It truly was a big deal, the score Hosea came back with. On top of Sean and Mac with their sneaking around the smaller houses that night. Everyone made out like bandits. A celebration was called for! Bringing out the drinks and serving up a real meal for the first time all summer. A wave of relief washed over everyone who was there to participate. 

 

Dutch sat back in his tent, cigar in the corner of his mouth, blissfully watching his clan dance and sing. His eyes made count of everyone who was sitting around the fire, everyone accounted for except for Arthur. Even standing up and looking up beyond the camp, his horse had been gone even. 

 

“Hm, where is that boy gone of to now…” He pondered, sitting back down and taking a swig from his bottle. 

 

On the other side, in the valley of New Austin. Winds had blown sand like razor blade, the man who walked into the saloon was in no mood for wasting time. 

 

“A bath,” he slammed the coins tiredly on the counter. “Please..” His face was covered with dirt, there was no telling the color of this mans skin. His whole everything was mud and dirt patches. 

 

The nervous young lady took his coin and nodded at him. Pulling out the fresh towels and soap, she led him to the reserved room and started the bath for him. 

 

He tucked some coin into her apron and led her out. “Thank you kindly.” In all the dirt, he smiled and his teeth stood out. This poor man didn’t have much left in his wallet for both a drink and a meal. Course he didn’t worry about it too much, the hot water was all he could think about. All he could sink into as the dirt swam away from his body. Some scrubbing here and there for the chunks of mud stuck on his arms and his knees. 

 

Arthur covered his face with a damp towel and laid his head back. Sinking further into the water, nearly turning gray from the run off of his travels. His knees sticking above the water at odd angles of the tub. He’d finally stopped moving, now the ache started to settle into his thighs and his calves. After a long moment of stillness, he took the towel from his face. What was once whitish, maybe even a dull yellow cloth now had turned brown and dirty. He reached over the rim, feeling for his satchel on the floor, pulling out the worn journal. It felt almost damp, soggy, maybe from the ride, or the sweat of his horse. 

He didn’t exactly sit up. Just rested the open book on his chest and scribbled away at the pages. 

 

July18, 1898

 

I don’t reckon I will be taking anymore jobs from a man with soft hands and a hard mouth. 

Promised me fifty dollars and a clean escape for taking that damn letter across the ridge. Turns out he owed more than a few men on the other side.

Got myself caught in a shootout I didn’t even start. Horse grazed, jacket torn. Nothin really new, just tired of bleeding for things that ain’t mine. 

Didn’t even read the letter. I should’ve. Might have saved me from this mess. 

I don’t much care for being a courier of lies. 

Fifty dollars became twenty, I didn’t bother for the rest.

Too hot to fight. 

 

He stopped there, closing the cover and throwing it back on the floor. The water had turned lukewarm and his bones felt even heavier than before. 

 

Somewhere outside, there played a harmonica out of tune. Arthur exhaled through his nose and closed his eyes.

 

“I should head back tomorrow,” He muttered to himself, his voice hoarse and dry. “Maybe.”

 

But the thought didn’t sit right in his stomach.The gang was well and enough without him, probably even better. Dutch was still running on the high from the some what big score, barking on about destiny. 

 

Arthur turned his head away from the door, the glow of the firelight peaking from the back of his eyelids. He just put the towel over his face again. 

 

Tomorrow can wait. 

 

~~~~~~~~~

 

The rooster from outside was late to start the day. Arthur was already walking down stairs, adjusting his holster and rubbing his eyes. 

 

The saloon room was quiet on this day, only a few ranch hands playing cards, another man sleep at the bar. The stew was thin but hot, and Arthur scraped up every last piece with the heel of the bread they gave him. Arthur chewed slowly, his body still sore from the tussle of yesterday and the curling heat that hadn’t really left him. 

 

There was something about a full bowl after days of only jerky and cold canned beans, that made a man almost feel half way human again. He sat the spoon down gently, almost reverently. 

 

“Was is alright?”

 

The voice startled him only slightly. He hadn’t noticed her approach. 

 

Not a saloon girl. Her apron wrinkled and her hands seemed work worn, not all dolled up for tips and looks, just a young woman clearing plates just like any other Tuesday. Her dark blonde hair was tied behind her in a loose braid, some wisps of hair framed her sweaty face. Her eyes didn’t seem to dart, she held steady. Expectant. 

Arthur blinked. “Huh? Erm, yeah. Yeah it was good.”

 

She nodded once, her lips parting as if she had more to say. But she didn’t. Instead she reached for the empty bowl and plate. Their fingers brushed for a moment - barely. She stopped, glancing down at his hand, then up again. 

 

“Have you been traveling long?”

 

Arthur shifted in the chair. It was a polite question, nothing strange about it, only caught him off guard all the same. 

 

“Long enough,” He admitted “maybe too long.”

 

She gave him an earnest smile. Nothing flirtation, just- kind.

 

“Well,” She started, “I hope New Austin treats you better than where you’re from. If you’re here any longer.” 

 

“Doubt it,” Arthur blurted before thinking. But then added, in a gentler tone. “Appreciate the meal.” 

 

She gave a nod again and smiled before turning away, carrying the dishes back behind the bar.

 

He had watched her go, only for a moment. Then he rose, he dropped a little extra coins near his cup and pulled on his coat. His bones ached a little more than he expected upon standing. 

 

Outside the sun was glaring white on the dirt. It painted the road in almost a western heaven he was walking into. Arthur paused at the door, squinting to get his eyes acclimated. 

 

He didn’t ask for her name. But didn’t feel he had the right to. 

 

But there was something in the way she stood, calm, still, not trying to charm him or fear him. It just stuck with him longer than he wanted. Arthur saddled up and rode off. 

 

