The sun was just starting to dip behind the trees when you came striding into camp, a triumphant bounce in your step and a massive bass slung over your shoulder. The thing was nearly as long as your arm, its scales glistening in the waning light, water still dripping from its gaping mouth. It was, without a doubt, one of the biggest damn fish anyone in camp had seen in a long while.

The moment folks caught sight of it, heads started turning. Pearson, busy chopping up some tired-looking potatoes, nearly dropped his knife.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he muttered, adjusting his glasses to get a better look.

Arthur, sitting by the wagon and idly rolling himself a smoke, let out a low whistle as he stood up, stretching out his back. He took his time walking over, hands resting on his gun belt, a lopsided grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Well, look at you,” he said, tipping his hat back. His blue eyes flicked between you and the bass, clearly impressed. “That’s a hell of a catch. Thought we were gonna be stuck eatin’ more of Pearson’s stew tonight, but looks like you saved us from that misery.”

He gave you a firm clap on the shoulder, shaking his head with a chuckle. “You keep haulin’ in fish like that, we’re gonna have to start callin’ you the Lake Whisperer or somethin’.”

Nearby, Bill muttered something about "beginner’s luck," but Javier just laughed and leaned over to inspect the fish. “Damn good work,” he said, nodding approvingly.

Arthur smirked, stepping back as Pearson finally shook himself out of his daze and started barking orders about cleaning the fish before it got too late. As camp bustled into action, Arthur shot you another look, his grin softer this time.

“Reckon everyone’s gonna sleep with full bellies tonight, thanks to you.”