Life 53: Blessed Peacemakers

(Carcer County, U.S.A, 1874)

"Boy! Where the hell are you?!" Lyle Morgan growled aloud as he started out the open door of the shack, looking for the son he considered so lowly.

He'd sent the boy out hours ago for rum and had been waiting impatiently for his return for far too long now, the day turning to night quicker than his mood to rage.

If he didn't know any better, he'd say the boy was still in town, talking to that little whore at the saloon, the one that they'd seen when they first came to this shit hole of a county.

Pushing himself up from his seat, Lyle staggered over to the yard to see the boy come walking back all slow, the bottle held delicately in his hands, his shirt collar ruffled like it'd been grabbed and torn.

"About time you got back boy, I sent you off hours ago!" Lyle growled out as he pulled the boy into the shack, the bottle being snatched from his hands with quick fury.

The boy merely tried to get his space from the man, only for Lyle to toss the bottle aside and grab the boy with fire burning bright in his eyes.

"You got the wrong brand boy…" Lyle snarled out as his grip tightened around the boy's throat, not enough to choke, merely to press.

"Y-ya didn't give me enough for the Garama stuff pa!" The boy cried out, his little hands grasping at Lyle's vest as he shook the boy in his grasp, the brim of his hat falling over his angry eyes, and obscuring his view of the boy.

"Then steal it if you have to! I swear, you're a terrible thief, but you could have tried!" Lyle growled out as he tossed the boy aside, his little body connecting with the fireplace harshly. No doubt, he'd go crying off to the doc in town, saying he'd been kicked by a horse again.

The boy knew what answers to give to those plagued with concern.

"I… I tried pa, and the man said not to come back…" The boy muttered out, his body moving around the table then, to avoid Lyle's hands no doubt.

Lyle just snarled in response.

"Do you think I care what that fuck said?" He asked sardonically as he looked at the boy with something almost akin to a smile on his lips.

Then he pulled his gun on the boy.

"You know, I shouldn't have sent you off, since I can't even trust you to not go playing around with that little slut. So, I'll go get my own rum, and I'll pay your little friend a visit while I'm at it." Lyle said with a malevolent grin, as the boy's face froze in terror and fear. The man just laughed at him, then pulled up his bandanna to cover the smile on his lips.

"Don't look so scared boy, I'll save some for you." He said with a laugh, coming over to place his second revolver on the table.

The boy eyed it something fierce.

"Now, then, if that sheriff comes knocking, shoot his ass. There's two bullets in that gun, don't waste them, or I won't even bother burying you." Lyle growled out as he pulled open the shack's door, his eyes firmly locked on the boy's.

"And Arthur… remember what happened to you last time you tried to shoot me."

Lyle's eyes must have been playing tricks on him then, because his boy turned to him with this queer look in his eyes, and he… he could have sworn they weren't green before.

Regardless, Arthur just looked back at him, and smiled a weird little grin.

"I remember pa."

Arthur Evan Morgan.

Born in eighteen sixty-three, to the young couple of Beatrice and Lyle Morgan, a seamstress and a petty criminal.

One night, a man Lyle had mugged came knocking, and Beatrice died holding Arthur in her arms, a song on her lips as the bullet came through the window.

Now, he was stuck with his father, having to put up with the man's bullying and brutality.

Until I arrived.

Fresh off a life of merit and war, having watched this county be founded and won over, I now found myself watching it about a hundred years later, but still earlier than many times I had visited it.

Rather than the cars and drugs I had seen in my time as Jack, Peter, or Nancy, I now found myself in a time of violence and simplicity.

The Wild West, as it was often called, the beginning of America's civility as the land was tamed.

Of course, history was mired in propaganda, and what really happened was likely falsified.

Speaking of falsities and lies, I should probably give a bit of content to who I am, and what I'm doing in the mind of an eleven year old boy.

A long time ago, I was an eleven year old boy myself, then a bunch of horrible things happened, and I found a set of trinkets. A wooden stick, a shiny cloak, and a rock set in a gaudy ring.

I thought nothing of the story linked with the items, fully focused on living my life and bringing a brighter world to fruition.

When my life eventually came to an end, and I laid old and heartbroken, I prayed for the next great adventure, to see once more those that I loved.

Instead, I woke up in Ancient Egypt with a dead son and an assassin for a wife, pledged to protect the land from it's tyrannical leader and his cult buddies.

You see, I can't pass on to the next realm.

Heaven, Hell, Purgatory, all out of my reach.

For you see, I'm the avatar of Death itself, and he keeps throwing me around to fulfill some grand purpose of his.

