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John sat and waited, his skinny body shivering in the cold, but he was stubborn and persistent. Arthur would have to come through this way to get back to camp. He’d been up in this tree, freezing his ass off for at least an hour now. It had snowed the past week, but today was mercifully clear. They might actually get to go into town soon, get some real food. The kid was always so hungry nowadays.
“He’d better come back with a big buck,” John grumbled to no one. “Should have taken me with.”
He waited another good twenty minutes, until finally, far in the distance, he saw a figure on the pristine white trail. Slowly ambling their way towards him, Arthur and his big Roadster mare kicked through the thick sheet of snow, back through the same tracks they’d made on their exit out. As they got closer, John realized Arthur wasn’t riding her, he was leading her. Artemisia’s back had two large carcasses, one taking up his saddle seat, no room for the man himself.
John stayed perfectly still as the young man walked beneath his tree, head ducked low and holding his hat, perhaps to prevent the glare from the snow getting in his eyes.
With them past him, John turned, trying to see what kind of game Arthur had brought them, his stomach complaining from days of nothing but canned beans. But the change in position caused John to lose his balance, falling backwards off the branch he’d been perched on for so long. The kid was unable to catch himself, his body stiff and slowed from the cold.
He couldn’t help but yowl as he plummeted, managing a flailing backflip, but landing on his ankle in a bad way, collapsing into the snow. The still fresh top layer of snow poofed up around him as he hit the ground. In shock from the fall, John simply laid there, groaning as tears began to well.
Up the trail, he heard Arthur swear, then the sound of crunching snow as the man rushed to his side. “Christ, Marston. What the hell are you doing?”
John looked up, his cheek even colder now from having been pressed into the snow. “I fell,” he whimpered.
Arthur scoffed. “That much is obvious, why were you in a tree? What are you doing out here? It’s freezing.”
John sniffed. “I was just waiting for you.”
The kid saw Arthur’s expression soften for but a moment. “Well get up then, we’re going back to camp.”
He shook his head. “I-I don’t think, it hurts, I don’t think I can stand.”
“Come on, you’re fine, you can walk it off.” Arthur grabbed him under the armpits and hefted him to his feet, as if he were made of paper.
But as soon as Arthur let him go and John put weight on his ankle, he cried out, collapsing back into the snow. Another puff of powdery snow erupting around him.
“Shit,” Arthur muttered. Crouching next to him again. “You really are hurt.”
The boy looked up again, now the worry on the young man’s face was obvious. “I wasn’t lying,” John said, tears welling up again.
“Shit . . . okay . . . this might hurt.” Arthur grabbed his ankle, surprisingly gentle, pulling off John’s boot. The kid couldn’t bring himself to look at the damage. “Doesn’t seem broken.” Arthur informed him after peeling back the sock a bit. “Maybe you sprained it.”
John finally peaked, seeing his ankle not snapped in half like it felt, looking fairly normal, but very red. “What are we going to do?”
Arthur looked around. “I don’t got anything with me, I don’t-” He paused and shook his head, staying silent for several moments. “Alright, hold this.” Arthur handed John the boot. Then, one arm under his back, and the other below his knees, Arthur scooped him up.
For a brief moment John wanted to squirm as he usually did when Arthur grabbed him, but then he was hit with how much warmth Arthur was putting off, and couldn’t help but curl in closer. The man always seemed to give off heat like a wood stove. But then that was immediately interrupted by how much his ankle hurt, and he was reminded that he needed the help.
Arthur started walking, calling Artemisia to follow him, and based on the rhythmic heavy crunching through the snow behind them, she was. “Hold on, Johnny. We’re close to camp,” Arthur said, picking up the pace, then breaking into a lumbering run.
It was jostling and a bit rough, but John figured he’d take the little bumps of pain if it meant getting back to the warmth of camp quicker. He was worried Arthur would slip, or fall himself, it was difficult to see the ground and avoid hazards. But the young man only stumbled a few times, always catching himself. And they were back in camp within a few minutes.
“Hosea! Bessie!” Arthur called out as he slowed down to a steady walk. “Susan! Dutch!”
Voices followed, and the first one to appear was Bessie, out from the tent she shared with Hosea. Rushing up to them, pulling a scarf over her face. “What happened?” She looked down at John. “Is he okay? Where did you find him?”
“Fool was up a tree,” Arthur replied, out of breath. His heavy exhales visible in the intense cold. “He fell, hurt his ankle.”
