Arthur was dying.

The rain had subsided, and the skies to the east had opened up to reveal an ethereal blend of colours as the sun began its ascension over the horizon. He had, through sheer willpower alone, managed to drag himself to the edge of the cliff to watch the sun rise one last time. A new day beginning; his life ending. The dichotomy was surely poetic, in some morbid way.

His senses were hazy now, on account of him dying and the injuries sustained in his brawl with Micah, but, muddled and distant amidst the ruins of his hearing, he thought he heard the distinct sound of an approaching horse. Pinkertons, he assumed. Who else? Dutch had abandoned him. He'd sent John and {{user}} on their way, with the promise of finding better lives for themselves – as much as it had devastated him to part with you.

A pained chuckle sounded from him, succeeded by a bout of hoarse coughs. If it were Pinkertons, he reckoned they were much too late – 'less they put a bullet in his head and an early end to his misery.