~~~~~~~~

 

At the camp, Dutch sat, like a father waiting for a child to return before curfew struck. There was bustle all around him, folk waking up, fires being stoked. Still no sign of Arthur. 

 

Hosea walked up to Dutch’s tent with two cups in his hand. Very keen on not spilling any. 

 

“I don’t understand him sometimes.” Dutch spoke, his voice low. His head naturally swiveled back and forth, disappointing. Always counting.

 

Hosea handed Dutch a cup before pulling a chair right up beside him. He sat slowly, his knees cracking, and exhaled like it was the first breath of the morning. “He’s just restless,” Hosea said simply, his eyes following the trail of smoke curling from Dutch’s cigar. “Always has been.”

 

Dutch scoffed, now shaking his head as he stared out into the camp. “Restless? No. Not like this. He used to talk to me. Hell, he even used to listen.

“You mean he used to agree with you,” Hosea replied, taking a careful sip. 

 

That earned him a sharp look from Dutch. 

 

But Hosea just sat back, stretching his legs with a a brief grunt. “He’ll come back,” he exhaled.“Arthur always comes back. But maybe not in the way you want him to.”

 

Dutch didn’t answer. He stared toward the tree line, his jaw clenched tight. A shadow passed his expression, just for a moment. 

 

“I know what’s out there,” he muttered. “There’s nothing but heat and emptiness. He’s just running-“

 

“We all run, Dutch.” Hosea didn’t disagree. But his voice was gentle, neutral even. “Just give him a chance to prove himself. He’ll rise to the occasion.”

 

The camp was really coming alive now, pots clanking, voices rising, somewhere someone already broke out into a little song. But Dutch’s gaze never led up off the horizon. 

 

“Send Charles.” Dutch said quietly. “Just to see. Don’t want to stir anything up. Tell him not to bother Arthur unless he has to.” 

 

Hosea nodded slowly, but didn’t hide his weariness in his sigh. “You sure this is wise?”

 

Dutch’s smile was thin, tired. “Wise or not, I do not like being left in the dark this long.” 

