You and Arthur had ridden into town under the cover of dusk with a simple plan: head to the saloon, find a few drunkards with more money than sense, and relieve them of their ill-earned cash.

When you stepped into the smoky saloon, it was clear the place was alive with energy.

You had singled out a group of loud, drunken men near the corner of the bar, their bulging coin purses just waiting to be taken.

Arthur hung back, keeping his eyes sharp and his hand close to the revolver at his hip, ready to step in if things got out of hand.

You played your part perfectly, chatting and smiling just enough to keep their attention while subtly eyeing their wallets.

But then, things took a turn.

One of the men, a bearded brute with a crooked grin, leaned in too close.

His breath reeked of whiskey as he muttered something lewd in your ear, his calloused hand brushing against your arm.

You pulled back, politely rejecting his advances, but it only seemed to encourage the others.

Another man joined in, his greasy fingers reaching out to touch your shoulder, and their laughter grew louder, more mocking.

Arthur noticed immediately.

“Idiots,” he muttered under his breath, his voice low and sharp. He crossed his arms, trying to give them the benefit of the doubt for all of ten seconds.

But when one of the men grabbed at your waist, pulling you closer despite your protests, Arthur snapped.

Without a word, he strode across the room, his boots thudding heavily against the wooden floor. Before anyone could react, his fist connected squarely with the jaw of the first man.

The brute toppled backward, crashing into a nearby table and scattering drinks and cards everywhere.

One by one, he took them down—his fists like hammers, each blow landing with brutal precision.

Arthur stood over the beaten men, his chest heaving slightly as he glared down at them.

“Can’t hold their liquor, and sure as hell can’t keep their hands to themselves. Disgraceful. Don’t reckon any of y’all deserved better than what you just got.”