“I was just waiting for you,” John whimpered again.
“That aside,” Arthur said. “He can’t stand, what should we do?”
Bessie put a gloved hand on John’s forehead, brushing the dark strands from his face. Then she looked up at Arthur. “You ran all the way back here? Is Artemisia okay too?”
Arthur looked over his shoulder, then back. “She’s fine, over with the others. I just . . . I didn’t know if I should leave the deer and bring John instead, but we need the food, so I just-”
“It’s alright, Arthur. You did fine.” She pat his shoulder. “Go put him in your tent, I’ll grab Susan and some medical supplies.”
Arthur nodded, making his way past the roaring campfire and ducking into their tent. John was placed, gently again, down on his cot. Arthur sat opposite him on his own bed, catching his breath.
It wasn’t ten seconds later that Dutch peaked in. “Bessie told us, I’m sure he’ll be okay. We need you to get those deer you brought back dressed and ready to butcher.”
Arthur looked up. “But I -”
Dutch shook his head. “Food’s important too Arthur, he’ll be fine.”
“Alright, Dutch.” With a sigh and a nod, Arthur stood and left.
With the young man gone, Dutch moved in completely, crouching next to the cot and taking John’s hand. “You’ll be just fine, Bessie and Susan will make sure of it. You’ll be back on your feet in no time.”
John nodded.
With a squeeze, Dutch let go and left too.
The kid laid there for a few minutes, rubbing his ankle, trying to ignore the pain. He was still cold, but doing better than before. Soon enough, Susan and Bessie ducked into the tent. They’d brought in a few large, flat stones wrapped in fabric. Having been heated by the campfire, they were placed under the thin mattress, helping to warm John up.
The two of them looked his ankle over. Susan piped up, “Well, Arthur wasn’t wrong, it’s not broken.”
John let out a sigh of relief.
“We still need to set it though,” Bessie added.
The sigh turned to a groan.
Susan playfully smacked John on the arm. “Nothing to worry about, it’ll help you heal faster. Just won’t be climbing trees for a few weeks.”
Bessie laughed, “It’s going to keep him from doing chores too.”
“Ha. Not that Mr. Marston here does any to begin with,” Susan teased.
“Not that I ever can,” John grumbled. “Arthur does everything.”
“Not everything,” Susan replied. “We could use some help with sewing or cleaning.”
“There’s always things to do, John,” Bessie agreed. “But that’s besides the point, we’ll get you set.”
A few minutes later, and John’s sprained ankle was set in a splint. Then they buried him in many, many layers of blankets and furs. So many that it was almost difficult to move. But all of which he was thankful for. Finally beginning to feel warm for the first time the whole day. That feeling was soon overshadowed by how much his ankle still throbbed and pained him.
After Susan left, Bessie stayed behind, soon joined by Hosea who gave him a smile. “Had yourself a tumble, John?”
“Yeah . . .”
“You’re lucky Arthur was there to bring you back, be careful out there, alright? We didn’t even know you’d left.”
“Sorry,” John replied softly.
“I’m sure they told you, but you’re going to need to keep that splint on for a couple weeks to be safe. And stay off that ankle as much as you can.”
John felt a bit restless already. “I’m gonna be so bored.”
Hosea laughed, “I suppose this means you won’t be able to escape your reading lessons.”
The kid groaned again. “It’s too hard!”
“It would be less difficult if you’d stay put and pay attention. You’ll only get better at reading.”
John grumbled and didn’t reply for a few minutes. The pain in his ankle still driving him crazy. “ . . . How long is it going to hurt for?” he finally asked.
The man smiled again, looking over to Bessie. “Look at him trying to change the subject.”
“It’s a valid question, Hosea,” she replied, then turned to John. “It’s going to be sore awhile, but hopefully the worst of the pain will be gone in a couple days.”
“Okay.” John said, voice gone quiet. Then he spoke loudly, “I’m starving.”
“I think we all are,” Hosea laughed again. “Arthur got a couple scrawny deer for us, probably full of shotgun shells, but it’s food.”
Bessie snorted. “He’ll get better at it some day.”
After a few more minutes, the two of them headed out. “Get your rest now, John,” Bessie told him.
John tried, but felt restless. So he simply laid there and listened.
