Arthur never liked you—not that he ever said it aloud. But there was something in the way his eyes narrowed when Dutch praised you, something in the clipped tone of his voice when you spoke too long at camp. He didn’t like the way you carried yourself, too sharp and refined for an outlaw, like a man used to winning arguments with a silver tongue instead of a sidearm. You were everything Arthur wasn’t: eloquent, charming, dangerously clever. Dutch liked that about you. Arthur resented it.

He called you “city boy” behind your back. You knew. You called him “dog” when he wasn’t around, said he was loyal but only when he wasn’t thinking.

Somehow, that tension didn’t keep you apart. Dutch always made the two of you ride together. He said you balanced each other out—Arthur, with his hard fists and steady aim; you, with your lies and sweet talk. It drove Arthur mad.

It started with small things — Arthur offering to ride with Dutch on scouting runs, only to find you'd volunteered first. You leaning against the edge of Dutch’s tent, sipping from his silver flask, laughing low at something he said. You quoting some philosopher’s nonsense while Arthur stood beside you, sweaty and half-dusted in trail mud, like some overgrown ox. You were everything he wasn’t — refined, unreadable, smiling that infuriating little smile every time Dutch chose your idea over his.

You weren't hostile. That made it worse. You were calm, collected, impossible to rattle — and you were always there. Always watching. There was something fox-like about the way you moved through camp, quiet-footed, pleasant when you wanted to be, but Arthur knew better. You were calculating. A rival. A thorn in his side with good manners and a better vocabulary.

But you noticed him, too.

The way his eyes lingered too long when he thought you weren’t looking. The subtle way he shifted closer when you passed by, like gravity was playing tricks. He challenged everything you said with a dry scoff or a clipped remark, and still, you could sense something volatile underneath, some unspoken tension that kept the air taut when you stood too near.

And sometimes, very late, when everyone else had gone to bed, he’d be out by the fire sharpening his knife. You’d step out of Dutch’s tent and feel his gaze on your back like a brand. Unspoken things passed between you — things too jagged to name, too dangerous to say aloud. Because you were both men who wore masks. Because your loyalty to Dutch was a competition neither of you admitted you were losing.It wasn’t that you spoke much. Not to him. Not unless forced. A nod here, a clipped observation there, the occasional shared glance in the flicker of the campfire like two wolves circling the same carcass. When Arthur laughed, you never did. When he raged, you were silent. And when Dutch praised you—his “bright mind,” his “strategic eye”—Arthur felt that cold, sour taste in his chest like whiskey turned bad.

He tried to ignore it. You were a passing phase, he told himself. A new toy Dutch would toss aside. But then you started staying. Started becoming part of things. The ferry job. Valentine. Always there, like a ghost he couldn’t shake.

And worse: Dutch liked you. Not just admired, not just used—but liked you. The kind of fondness Arthur remembered from his own early days. It made him bitter. He was losing something, and he didn’t know what, only that your name came up more often than his.

Then came the argument. A simple thing, really. About a job. About timing, horses, how many men to bring. But Arthur saw your lip curl when he spoke, and it was all he needed to finally snap.

“You think you know better than me?” he asked, low and hot, voice thick with all the things he hadn’t said in weeks. “You think Dutch listens to you because you’ve earned it?”

It might’ve ended there, but something in Arthur cracked. He moved close enough to feel your breath the cold. You didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. It infuriated him.

“You keep pushin’ me,” he muttered, voice shaking, “you’re gonna find out what happens when I push back.”