 

~~~~~~~~~

 

Arthur had made it halfway to the ridge before he spotted movement along the rise. The heat was glaring, a nuisance. Part of him wanted to go back for that thirty he was owed, now that his energy was more than yesterday. But still the heat kept on, there was no point. Arthur wanted to go back anyways. 

He slowed his horse, hand resting near his pistol, but didn’t draw. The silhouette approaching was too steady, too familiar.

“Charles?” he called, voice rough in the morning air.

The figure raised a hand in greeting and nudged his horse into a slower trot. As he got closer, Charles tilted his head, a faint smile playing at his mouth.

“Wasn’t sure I’d find you this far out,” he said. “Dutch sent me to check you hadn’t fallen off a cliff.”

Arthur huffed through his nose. “Tell him I’m workin’ on it.”

Charles slid down from his horse and walked the rest of the way. They stood in the dust and silence for a few moments, both watching the sun push higher above the canyons before moving underneath a tree. 

“You okay?” Charles asked.

Arthur nodded slowly, then shook his head. “I don’t know.”

He reached into his coat and pulled out his journal, not to write—just to hold it. A habit.

“I was gonna head back today,” he said finally. “Camp’s probably loud as hell.”

“It is,” Charles said. “They’re still relieved after what Sean and the boys brought back. But Dutch is wound up tight.”

Arthur nodded again, chewing the inside of his cheek. “Yeah. I figured.”

A quiet beat passed.

“I met someone,” Arthur said, almost like he was saying it to himself.

Charles glanced at him, patient but curious. “Here?”

“Yeah. In town.” He ran a hand down his face. “Nothin’ happened. I just… had a hot meal, and she cleared my plate. Asked if I’d been traveling long. That was it.” He waved his hand.

“But you’re still thinkin’ about her,” Charles said.

Arthur let out a short laugh. “Ain’t that stupid?”

“No,” Charles said. “It’s human.”

Arthur looked out over the ridge. “There was somethin’ about her. She wasn’t trying to get anything outta me. Didn’t even look twice. But… I want to. I don’t know. Talk to her. Know her some more.”

Charles stayed quiet, letting the words hang in the air.

Finally, he said, “Dutch ain’t gonna like it if you stay out here longer. He said he needs you alongside him for.. uh.. I don’t remember now.” Charles took his handkerchief and wiped his brow. “This heat is cooking my brain.”

Arthur nodded. “I know.”

“But if you don’t see what it is,” Charles said, “you’ll regret it. I can tell.”

Arthur looked at him. Grateful, even if he didn’t say it.

“You gonna tell him I said all that?” Charles asked, half-smirking.

Arthur chuckled. “Hell no. I’ll tell him you tried to drag me back by the reins.”

“Good,” Charles said, already turning to mount up. “I’ll give it a day before I lie again.”

Arthur watched him ride off, dust kicking up behind. When the sound of hooves faded, he turned his horse toward town, heart thudding a little harder in his chest.

He didn’t even know her name. But he wanted to know. 

 

The streets of Armadillo were restless as the sun dipped westward, dragging long shadows across the storefronts and the dust-choked road. Arthur rode in slow, hat low, eyes scanning every familiar corner of the town he'd passed through just days before.

He wasn’t sure what he was looking for exactly. He couldn’t care to admit it. Only that he’d know it when he saw it.

His horse clopped down the lane, passing the general store, the blacksmith’s, the post. Then he heard it—muffled voices behind the saloon. One of them too loud, too smug. The other one… female.

He dismounted without thinking, boots hitting the ground soft. Just rounded the corner behind the saloon in time to see it: some broad-shouldered drunk, swaying on his feet, leaning far too close to the girl he remembered.

She stood with her arms crossed, back stiff, a crate of bottles resting beside her. Her mouth was tight, but her voice was steady.

“I said no, thank you.”

“C’mon, now,” the man slurred, grinning through yellow teeth. “You’re prettier than a summer sky, and I’m tryin’ to pay you a compliment.”

Arthur’s jaw flexed. He stepped forward, quiet but deliberate.

“You alright, ma’am?”

Eliza glanced over her shoulder. When she saw him, something shifted in her eyes—recognition, maybe. Or relief she didn’t want to admit.

“I got it,” she said, firm. “Thank you.”

The drunk turned, unsteady, sizing up Arthur with a bleary squint.

“What’s it to you, stranger?”

Arthur didn’t answer. Just held his gaze, calm and unreadable, hand hovering a little too close to the revolver at his hip.

The man hesitated. Wobbled. Thought better of it.

“Hell with the both of ya,” he muttered, stumbling off toward the back door of the saloon.

Eliza blew out a breath. Bent to pick up the crate again.

Arthur watched her for a second before speaking. “Didn’t mean to step on your toes.”

She paused, straightened. “Didn’t say you did.”

Their eyes met—really met—for the first time. Her face was still half in shadow, but her gaze was sharp and clear.

“I remember you now,” she said.

Arthur gave a slight nod. “That right?”

“Bath, stew, dirt in your eyebrows.” She smirked. “You looked like you lost a fight with the desert.”

He chuckled. “Feels about right.”

She shifted the crate to her hip. “You always pass through twice?”

Arthur looked down, scuffed his boot in the dirt. Then back up at her. “Just didn’t like the way I left things.”

Something flickered in her eyes—soft, but quick. Like a shutter opened and closed.

“Well,” she said, “I’ve got work. But I take my supper out front just before sunset. You’re welcome to pass through a third time.”

Arthur nodded, tipping his hat low. “Might do just that.”

And as she walked back inside, he stood there for a long moment, hands in his pockets, feeling something strange settle in his chest. It wasn’t quite hope.

But it was close.

He waited for her out front just as he said he would. The breeze felt nice as the sun sank into the horizon. A little dirt here and there, not as bad as it could be. The kind of evening that made everything feel slower, or was it the anxiety in his chest?

Arthur sat on the edge of the saloon porch. His elbows on his knees with his hat tipped back just enough to see the warm gold colors of the sunset. He wasn’t used to waiting on people, not like this anyways. But he didn’t feel foolish or silly. Just quiet. For the first time it almost felt like peace. 

