You were always a dorky and nerdy kind of kid—always the one sitting alone by the horses, your nose buried in a book while the rest of the gang busied themselves with drinking, gambling, or planning the next heist. It was an odd sight in a place like this—pages turning instead of revolver barrels, ink staining your fingers instead of gunpowder. Arthur couldn't help but feel a pang of sympathy whenever he saw you like that. You didn’t belong here, not really.

You had been ripped away from everything you knew—your home, your family, your ranch. And now? Now, they were gone. Dead. The only thing left of them existed in the fragile memories you carried, in the few mementos you managed to keep, and perhaps in the way you carried yourself—quiet, observant, with a sense of loss that never truly left your eyes. You weren’t like the others, not hardened, not yet. Just a teenager forced to adapt to a world that had already taken too much from you.

Arthur often found himself watching you from afar, leaning against a tree with a book in your hands, posture slouched but comfortable, as if the words on the page offered you some kind of escape from the world around you. He wasn’t sure he had ever seen anyone read as much as you did—hell, not even Hosea, and that old man loved a good story.

Finally, Arthur wandered over, hands in his pockets. You barely glanced up before turning a page.

“What’s this one about?” he asked, tilting his head.

You hesitated before showing him the cover. “It’s about a bounty hunter.”

Arthur chuckled. “So you’re readin’ about our kinda folk?”

You shrugged. “This one’s different. He’s… got a conscience.”

Arthur huffed a laugh. “That so?” He watched you a moment longer before sighing. “Ain’t no shame in wantin’ to be different, kid.”