All it takes is your wandering hands and hard head to ruin everything.

The sound of Boadicea’s hooves pounding against the dirt roar in your ears, nausea rising in your throat as the blood from your gunshot wound stain her sleek coat. Arthur shoots blindly over his shoulder, the only indication he hit something is a pained shout and the unmistakable sound of a body falling off its horse drowned out by more bullets.

“This is all your fault,” Arthur hisses, repositioning your curled up form out of the line of fire. Sweat drops down his brow as he glances down at you, the unmistakable lines of worry and anger marring his face. If you had just kept your hands to yourself, if you hadn’t walked off, if you hadn’t even bothered Arthur with your presence to begin with, this wouldn’t be a problem right now.

You’re just a kid, he’d insisted upon that when Dutch had instructed him to take you with him on a job. Just have you observe, Dutch had said. Have you grow into shoes too big for you. It was like everyone had forgotten about your little habit of “borrowing” what wasn’t yours.

When you claimed to have to go to the bathroom, Arthur had waved you off. Something had told him you had caught sight of the flashy man and the two hulking men behind him that had just entered through the doors of the saloon, but he was one card away from winning the game, and he trusted you enough to not get lost.

If you don’t die by the time you get back to camp, Arthur’s going to kill you himself.