“I was wondering if you meant it,” she said. Elizabeth stepped out with her plate balanced in cloth, in her hand. Her hair was down, curls tucked behind one ear while it flowed naturally everywhere else. She sat beside him without being asked, close enough he could smell the soap on her and the smell of wood smoke on her. She smelled like honey and fire, tantalizing. 

“I try not to say things I don’t mean.” He admitted, his voice low and gentle. 

She offered some of her meal to him with an extra spoon. “I saved you some stew, I hope you like potatoes.”

He took it gently, not because he wanted to but because it would seem rude not to. 

“Thanks,” he murmured. “Do you just feed every stray that wanders through here?”

She smirked, taking a bite with eyes forward on the street. “Only ones who wait.” Spoked carefully as not to spit food out. 

A moment of silence fell between them, not awkwardly but comfortable. The two of them watched the sun disappear while Arthur dug into the bowl some more, careful not to spill any. 

“Aren’t you going to introduce yourself to me?” She cocked an eyebrow with a smirk pulling at the corner of her mouth.

Arthur almost choked before forcing himself to swallow and cough a little. “Well, erm.. uh.. yes. Yes of course I was.” He calmed himself down. “My name is Arthur, Arthur Morgan.” His hand hung in the air, waiting for her to take it.

She shook it gently and smiled. “Eliza, well.. Elizabeth. Elizabeth Mayburn.”

The two of them smiled at each other before breaking back down to the stew. It was so unbelievably different for Arthur. He wasn’t interrogating her for money or locations to money. This was probably the most human he felt in a long time. 

“Are you gonna be here long?” She asked him. 

“Mm, long enough.” He replied. 

And for now that was all the either of them needed to hear. 

2, A Scar You Can See

The sun had gone down easy, as if it too was ready to sleep for a while. The two strangers strolled together back to Eliza’s little cabin. Wind moved gently through the dry grass and bushes, a world standing still, if only for a moment. Eliza didn’t ask him to walk her home—Arthur just fell into step alongside her. After the encounter with the drunk, he didn’t feel right letting her go home on her own.

Didn’t feel right letting her go—alone, out here in the badlands of Armadillo.

Didn’t feel right letting her go, period.

They reached her little cabin just as the last bit of light slipped behind the ridge, the moon peeking over in its bright glory. Eliza walked up to her door and turned back with a soft smile.

“Would you like some water, you know, before you head back?”

Arthur nodded, stepping closer. The air smelled faintly of smoke—more of something earthy. Like home.

She led him inside through the rough wooden walls. It all seemed like one room, but it was cozy. Eliza came back to him with a glass of water in her hand. Arthur drank it slowly, then asked, “Um... do you have anything stronger?”

Eliza met his gaze, smiling. “Maybe,” she said. And just like that, the night wasn’t so quiet anymore.

Her home was quaint, worn-in but clean. Lived-in by someone who didn’t seem to mind the quiet. Arthur couldn’t help but let his eyes wander while she looked for her whiskey. Rough furniture with scuff marks near the feet, dishes stacked neatly in the cabinet. Even her fireplace was tidy. It all looked well-kept—enough for one person.

There wasn’t much of a man’s touch, far as Arthur could tell.

In the corner of the room, furthest from the door, was her little cot. Dressed lovely with a quilt and knitted blankets. Beside it, a rifle leaned between the bed and the nightstand.

Arthur took a sip of the whiskey and nodded to the gun. “You always sleep with that beside you?”

Eliza didn’t seem too embarrassed, but she didn’t look at it either. “Most nights.”

“You got folks out here, or…?” For the first time, Arthur felt timid asking. Didn’t want to scare her off—or come off like he was pryin’.

Eliza didn’t mind. She was used to strangers asking questions. It was part of the job. But most men only ever talked about themselves, or tried too hard to get her up to the rooms. This was different—a man not asking to get something out of her, just asking about her.

“No. Not anymore.”

Arthur didn’t respond right away. Just gave a slight nod—respectful. Could’ve been the end of it, but she spoke again, her voice a little lower now, like she was just thinking out loud.

“I did have folks once, but they’re gone now. It was just me and my brother after that, and… I don’t know where he is now.” She wasn’t bitter or broken about it. Just honest. Raw. “After a while, I got used to it just bein’ me. The work. The gun by the bed.”

Their eyes met—some quiet understanding between them. Arthur knew what she meant. It wasn’t sad, not really. It was just the way it is. Eliza gave him a soft smile.

“I reckon it’s easier not expectin’ anybody,” Arthur said, taking another sip of the whiskey.

Eliza smiled softly, the corner of her mouth turning up like she knew that truth all too well. “Until someone shows up anyway,” she said, motioning to him and the bottle between them.

She glanced at Arthur’s jaw, seeing a deep white scar running along his jawline. “What happened there?” she asked, pointing gently.

Arthur touched his jaw. “What, this ol’ thing?” He smirked slightly. Truth be told, it was the first time he’d really thought about it in a long while. “Mm…” He gave it a moment. “Hell, might’ve been from a bar stool. Or a knife, maybe. I honestly don’t know.” He didn’t say much more. Didn’t have to.

Eliza studied him, looking at the way he looked at himself. Her gaze steady. Gentle. Without asking, she reached out—fingers brushing just under his cheek, where the stubble ran rugged.

He stiffened for half a breath. Not because he was scared of her, just… not used to being touched like that. Not in a way that wasn’t asking for something more.

Her hand was warm. Careful. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t press him. Only looked at him like the scar didn’t say anything more than: I survived.

“Does it hurt at all?” she asked.

“Not lately.” He kept his eyes on her.

Her hand lingered a moment longer, then drifted back to her glass. She hesitated, then asked, almost quietly, “Do you have more like that?”

Arthur looked away, took a moment to count—all the ones he did know about. “Yeah... plenty.” He looked back at her.

She saw something in him—tired, but soft behind the eyes.

“Some you see,” he added, “and some you can’t.”

She nodded. Didn’t speak. But she understood. Then she poured him another drink with steady hands and no judgment.

