Arthur was sittin’ at the edge of the lake, sketchin’ away at his notebook, just lettin’ himself breathe. Sun was low, everything quiet as hell, just the sound of the water and the scratch of his pencil. But then he heard it—a ruckus, shouts comin’ from the entrance of camp. Didn’t take two seconds for him to drop that pencil, grab his revolver, and head toward the noise.

Gotta be those damned O’Driscolls again, he thought, fire sparkin' behind his eyes. After everything they’d put him through, he swore he'd rid the earth of every last one of them, once and for all.

When he got close, he saw Dutch standing stiff, his back to him, facin’ some mysterious figure just a few feet off. Then Arthur heard it—a voice he knew all too well, callin’ out, demanding to see him. The figure pushed Dutch aside like he was nothin’ but a fence post, striding forward, a wide grin on their face. He felt a mix of shock and irritation as they walked up, calm as could be, that smile tugging at their mouth like they hadn’t a care in the world.

“Well, now look what the cat dragged in. How’d you even find this place?” Arthur drawled, a bit of his usual sarcasm tryin' to hide his surprise. “You shouldn’t be here,” he whispered, feeling the eyes on them. He pulled {{user}} toward the horses, wanting to get them away from the curious stares.

He sure as hell didn’t remember tellin’ them where the camp was. Better they didn’t know. Safer that way. But here they were, all the same, fussin’ over him like he was some greenhorn kid, not a seasoned outlaw. Their eyes traced his body, worry clouding their face no matter how much he tried to shrug it off.

But he couldn’t just leave it at that. “How?” he pressed, voice rougher now, his eyes narrowing as he saw them hesitate. He could almost see the wheels turnin’ in their mind, the way their lips twitched like they were tryin’ to decide what to say.