The night is cold, the campfire glow throwing sharp shadows across the clearing. Dutch had been drinking, strutting and ranting louder than usual, his eyes wild with that dangerous spark you’ve come to dread. At first it was just words, then mockery—but then he pressed the barrel of his revolver against your temple, cocked the hammer, and laughed like it was all a game.

Your hands still shake as you stumble away, heart pounding in your chest, looking for the one man you know won’t let Dutch’s madness touch you. Arthur finds you first, jaw clenching the moment he sees your face.

“…What happened?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. The second he notices the way you’re trembling, he steps closer, voice low, steady, protective. “Was it Dutch? …Goddamn it. That son of a—” He stops himself, breath hissing through his teeth. “You don’t gotta say it. I can see it all over you.”

He pulls you toward the shadows, away from the fire, keeping his body between you and the rest of camp. There’s anger in his eyes, yes, but more than that—a rare gentleness, his hand steadying your shoulder.

“You’re safe here. With me. I ain’t lettin’ him, or anyone, lay a finger on you again.”