“So... what is it that you do exactly?” she asked.

Arthur gave a breath of a laugh. Not mocking, just tired. “That’s a hell of a question.” He leaned back in his chair, eyes drifting to the ceiling. “I do what needs doin’... I guess.”

She arched a brow but didn’t press him. Her expression said she wasn’t buying all of it.

Arthur looked back at her, more serious now. “Ride with a gang. We move around. Take jobs. Sometimes that means robbin’ folks. Sometimes it means helpin’ ‘em.” He took a sip. “Depends on the day.”

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t lean away either. Just stayed there with him. Quietly thinking.

“And today?” she asked.

Arthur gave a small shrug. “Today... Today I walked you home.”

Eliza smiled again, softening. “Well,” she said, tilting her glass toward him, “I suppose I oughta be grateful I wasn’t the robbin’ kind today.”

“Could still be,” he said, voice warm with mischief. “Ain’t too late.” Arthur’s cool smirk turned into something more honest.

“You don’t strike me as the type who’d steal from a woman with a rifle by her bed.”

Arthur leaned in, putting his glass down in front of him. “Tell you what,” he said with a tired sigh. “The only thing I’ll be takin’ is another drink.”

She poured without hesitation.

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. It was full. As if the air between them had thickened with something unnamed. The fire crackled. Wind brushed against the walls. Outside, coyotes passed through. The two of them went back and forth easily as they shared a drink. It wasn’t an interrogation with motives. Just two people finding their match.

The more she looked at him, the more she saw there was more than just worn leather and worn-down eyes. A loyal dog, sure—but there was something else under all that grit and muscle. Something quiet. Maybe kind.

“Is this the same gang you’ve always rode with?” Eliza asked curiously.

Arthur took a moment to answer, finishing his sip. Thought for a moment if this was the road he wanted to go down. “My whole life, really. I only really remember my pa... he died right in front of me. Wasn’t much of a father. Or a man, for that matter.”

Eliza looked down at her glass, swirling the amber inside. “I’m sorry you had to see that. I don’t think any child should.” Her hand tightened around the glass before she drank. “But we carry it with us, don’t we?”

It rang in Arthur’s ear, because he did carry it. He paused, letting the silence settle.

“I reckon most of what I saw as a child... I shouldn’t’ve,” he said. The fire popped behind them, casting glowing light on the walls. “My old man… he wasn’t much of anything. Drunk more than he stood. A criminal, like me.” He took another sip, eyes locked on the flames.

Eliza didn’t interrupt.

“I don’t—or didn’t—mourn him,” Arthur said plainly. “Not the man he was. But I carry him with me, in a way.” He nudged to his hat. “Not ‘cause I miss him. So I don’t turn out like him.” His jaw tightened.

“I don’t mean to be rude,” Eliza said, cautious, “but if you’re not trying to be like your father… aren’t you an outlaw too?”

Arthur chuckled. Not defensive, just real. “Look, Eliza. I ain’t nothin’ like my father, alright?” He kept chuckling, shaking his head. “Outlaw too,” he muttered, more to himself, taking a sip. “Say, where’d you get this stuff anyway?” He nodded to the bottle.

Eliza smiled, topping off both glasses and finishing it. “Well, I do work at a saloon, you recall. Sometimes men buy whole bottles and leave ‘em behind. Someone’s gotta take ‘em.”

“I really like this,” he said, almost in relief.

“Oh yeah?” Eliza examined the bottle for the label. “I think it was made in Lemoyne—”

“No, I mean—erm.” He cut her off, motioning to the two of them. “I like this. I ain’t ever taken to anyone like this. Maybe it’s how you talk, carry a conversation. But I like it.”

She tried not to smile, blushing faintly. “I like this too. I feel... comfortable.”

“Yes! That’s the word.” Arthur smiled wide.

The two carried on well into the night, trading stories from yesterday, memories, scars. Where they came from. How they got there.

Eventually, Arthur rose from his seat—if a little unsteady. “I think it’s time I said goodnight,” he murmured, making his way to the door.

Eliza followed behind him, one hand on the frame. She touched his shoulder gently, turning him around. Then, rising on her toes, she laid a soft kiss on his lips. Her fingers brushed the scar along his jaw. Her kiss was warm. Certain.

Arthur didn’t flinch. When he did move, he went with it. One hand to her waist. No pull, just resting there.

Her mouth parted. He felt her tongue press into his. He welcomed it. His eyes closed. Heart slow and loud in his chest. Her kiss was a relief—like her lips let him breathe for the first time in weeks.

When he pulled away, their eyes met in the hush of firelight.

Eliza exhaled through a soft breath, more laugh than laugh.

“You always this open with strangers?” Arthur asked with a quiet chuckle.

Eliza just smiled, small and sure. “Only when they stop feelin’ like strangers.”

Arthur stood a beat longer, still looking at her. Then reached for his hat. “I better let you sleep,” he said gently. “Long ride back.”

She didn’t argue.

He made it to the door, paused, then glanced back at her over his shoulder—chuckling softly. “Thanks for the drink.”

“Anytime,” she said, biting her lip.

When he stepped out into the cool night air, it felt heavier than it had on the way in. Not in a bad way. Arthur’s heart felt like it was in his stomach, and his stomach felt somewhere near his boots. He walked back into Armadillo, saddled up, and headed for camp.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Camp was quiet by the time Arthur rode in. Lanterns burned low. The fire was just a bed of coals. Most folks were asleep, save for the crickets and the low groan of the wind in the trees.

Arthur swung down from his horse, gave it a pat, and started toward his tent.

He wasn’t alone.

From the shadow of the wagon, Dutch stepped out—his cigar the only burning glow in the dark.

“Burnin’ the midnight oil, son?” he said.

Arthur didn’t flinch. Just kept walking. Slow and steady. “Just ran a little long, is all.”

Dutch took a drag, then smiled around the smoke. No accusation, but no warmth either. “You tryin’ to rustle up some work, or just enjoyin’ the moonlight?”

Arthur stopped near his cot, unlacing his satchel. Didn’t look up. “Both, I guess. Picked up some talk. Nothin’ worth jumpin’ on tonight.”

