Three figures clung to the corner of the imposing Saint Denis City Government building, stark against the bustling street. Two of them, their faces etched with the proud, weary lines of their heritage, stood slightly apart, radiating a profound sense of helplessness.
Their features were undeniably Indian, a stark contrast to the pale faces rushing past, their very presence a silent plea for recognition in a city that refused to see them. They were ghosts in their own land.
"Hey," Arthur called, reining in his horse and dismounting with a soft thud of his boots on the pavement. He approached the two men, their faces stirring a flicker of familiarity in his memory. He scratched his chin, a habitual gesture. "Are you… Indian?"
He mentally flipped through the previous night's chaotic banquet. Right. These three had been there, huddled in a forgotten corner, much like the Van der Linde gang themselves. Except Dutch's crew had been too contemptuous of the "upper-class scumbags" to bother mingling. These two, however, had simply been ignored, scorned, rendered invisible by the self-important throng.
"Oh, I think I saw you," Arthur continued, his gaze shifting to the third man, a wiry fellow who looked like he'd swallowed a dictionary. Arthur scratched his head, a hesitant chuckle escaping him.
"At that… dreadful banquet last night. Mr. Evartt Miller, wasn't it? Arthur Morgan, by the way. Or, you know, whatever name suits the current predicament."
"That's me, Mr. Morgan." Evartt Miller, his face a grim mask, extended a hand. His grip was surprisingly firm. "We have indeed met, at that utterly dreadful banquet last night."
This man, Arthur knew, was one of Dutch's strange fascinations, a writer whose "American Purgatory" Dutch practically worshipped. In Arthur's estimation, Miller was a bleeding-heart idealist, the kind of fellow who'd rather lecture a buzzard about its ecological impact than shoot it.
He'd seen him before, interfering with hunters, railing against environmental destruction, seemingly determined to die a martyr to his own moral compass. The man despised America's savage expansion, pouring his indignation into scathing satirical books. Dutch, of course, quoted him endlessly, lamenting the loss of "freedom and civilization" in this blighted land, a direct influence from Miller's grim prose.
It was funny, Arthur thought, how you could trace Dutch's grand pronouncements back to a book written by a man who looked perpetually constipated.
"Alright," Arthur said, shifting his weight. He gestured towards the two silent figures. "But I need to bother you for a moment. These two, uh, gentlemen. We need to talk." His gaze settled squarely on the two Indians, his purpose suddenly, undeniably clear.
Evartt Miller stiffened, his body instinctively moving to block Arthur's path, his eyes narrowing with immediate suspicion. "Oh, sir," he said, his voice taut, "this is Rains Fall, a great Chief. And this is his son, Flying Eagle. May I ask what business you have with them?"
This writer, Arthur mused, truly possessed a pure, unblemished heart. He seemed utterly devoid of fear, driven solely by his quixotic ideals. Normal folks might call him a fool, but you had to admire the sheer bloody-mindedness of it.
"Hello." Arthur nodded to Rains Fall and Flying Eagle. Despite their attempts at modern attire, a profound, almost ancient generational gap yawned between them and the city, a quiet despair radiating from their stoic forms.
Rains Fall regarded Arthur, his face serene, yet his eyes held an abyss of sorrow. "We have seen you. You were on the wagon, preparing to cross the river at Cumberland Falls, and also at the banquet last night."
Arthur nodded. "You're right. So it was you who saw us that time."
"Yes," Rains Fall replied, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. "If we were still treated as human beings… We fought hard, signed peace treaties. But now those treaties are broken. We are expelled. We are punished." His hand clenched, a flicker of pain crossing his face.
"I know." Arthur nodded, his own jaw tightening. He looked at Flying Eagle, whose young eyes were visibly reddening, brimming with unshed tears, as he nodded along with his father's mournful words.
"And now they want to expel us again…" Rains Fall's voice was barely a whisper, yet it carried the weight of generations of betrayal, enough to make Arthur's scalp tingle. He'd seen the scalped corpses, witnessed the tragic, brutal plight of these people.
"This is a clear violation of the peace treaty!" Evartt burst out, his voice sharp with indignant fury. He threw his hands up in despair.
Rains Fall and Flying Eagle had stood here, day after agonizing day, for weeks, reporting their plight, waiting for the Mayor to grant them an audience. They had never once been received. It was a grotesque farce that they finally saw the very Mayor they had been begging to meet, laughing and mingling at a lavish banquet just last night.
For two weeks, they had waited, ignored, except for this Mr. Evartt Miller, who, despite his good intentions, could only write their suffering into his books, a futile attempt to vent his righteous anger.
Compared to Evartt's impotent indignation, Flying Eagle's face was a mask of raw, seething hostility. "This will cause a war!" he hissed, his young frame trembling.
"No, child. There will be no war. We cannot afford another war." Rains Fall reached out, his gnarled hand settling heavily on Flying Eagle's shoulder, a silent, crushing weight that suppressed his son's rising anger and hostility. The chief's shoulders slumped, his spirit clearly worn thin by an endless tide of blood and sacrifice.
"A few months ago, an oil exploration team provided survey data to Leviticus Cornwall and the state government, claiming there was oil on their land, sir," Evartt explained, his voice desperate, clutching at straws. "Could you please…" He trailed off, hope and despair warring in his eyes. He didn't know why this strange gentleman had approached them, but they were at the absolute end of their rope. Desperate times, desperate measures.
But Arthur waved a hand, cutting him off. "Oh no, sir, I think you misunderstand me. The reason I came here is because my… a certain gentleman… wishes to meet you. And it might just be... helpful for your current problems."
Arthur offered a tight, almost apologetic smile. In the game, these people eventually got an audience with some ineffectual council members, but they hadn't reached that point yet. No grand, official audience. Only Arthur, a man of violence, offering a meeting with another.
Rains Fall and Flying Eagle's faces, weary and guarded, instantly lit up with a fragile, desperate hope. "Truly, sir?" Rains Fall asked, his voice barely a whisper, his eyes wide. "We are willing. We are willing to meet this gentleman. Please, take us to him!"
He was excited, yet a faint timidity, a raw fear of being mocked again, or of Arthur being yet another pawn of Cornwall's, held him captive. But there was no other path left to them. Even if this turned out to be a cruel joke, they had to try.
"Alright. Do you have horses?" Arthur asked, a nod of grim understanding.
"Yes, Mr. Morgan." Rains Fall's voice was strained, thick with gratitude, as he turned to Evartt Miller, offering a low, weary bow.
"And Mr. Evartt, we sincerely thank you for your help. If you ever have difficulties in the future, you can seek us out… if we still exist." The chief, who had fought his entire life, whose spirit had been honed in a crucible of battle, finally had nothing left to give. His voice, laden with that unbearable "if," was a testament to a spirit utterly broken by endless waves of betrayal and sacrifice.