He's not really let me know the reasoning behind it, and it used to piss me off something fierce, but eventually I learned to see the good in it.

The opportunities for change, the chance to save lives and worlds from fates worse than you could imagine.

I got used to it, living as kings, murderers, and warriors to bring brighter days to all worlds that I saw, even if it led to me doing more than a few terrible things.

However, I persisted. Even death taking me to another life and set of problems, each life changing me more and more from the little bespeckled boy that had to tell a little girl that he didn't love her because she looked strangely a lot like his mother.

Now, I was a young boy, sitting at a table and staring at a golden revolver, the two bullets staring back at me with whispers of freedom.

This was hardly the first life I had lived with a terrible parent or two, and I wasn't going to spend much time with this horrific scarecrow that called himself Arthur's father.

So, I did what any semi-sane quasi-immortal trapped in a little boy's body would do.

I shot myself in the leg and limped to the sheriff's office, screaming bloody murder to anyone that would dare to listen.

I don't know who was more shocked, the sheriff at seeing a scrawny boy covered in his own blood, or the doctor next door for having to mend me up for the second time in that week.

I still didn't really know what year it was, as Lyle Morgan had been very against the idea of his son getting an education, instead throwing a sketch pad at him and telling him to go learn from nature.

And learn Arthur had, since I now had a sketch pad full of drawings of people, animals, and landscapes alike, and a head full of hunting memories.

Arthur had always been grateful for the hunting trips his father had forced on him, because while he would rather not kill defenseless animals to feed the animal that was his father, it gave him time to himself.

If I had anything to say about it, Arthur would get a lot of time to himself.

"Son, stick with me. Who shot you?" The sheriff, Glensdale, I think his name was, asked worryingly as I was tended to by the town doc, who was pretty apathetic for a doctor, but I guess healthcare was different when you weren't important or influential.

Throwing on the waterworks and choking a bit on my words, I laid the groundwork for my freedom.

"M-my pa did it. He said he didn't want me coming to town anymore, and said… he said he was gonna kill some man!" I wailed out as the sheriff tried to offer me comfort, holding my shoulder as the doctor pulled the bullet out of my leg, which even had me clenching my teeth in pain.

I had faced many discomforts, and been shot several times, this not even being the first time I had shot myself, but it never hurt any less.

"Your father, who is he? Did he say who he was going to see?" Sheriff Glensdale asked me softly as he tried to pester me with more jerky, having said I looked much too thin for my age, which I did. Lyle took most of what Arthur hunted, so the boy looked closer to six, than eleven.

"My pa said not to tell no one, but his name is Lyle, and he said he was gonna get some rum." I said with a quiver of my lip, and the man bought it up so swiftly you'd think he was under the Imperius.

I almost smiled when I saw his eyes flicker to the bounty board, Lyle Morgan's wanted poster staring back for all the world to see.

I swear I saw a smile come to the sheriff's lips, as he and I both noticed the bounty for over five thousand on my new father's head. A tempting price for any lawman or bounty hunter, and one Glensdale couldn't resist.

"You rest here son, I'll be back soon." The sheriff said in a rush, gathering his hat and gunbelt together as I nodded wearily at him in return.

Seeing me resting, he took off for the saloon, and I just smiled in return.

With the doc finished patching me up, and wrapping holding my leg together, I smiled to myself as I painfully pulled myself to my feet.

Left alone in the office to recover, I made my way over to the sheriff's desk, only to find it locked up tighter than the Vatican.

However, since I'd arrived in this world, I felt a small stirring from what I knew to be a magical core, and smiled to myself as I knelt down to the desk's lock.

"Alohomora." I whispered under my breath, and watching the drawer slide clean out, and a pile of bullets and a ring of keys met my gaze.

Pulling the empty revolver from my pants, I placed it on the desk as I looked over the key ring of the sheriff's.

They seemed to be to the cells and storage locker, but man… was I depressed that I wasn't strong enough to carry or use the shotgun I found in the locker, having to sadly leave it behind as I grabbed the cloth sack sitting there.

It appeared to be a set of personal effects of a criminal, one that likely died in capture, considering the blood layering the clothes.

However, there it was. A gun belt, a bit large for my frame, but I was able to loop it around my little waist and properly carry Lyle's revolver at my side.

It was still a bit unwieldy, but at least I could use it unlike that beautiful shotgun.

As well, the sack contained a dark and stained bandanna that I quickly tied around my neck, figuring I'd need some form of disguise or cover, since I wasn't going to get anywhere without some form of concealing my identity.

