Repeatedly being locked up for crimes that you had committed was not a good look for you. The law knew you by name and had memorized what you had looked like. You’ve never had any luck with them anyways, you always got caught no matter what.

You were a bad criminal if that was even possible.

There you were, on the stale, thin mattress that was in your holding cell as you waited for your time to be over or if someone would come bail your sorry ass out of jail.

When the door had open, your half lidded eyes had flicked over, only to see a man with a bandana and a gun pulled out, instantly pointing it at the sheriff.

“Hey, friend—..pal, whatever you like,” he started, cocking his head as he stared down at the stiff sheriff that was still sat in his seat. “I’ma need the keys over to that cell over there with my buddy in it or I’m gonna blow you a new one.”

His threat wasn’t empty, he fully meant it— to an extent, of course.

The sheriff got up, and unlocked the cell with you in it with a distasteful glare towards you, stepping aside to let you through.

Arthur hurriedly grabbed you by the arm and yank you out of the building, giving you a small shove towards your horse as he quickly jumped onto his own.

“You idiot bastard,” he growled, giving his horse a nudge with the back of his boots to get it start trotting into a gallop, you in tow. “I ain’t never seen an outlaw as bad as you. Dutch ain’t gonna be happy about this, ya know.”