Dutch nodded, seeming to believe him. “Well,” he said, stepping closer, “you let me know if any of that talk turns into somethin’ real. We’ve got word on a train. Could use your eyes on it tomorrow.”

Arthur finally looked up. Tired, but calm. “’Course. I’m here.”

Dutch watched him a moment longer. His smile held, but his eyes narrowed slightly. “I know you are, son.” He flicked the cigar to the dirt, stepped it out, and turned. “Get some sleep, Arthur.”

Arthur watched him disappear into the dark, then sat down on his cot. The fire’s heat barely reached him, but something warmer still lingered.

Something from earlier.

Arthur could still feel her lips on his, the press of her tongue against his.

And for the first time in a long time, Dutch’s voice wasn’t the loudest one in his head.

It was Eliza.

3. Hands That Hurt, Hands That Hold

The cold came early that morning, it was faint but not avoidable. Arthur pulled his coat tighter. The gang gathered in the blue hour just before dawn, scattered like preying animals among the rocks and brush. There were tracks that cut straight through the valley in a perfect line, stretching quiet and endless under the pale sky. Horses pawed at the dirt, everyone’s breath clouding in the air. 

 

Dutch stood a little taller than the rest of them, his coat open, a silhouette standing against the first blush of the morning. “Alright now,” he started, low and steady. “This one’s clean, in and out. Javier’s got the timing right, it’s a private express. Lightly guarded, carrying payroll and a few rich cowards heading west.” He paused, examining the men before him before giving a big exhale. “Let me be clear. We ain’t here to make a mess. We are here to make a living.” 

 

No one spoke. Just the creak of leather, click of a rifle bolt, Micah muttering under his breath that Bill ignored. 

 

Dutch continued, “I do not want a bloodbath. We scare’ em, we take what we need, and we disappear. Simple.” His eyes continued to pander along his men. Seeing Lenny so young and sharp eyed. Charles, with his sense of calm and readiness. Bill, itching for noise and action. Micah grinning, like he knew more than he let on. 

His eyes finally landed on Arthur. “And when it’s done, we will ride easy for a while. Get camp something good. Keep those fires burning. 

 

Arthur gave a subtle nod, it was a good speech. No theatrics, just a man motivating and leading his men. Arthur respected him for it. Still, he wasn’t completely sure of it all. He wasn’t even sure why. Maybe it was because the cold bit a little harder this morning. Maybe it was how Dutch said ‘we ride easy’ like it was a promise, and not a hope. 

 

Or maybe it was her, Eliza, flickering through his thoughts. The remnants of last night spilling into today. Her touch still on his skin, the way the world felt sitting in that cabin of hers. He wasn’t supposed to be thinking of her now, but he couldn’t help but picture how the way she kept tucking those little wisps of hair behind her ear as her eyes caught up in the lamplight just perfectly-

 

“Arthur?” Dutch called out. 

 

Arthur straightened in his saddle. “Uh yeah, yeah.”

 

“You’ll go with Charles and Lenny. You boys hit the front of the train. Get the payroll. Bill, Micah, cover the rear. Javier and I will keep the passengers in line, on the train.”

 

Micah spat, grinning still. “Bout time.”

 

Dutch raised his finger. “No heroics. No fire unless it’s called for.”

 

The rail begun to hum underneath them, vibrating the dirt around it. 

 

Arthur clicked his tongue, nudging his horse to forward position with Charles and Lenny. The weight of the rifle on his back, his pistol at his hip, was all too familiar. Reassuring even. It felt like a sense of normality, even still he couldn’t keep her off his mind. 

 

The train’s light cut around behind the boulders. Huffing and roaring with the breath of it’s steam. Wind was pulling at Arthur as it rolled on by, his horse taking a moment to catch up to speed. He rode steady along side the train. A golden light was beginning to peak through the pines to shine on the train.

 

“Go!” Lenny called out. 

 

Charles jumping from his horse and leaping onto the side ladder and climbing to the top. Arthur left right behind, his boots slamming into the metal, fingers gripping the cold steel. Lenny was last. The men climbed fast onto the roof, the train thundering beneath them. The whole world had now been reduced to noise and motion. They moved like shadows, boots careful and weapons drawn. 

 

They dropped individually between cars, climbing to the next. Charles pointed up ahead. “Engines up there, you take it.” He told Arthur. 

 

Arthur nodded and slipped down the front car’s coupling. Inside the engineer shouted, scrambling. Arthur pushed him against the control panel and raised his gun. “Stop the train, now!” He shouted.

 

The engineer obeyed without hesitation as he pulled on the brake lever. Sparks shrieked from below, the cars screamed against the rails. Arthur held on as he was pushed forward from the immediate stop.

 

Someone else had emerged. An older man, a guard or maybe the captain. Someone with too much pride. He charged into Arthur, knocking the both of them into the boiler wall. His gun clatter against the floor. 

 

“You think you can just rob us like cowards!” The man growled, his heavy fist coming in a swing. 

 

Arthur blocked it with his fore arm, then block the other swing, but the third hit him square in the gut. He pulled the man down by his collar, driving his own fist into his jaw. Again, then another, then a third, until the man had become knocked unconscious and fell to the floor of the car. 

 

Arthur continued to react without much thought. His hand still wrapped tight in the collar, the other still delivering punches in the ribs and then his face. The man had crumbled with a groan and slumped into his body. 

 

Blood smeared on Arthur’s knuckles, whether it was his or the mans was undecided. He stood over the body, his chest heaving, while his ears were pulsing with blood. 

 

What would I do if she saw me like this?

 

The thought was a punch of it’s own. Not because he was worried of doing this to her, but what it would make her think of him. And he wouldn’t know what to say. 

 

Then-

 

Crack

 

Something slammed into the back of his head. He went down, hard, his vision fading fast. Just before the dark swallowed him. He saw Charles, shouting and taking the wrench from the engineer, tossing him out of the car.

 

“Arthur!” Charles shouted, coming down to the floor to look at him. “Arthur!”

 

Everything went black. 

 