I did find the dead bandit's hat however, which while large and holding a bullet hole in it's brim, served well in covering most of my head and leaning over my eyes.

It was odd, that once again Death had sent me here with a keepsake, Arthur's hazel eyes replaced by my blazing emerald, the color oh so familiar, but welcome in an unfamiliar land.

With all the trapping of a young outlaw, and enough bullets to at least fend off a couple of men, I slipped out the back door of the sheriff's office, only to find myself locking eyes with a young mare, a few other horses hitched alongside it, but this one held eyes only for me.

Arthur hadn't really ridden a horse yet, having only ridden alongside, but I knew how to handle them well enough.

With a soft chattering sound, I slowly approached the mare with my hand outstretched, my soft smile on my face as she leaned her snout into my palm and froze in place.

"We need to go." I said softly to her, watching the horse almost nod at her at me as I struggled to pull my way onto the saddle, only after some time managing to get myself on her back.

However, these short legs couldn't reach the stirrups, so I had to hope that the reigns would be enough to control her.

"Hopefully you rot in hell Lyle." I said with a laugh as I pushed the mare to a slow pace, pushing our way out of the alley, and onto the open road.

And you know, the little county wasn't that bad, aside from the few criminals (Such as Lyle) that felt it served well enough to hide their presence from the law.

Despite how good the people had been, and the young girl Arthur had been interested in at the saloon, I knew I needed to get out there.

There was an entire world to see, and a hell of a lot I needed to know.

Such as what the year even was…

(On the road to Chicago…)

"Excuse me sir! A moment of your time!" A clean shaved man yelled aloud as the man before came to a halt, his regal steed coming to a slow trot as the man stopped in curiosity.

The man on the road, the older of the two men, smiled at him in gratitude.

"Hello there good sir, my name is Alfred Lafonde and I am on my way to the grand city, but my horse seemed to have wandered off on me when I was sitting a spell." The blonde said with a charming presence, one that would make many stop and lend a hand.

But not this traveler.

"I was hoping that you could give this poor soul a ride, I could pay you handsomely for your help my friend." He said as the stranger smiled in return, his body still astride his steed as the two looked to each other steadily.

"Well, I would usually help any poor soul that crossed my path, but I'm afraid that I'm a bit late for a train I'm meant to catch, but I'm sure if one were to pay little old me here and now, I would gladly give you a ride my friend." The man said in a sophisticated drawl, one not expected by the blonde man.

He had seen the nice vest and overcoat the stranger wore, and expected money, not class.

"I'm afraid that I could only pay you upon arrival, seeing as I don't tend to carry currency on my travels, I'd have to see the bank to pay you, mister…?" He asked, using the usual excuse of being a drifter, while digging for the name of the man that seemed much more than he had expected.

"Hoagy Macintosh, but I see the bandanna under your collar sir, so I don't believe either of us are speaking truthfully here." The stranger, Hoagy, said with a wolfish grin as he drew attention to his gun belt, one that held a bloodied knife that held previously laid hidden by his coat.

Two of a kind, it seemed.

"Suppose we are. I still need that ride, that wasn't part of the lie, I assure you." The blond said truthfully then, which the stranger nodded at in return, seeming to appreciate the clarity given.

"Well, is that bank still a friend of yours?"

"I'm afraid not, but banks can so often be convinced to give out loans I've learned." The older man said with a laugh, which his new found companion could only laugh at as the wind picked up around them, the sands blowing briskly.

"Oh, so you've learned. I'm afraid I can't exactly let you ride with me with such a pitiful alias my friend." The dark haired man said with a smirk, his hand resting over his waist, just close enough to quickly draw, but far enough away to remain civil and orderly.

In return, the two stood there in silence then, the wind kicking dust down the road as the two hustlers and the horse stood still together.

Time seemed to come to a close then, before finally they seemed to see something in each other, and the sun began to set behind them after a long day.

After some time, the man on the road smiled a roguish grin, and held out his hand to the man on the horse, a gesture that was returned as he had the strangest handshake he had ever had.

"Hosea. My name is Hosea."

"Well met my friend." The dark haired man said as he pulled Hosea up onto the stallion's back, the horse kicking up a canter as they started once again down the road to the city, the two riding together as they left the parting daylight behind them.

"You going to introduce yourself, my savior?" Hosea said jokingly as he still felt curiosity burn within him, considering he had given his actual name to this stranger in a show of faith, only for the man to smile ahead of him, his mustache prickling as he smiled back at him.

"I have a lotta names Hosea, and I use a different one each day, but you can call me Dutch."

"Blessed Are They Who Linger in The Dark"