–»»»•«««–
He couldn’t help but worry about the kid. Always his shadow. Like some kind of lost puppy. It was annoying, especially at first, but Arthur knew what that was like deep down. He'd been in a similar place at that age.
Arthur had just finished with the first carcass when Hosea found him. The older man looked his work over. “Oh my, you’ve made a mess haven’t you.”
Offended, Arthur stood up straight, hands bloody and cold, looking back at Hosea. “I’m doing the best I can. Barely anything out there.”
“Yes, but a shotgun?”
“Didn’t want them running on me,” He grumbled. “Wanted to be sure we had something sooner than later.”
“Well, your heart was in the right place.” Hosea approached him. “Here, let me do the rest, I’ll get it done quicker anyway.”
“No, Hosea, I got it,” Arthur insisted. “Already got my hands dirty.”
“How about instead, you go get that sarsaparilla Susan’s been heating up, go give it to John.”
“Sarsaparilla?” Arthur exclaimed, brows scrunched in confusion. “Ain’t that for syphili-”
“Quiet now,” Hosea interrupted. “It’s the only thing we had left. Besides, it’s something of a cure-all, they say.”
Arthur scoffed, “You’re the one who tells me most them ‘cure-all home remedies’ are full of shit.”
“Yes, but there’s some good to sarsaparilla, helps with swelling. Which will be good for John’s sprain.” Hosea took the knife from Arthur’s hand. “So go wash your hands, and take it to John. Besides, I know you’re worried about him.”
“No I ain't,” Arthur shot back, too quickly.
Hosea smiled at him. “Sure, Arthur. Worried or not, go do it.”
“Fine,” Arthur huffed, turning to go find the wash barrel they’d kept near the fire. Cleaning his hands off as best he could and drying them before the cold air could bite too hard.
Susan was crouched nearby, using a stick to drag a bottle away from the edge of the fire.
“Why’re you doing that?” Arthur asked.
“It was frozen solid, Mr. Morgan,” she said simply. “And now it’s not.” Using a very thick glove, she picked the bottle up to keep from burning her hands. “Go grab a coffee cup, would you? Don’t want John to burn himself on this glass. Even letting it cool down, I know he’d find a way.”
Arthur nodded. “Of course.” He grabbed one from the clean pile at the chuck wagon, then gave it to Susan.
She popped the top from the glass bottle, pouring it into the cold metal cup, steam already rose into the air from the hot contents. She pushed the cup back into Arthur’s hands. “I was going to take it to him, but sounds like Hosea wants you to.” Then she smiled at him. “I know you’re concerned for him.”
Arthur furrowed his brow. “I am not.”
Susan only laughed, returning to her tent. Back to whatever she had been doing before the two young fools interrupted the afternoon camp life.
Left in the cold with a cup of hot sarsaparilla in his hands, Arthur sighed. He made his way over to his tent, ducking inside. He saw John, under an absurd pile of quilts and furs, staring blankly into space. “You still with us, little Johnny?” Arthur teased him.
“Yes!” John spat back. As if it was the most obvious thing in the world.
“Good, drink this.” Arthur held the cup out, watching with amusement as John struggled to get an arm out from the weight of the blankets.
The kid took the tin cup, looking wearily inside and giving it a sniff. “What the hell is this?”
“Sarsaparilla.”
“What’s it for?”
“Oh, well, it’s a cure-all,” Arthur replied. “Should help you with your leg.”
“Why is it hot?”
“Do you want it to be cold?”
John thought for a moment. “ . . . No . . .”
“Alright, then drink it.”
The kid looked between Arthur and the sarsaparilla a few times, then, after another brief pause, he drank it down in one go. “That didn’t taste great,” he said simply.
“Probably not. But it should help. We’ll have food soon.”
“Other than beans?”
“Yes, John. Hosea’s getting the deer ready.”
“I hope I don’t crack a tooth on a bullet,” John grumbled.
Arthur sighed again, plopping down onto his own cot. Then he smiled. “Well then I suppose you can just have the beans again.”
John’s head turned lightning fast. “No!”
Arthur laughed, pulling out his journal from the satchel he left on the small table. He did his best to draw the scene before him, little John buried under far too many blankets, trying his best to sleep. It didn’t turn out as good as he’d have wanted. But it was better than how he would have drawn it even a few months back. So in that, he could be satisfied.
He had started another drawing when John spoke up and broke the silence, “Arthur, what’s syphilis?”
The only response the young man had was a roar of laughter.