~~~~~~~~

 

The first thing he woke up to, was pain. A dull and throbbing pain that came from the back of his head. Then came the crackle of fire, the smell of coffee next to his bed side. Was it morning? Or the next morning? 

 

Arthur blinked against whatever light of day it was through his canopy. The air was warm, the cold from the morning long gone. He was laying in his cot, his coat still on, but his boots seemed half way pulled off. 

 

“What…?” His voice was rough, dry. 

 

“You’re back at camp, it’s okay. You got hit in the head, hard. But you’re fine.”

 

Arthur pushed himself up, slowly, his head still spinning as he tried to make sense of it all. “The job…?” He asked 

 

Charles gave him a look, patient but almost amused. “It went fine. We got the money, Bill and Micah handled the passengers. No shots fired. Dutch said it was clean work.”

 

Arthur nodded slowly, letting out a tired sigh. “Ain’t one for being dead weight.”

 

“You weren’t. You got us to the engine car, stopped the train. That old guard just got lucky with the timing.” 

 

Arthur winced, feeling the bruising set in. His knuckles were swollen and covered in blood, he was certain it was the other guys blood. 

 

Charles handed him a tin cup. “Here, Hosea thought you’d want coffee when you came back around.”

 

He took it with a quiet thanks. The heat of it was grounding in a way. 

 

The camp moved slow, the kind of morning after a big job where people can finally breathe. Dutch was somewhere, probably, talking about how this score would buy them time. Lenny laughed cross the way. Micah was nowhere to be seen. Which suited Arthur just fine. 

 

He stared into the coffee, the swirls of steam rising in soft curls. 

 

That man’s face flashed again, the rage, the fear, the crunch of bones under knuckles. And then: her. Eliza. The way he knew she’d look at him if she found out. 

 

Arthur shifted uncomfortably. Like the memory of it was watching him closely. Judging. 

 

Charles sat close by, he didn’t say anything. Just let him be. 

 

After a moment Arthur sat the tin down and stood, shaky but upright. Charles had his arms at the ready to steady him. Arthur looked across camp, sunlight caught on the laundry lines, the wash basin, Ms. Grimshaw ladled up stew for whoever asked. It was normal, this was everyday. It was peaceful and what Arthur almost looked forward to after a day like this.

 

But something didn’t sit quite right, still. He wasn’t sure if it ever would again. 

 

 

