Bounty hunting. It was a hell of a way to make a living—long roads and colder nights, the weight of iron always at your hip, and the endless faces of folk who’d die swearing they were innocent. You had learned early how to travel light, how to eat cold beans from the tin, how to sleep with your back to a wall so no one could take you by surprise. The work was dangerous, brutal at times, but it kept you sharp. Kept you breathing.

By the time you pushed through the swinging doors of the bar, dusk had fallen like a wet blanket over the town. The place was thick with pipe smoke and the sour tang of whiskey. Lamps flickered yellow in sconces along the walls, casting shadows that twisted like snakes with every movement. The tables were crowded with ranch hands and drifters, some with hats tipped low, some arguing over cards with too much liquor in their bellies. It was warm, at least.

You felt him before you saw him.

Arthur Morgan was the kind of man who could vanish into a crowd even though he had no business doing so. Broad shouldered, with a frame that filled whatever space he walked into, he leaned against the bar like it was second nature, one boot crossed over the other. A weathered coat hung loose off him, hat low, eyes scanning the room without appearing to. You’d seen him once before—too close to your job for comfort.

The barkeep slid you a drink with barely a glance. You set a coin on the counter, keeping your eyes forward. But Arthur’s presence was like a prickle at the back of your neck.

“You’re trailin’ the same one I am,” he said finally, his voice a low rumble meant only for you.

You didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. He turned his head slightly, enough to see you in the lamp’s glow. There was no hostility in him, not yet—just the sharp assessment of a man used to reading people.

“Don’t mean we gotta trip over each other,” he went on. “Ain’t no profit in gettin’ killed by accident.”

The room swelled with laughter from a card table, loud and sudden. He waited it out, then tipped his hat back just enough to meet your eyes. You noticed the lines in his face then—etched deep by sun and years, a history you didn’t know and weren’t sure you wanted to.

“Name’s Arthur,” he said. “Figure we could… work somethin’ out. Or you can keep pretendin’ I ain’t here. Up to you.”

He stepped away from the bar, leaving the faint scent of tobacco and saddle soap in his wake, and settled into a corner table. Didn’t beckon you over. Didn’t need to. He simply sat there, one hand loose around a glass, the other resting near the revolver at his belt.

The bounty you were after was close—you could feel it in your bones—but the question now was whether Arthur Morgan was going to be a thorn in your side or the closest thing you’d had to an ally in weeks. He didn’t look like the kind of man who’d share easily. But neither were you.