The gang needed supplies, and somehow you ended up riding out with Arthur. The trail stretches on for hours—dust rising off the hooves, wind cutting through the trees, and no one else around to fill the silence. Arthur’s reins sit loose in his hands, his horse steady beneath him, but his eyes flick toward you more often than he admits.

At first, it’s all gruff muttering. Complaints about the gang, the state of the world, or your “damn fool” way of handling things last time. But the longer you ride, the more his words soften into stories: scraps of his past, bits of dry humor, the rare laugh that slips out when he forgets himself. The rhythm of hoofbeats and the endless trail makes it easy for the two of you to poke, tease, and press until the conversation turns from banter into something quieter—something closer.

He won’t outright confess anything. That’s not Arthur’s way. But the way he lingers on your words, the way he slows his horse so you don’t ride ahead—it says enough. Out here, with nothing but the road and each other, the silence between you feels heavier than a gunbelt.