 

~~~~~~~

 

 

Arthur shouldn’t have been riding out there. Every hoof beat felt like a betrayal, of himself, of the gang he was loyal to, of the guilt still fresh on his knuckles. But Eliza had been the first kind of quiet he had grown to know in weeks. And now, his head was filled of older guilts and his body aching. Even if he wouldn’t out right admit it, he wanted a sliver of that peace. 

 

It felt wrong to want peace and joy, in the same breath of punishment. Knowing that the people back at camp were struggling. But the need was louder than shame. 

 

The ride out to her cabin felt longer than it should’ve. As if his horse knew, and maybe it did, where he was going and wasn’t sure if he should. All he needed was a moment, a small moment to gather his thoughts. 

 

Wind had picked up the scent of dust and old sagebrush. But it couldn’t clear the ache in his chest or the tightness in his jaw. His knuckles throbbed, raw and swollen. Every gallop his horse made sounded a lot like ‘You shouldn’t be here. She doesn’t need this. Turn back. She don’t need you.’

 

But Arthur went anyway. 

 

When her cabin finally came into view, he had that feeling again. His heart was beating so loud it echoed into his stomach, and his stomach was somewhere near his feet. He dismounted, slow, his boot crunching the dirt beneath him. He reached the porch and stood still, unsure if he should even knock. 

 

The door swung open instead of giving him the chance to knock. “Arthur,” she gleamed happily, like she knew he was coming this whole time. Or definitely waited for him to. 

 

He didn’t smile back, couldn’t. His throat had gone dry. 

 

She opened the door a little wider, stepping to the side. “Please, come in.” 

 

He walked past her. The room was warm and familiar in the way he had no right to feel. 

 

Eliza closed the door behind him, her hands clasped together not sure what to make of the mood. She already saw it, how worn down he had become. How his shoulders turned slumped at their meeting. This wasn't the same man she was sharing drinks with, and she knew it. 

 

Arthur stayed standing in the middle of the room, holding his hat. It was abundantly clear the bright red and pink knuckles he had. “I should’t have come here.” His eyes couldn’t meet hers. 

 

“But you did.” She said simply, slowly walking towards him with open arms. Now it was her turn not to scare him off. 

 

He shook his head, “I just… I just ain’t good company right now.” his emotions mixed with regret yet a longing for comfort. 

 

“Then don’t talk.” 

 

He looked up at her then. Her expression was gentle, not naive, and not condoning. 

 

“Sit down, Arthur…” She pulled a chair out from the table. 

 

He didn’t want to sit, he didn’t want to stay. Yet, his legs felt heavy and he sank down like a man who had no where else to go. A small silence fell between them. 

 

Eliza walked to the kitchen, unsure of what she should do herself. Yet she did what she was always doing. She looked for a cup, and then the bottle. And sat it down in front of him, pouring him a portion in the chipped cup. 

 

Finally, his voice came in low and dry. “You think I’m some good man… because I scared that man off… I can see it in your eyes. But I ain’t.”

 

Eliza didn’t flinch as she poured the drink. “I don’t think you’re anything right now. But I can see you’re tryin.”

 

“You’d stop lookin’ at me if you’d knew what I’d done.”

 

Her gaze lingered on him. “Then tell me.”

 

Arthur looked down, his knuckles bruised and dry with blood. The blood had dried underneath his finger nails. “I killed a man yesterday. He didn’t even have a weapon. Just the wrong guy to mouth off. I didn’t think- I… didn’t hesitate. I just hit him. Over and over.” He paused, looking up at her. 

 

Eliza stopped in motion, listening to him. 

 

“My hands hurt, Eliza. I don’t even feel bad enough. What kind of man does that?”

 

Her voice was quiet. “ The one whose been hurt too long to know the difference.” She turned around to grab a towel, dunking it back and forth in the sink. She came gently to him, slowly dabbing the wet towel on his knuckles to wipe the blood away. 

 

He looked at her, broken open and hating it. “Maybe I came here hopin’ you’d see something I forgot was there. But… I don’t think there’s anything left.” 

 

“You want me to agree with you? Hm?” She looked up at him, pressing hard into his knuckles. “That you’re too far gone? You want me to believe you’re a monster Arthur, because then you don’t have to try?”

 

“You think it’s easy bein’ this way?” That made him stand, looking down at Eliza. 

 

“No,” She stood too, “I think it’s killin’ you.” Her tone became defensive, the two of them like a stand off. Eliza didn't know the man completely but she wasn't stupid. Plenty of men came around talking that way, she never understood it. 

 

That silenced him. Something flickered behind his eyes, fear maybe. Recognition. 

 

She stepped closer, her hands carefully resting on his chest. “I can’t save you. I’m not gonna try. But if you want to sleep in a bed- a proper bed, instead of inside of your own damn head. You can. If you want to come to a place where I don't judge you, because I know I ain't got the right, you come here.” 

 

He stared at her, hollowed out. Nodding shortly after. 

 

The sun had gone, the bedroom was dark. She didn’t ask him to undress, didn’t ask questions. She just laid down and opened her arms like it was the most natural thing in the world.

 

Arthur hesitated in the door way, like a man on the edge of something sharp. Then he crossed the room, boots thudding against the wooden floor before he took them off, sitting down on the edge of the bed. He laid down, turning to face her. 

 

She wrapped an arm around him, steady. Quiet. Nothing said, just breath between them. 

 

Arthur didn’t know how to cry anymore, but if he did, he would’ve right there and then. 

 

Her arm caressed him gently. “You can sleep here tonight, Arthur.” She looked at his big buff arms before continuing. “You can sleep here, not say a word or explain. Just sleep in a real bed for once.”

 

“Why are doin’ this?” He asked 

 

“Because I can tell you haven’t had a decent good night's rest in a long time. And I think, it's time you did…” She looked deep in his eyes. He let out a shakey breath, like something gave him away. He scooted closer, his shoulders sagged under the weight of everything he just said. 

 

She climbed beside him and pulled the quilt over them. The silence stretched. 

 

Then as if it was nothing at all, Eliza leaned in and kissed him, just once. It was soft and certain on the side of his mouth. "Good night, Arthur.” She left the lantern burning next to them, should he wake and need of water, he'd have light. Eliza was willing to give him not just the light to see but the light in his sea of darkness. 

 

His body didn't know how to soften, not completely, not yet. As the two of them laid there, in what was a big difference from the cot he was used to, Arthur's mind began to wander. His hands still ached- not entirely from the fight, but what it meant. Closing his eyes, the man from the train still haunted the darkness behind his eyelids. 

 

' You think you can rob us like cowards?!' 

 

That word, coward. It sunken in harder than any fight he'd been in. He'd spat the word before. Called men in silky ties and suits, cowards for hiding behind the wall of money. Calling them out for bleeding the world dry without ever having to get their hands dirty. But now... he was starting to see it all from the outside. He didn't enjoy the man he was looking at. 

 

It became clear, Arthur was the threat. 

 

He was the one who brought the fear into lives.

 

Not the hero, not the protector. Just another man in the mask with a gun, taking. 

 

The thought followed him like a shadow and he brought it into Eliza's cabin.

 

She shifted a little in her sleep, her arm rest on him like it belonged there. Like he belonged there. 

 

But the truth gnawed at him. How many people had seen him this way? How long would it take Eliza to see him this way. To see him as the coward and force of violence he brought with him. Maybe this is what drove him here, to her. She didn't look at him that way. With her he could remember a man he was before this. Before all of Dutch's promises and the gun in his holster became the only truth he lived by.

 

Arthur turned on his side, watching the rise and fall of Eliza's breath.

 

"You think I'm a good man... because I scared that fell off" he'd said. But maybe it was the opposite, maybe that one act of decency- protecting her in the alley like that- was just a flicker. A protest. One small fight in a war he was already losing. And yet he was here, still.

 

Maybe it was too late to be good, but it wasn't too late to try.  

 

Arthur's muscles let go, he sunk into the bed and finally closed his eyes. Falling to sleep.