell made you stomach ache terribly for something to eat.

"I see you didn't get any dinner, so I brought you some." She said softly, and passed you the wooden bowl, a spoon already sat in the delicious soupy juices of the stew. The gesture had very much warmed you, and you sidled to the left on the log to make room for Abigail to sit.

"Thank you Abigail... that's really kind of you." You said gratefully, your voice still quiet and slightly timid.

The stew was amazing as you took the first spoonful to your lips, it was wonderful – it was game meat, deer, you thought – it was perfectly tender, complimented beautifully by the vegetables. The day had been so long and so stressful, you had forgotten your appetite up until now.

"... That was nice, what Arthur did for you today." Abigail suddenly spoke up, her hands rested in her lap, on the dirtied off-white colour of her apron. Straight away, your ears had tuned it to what she had to say, but you could offer no real word on it. You weren't exactly sure what to say, and so, a silence drifted in like mist.

Abigail cleared her throat, looking down at her feet, "... Arthur is a good man... My John tells me... that Arthur is quite keen on you."

You scoffed quietly then, setting the spoon back into the half empty bowl.

"Jack told me the same, as I'm sure you know – half the camp does." You replied, and the disappointment was growing on your tired tones, "... It just doesn't seem that way... he's such a complex man, I don't understand it." You started, gazing over at Abigail.

"One moment, I'm told he likes me – the next, I see him, and he barely says a word to me." You shrugged, stirring the spoon around the bowl passively. "He always seems so brave... I thought he would've said something by now... he knows how I feel." You added, afraid to look at Abigail – but aware she was gazing right at you.

She offered a small sigh initially, and you felt see her fumbling with her hands out of the corner of your eye.

"Arthur has had a bad past, from what we can gather. He don't talk about it much. I think he's just worried about letting anyone in, in case they end up gettin' hurt."

"I know about that, Abigail." You interjected, "I... I had my opportunity, and made it clear what I think... but he's just so reluctant." You hung your head down, placing the bowl on the log beside you.

"If I'm honest, I'm close to giving up thinking about it." You bit your lip, knowing where you were taking this conversation – and you were going to confess how you felt to Abigail.

"It's... it's like, I wake up – I think about him. I see him, and my chest hurts. I just wish he'd come over, make me feel... special? You know... valued." You sighed deeply, feeling your stomach twist and your heart race that you had actually confided these feelings in someone.

"I go to bed, I think about him. I dream about him. It's exhausting, knowing he's so close but yet so far. I just don't want to feel crazy anymore... it's driving me insane." You concluded, glad it was dark, as you could feel the heat of your cheeks blushing.

Abigail was silent for the seconds following, and it made you panic... 'why did I just say all of that?' you internally screamed.

Her laugh then emitted, it was sweet and small, "That's really quite cute, (name)." she smiled, making you feel brave enough to look at her again. "That's how I used to feel about my John in the really early days... now... he's just a pain in the ass." She nudged you with her elbow, making you laugh along with her.

You didn't realise, but this moment was exactly what you needed.

"I wouldn't worry, (Name)." Abigail then said as the laughter had subdued, "If Arthur was brave enough to ask John what he thought... I think he does plan to talk to you... he's just finding the right moment." She winked, standing up and taking your empty bowl.

"He's a bit of an old romantic like that." She added with a playful whisper, before leaving you once again alone at the log.

In solitude, you had time once again to think about the discussion you had just had.

This was it, you decided – the last straw. You would trust Abigail's word and wait it out a bit longer... but you could not wait forever.

--

The singing and chatter outside was muffled beneath the safety of the fabric of Dutch's tent.

The leader had called Arthur in for a talk, and understandably Arthur was quite nervous about this considering the events of the day.

Sitting in the chair opposite the bed, Arthur looked blankly at Dutch – who was sat on the edge of the bed, hands pursed together, fingertips pointed. The increasingly concerned look in Dutch's eyes was doing nothing to settle Arthur's nerves.

"Listen, Dutch..." Arthur started before Van Der Linde had even uttered a word, "If it's about today, I was just lookin' out for (name). I know what Micah can be like-"

"Hold on there, son." Dutch's deep tones interrupted, and he cracked a small smile, "I didn't call in you talk about that... it's slightly... on the topic, but I don't wanna drag you back through all that." He stated calmly. Arthur took a deep breath in, and quietly attempted to settle the previous feeling of nervousness.

Standing slowly, Dutch then paced to the back of his tent, by the gramophone, where he had left one of his pistols. The leader picked it up and examined it with focused look.

"I wanted to ask you whether you would like to train the girl up, get her used to guns." Dutch asked, and looked over his shoulder at the confused look on Arthur's face in the low lamplight.

"Well, considering all these O'Driscoll's hanging around at the moment – I think it's best she learns how to protect herself." Dutch justified, and cracked a small smirk. "You can't be there to play bodyguard all the time, Arthur." His tone remarked smartly. Arthur looked down at his hands, jaw shifting as he thought over the proposition.

He lifted his head after a few moments, nodding ever so slightly. "Sure... yeah, I can show her." Arthur replied to Dutch, who looked to be pleased by the response. "I can't guarantee she'll be the shootin' type though." He shrugged, rubbing his stubbled jawline passively.

Dutch chuckled loudly, patting Arthur on the arm. "Oh come on Arthur, she might surprise you! Besides, Micah might be less inclined to test her if she knows her way about a gun." Dutch reminded, his tone was persuasive like he was just further trying to sell the training to Arthur.

The gunslinger scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Or maybe you could just talk to the bastard and set him straight? He's been allowed to go on like this for too long, Dutch." Arthur said, and swallowed down the lump in his throat. "...I'm worried about what he might've done to (name) today. She don't deserve it."

In the moments following the statement leaving his lips, Arthur reminisced over the earlier scenario – your pleading expression, Micah's big ego and the way you had seemed so very small and helpless. It was as if you had reverted back to the young girl, gagged and tied to the chair in the O Driscoll camp.

"Don't stress over Micah, I'll talk to him." Dutch reassured, patting Arthur's shoulder in an encouraging fashion. "You just focus on getting (name) familiar with a gun."

The leader then turned to spark up his cigar, indicating the talk was now over. Arthur exited, pushing the grey-white flap of the tent up to make his way back out to the camp.

The sing-song and evening chat had seemed to die down, not many bodies wandered the camp now, most of them in bed (including yourself) – and the fire had been very much left to die out. Only a glowing orange hue dwindled on the black burnt wood.

Arthur was grateful to make his way to bed that night, but the thought of working closely with you made him feel reasonably anxious.

He sighed heavily as he switched down the oil lamp on the small table at the bedside, and laid back.

Gazing up at the fabric canopy above, he had started to think... Maybe getting you trained wasn't going to be a bad thing, maybe he wouldn't muck up or have a chance to avoid this any longer.

Maybe... it was the perfect opportunity, to say everything to you that he so desperately wanted to.

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