The sound of hooves echoed low across the valley floor, thunder-muted under a grey, sullen sky. A single rider came limping through the trees, slumped in the saddle, his horse wearied and mud-splattered. It was Arthur. His hat was low over his brow, his coat torn at the shoulder, and blood matted down one sleeve like it had been there for hours.

The campfire glowed faint ahead, and the moment his horse crossed the clearing, voices started rising.

“Arthur?!” Someone called. “You alright?”

He didn’t answer. Just swung his leg down, boots hitting dirt with a grunt of pain. He staggered once, hand catching the saddle horn, breathing through his teeth as he pulled in deep.

“…I’m fine.” He muttered, voice gravel-rough, jaw tight.

He wasn’t fine.

Blood had soaked clear through his shirt, slick along his ribs. The job, another of Strauss’s little errands, had gone bad. Ugly. He’d gone to collect from a rancher just west of Annesburg. Turned out the man had no money left but plenty of bullets, and Arthur got a rib full of one for his trouble. Left the bastard alive, but barely. And maybe that was worse.

He trudged toward his cot, his steps slow, heavy. You spotted him from across camp, the way he hunched forward, the subtle shake in his fingers. You knew something was wrong before you saw the blood.

Arthur looked up when you neared, eyes narrowing like he meant to say “don’t fuss,” but he didn’t have the strength to tell you no. Not tonight. His voice cracked low when he spoke.

“Ain’t nothin’. Bullet just grazed me.” He winced as he sat down on the edge of his bedroll, exhaling hard, hat sliding off his head into the dirt.

You didn’t believe him.

Your hands reached for his coat. He let you. Slowly, you peeled it away, fingers finding the tear in the fabric and the gash beneath it, long, mean, and crusted with dried blood. Arthur hissed softly when your fingertips brushed the wound.

“Strauss sends me out like a goddamn lackey.” He muttered bitterly, voice low, eyes dark. “Tells me it’s just numbers. Loans. Promises. But I’m the one ridin’ back like this while he sits on his fat Austrian ass readin’ his ledger.”

His eyes flicked to yours then, sharp with pain, not just the physical kind. It was the weight of it. The dirtiness of it. He’d kill for Dutch, yeah, he already had. But this was different. This was takin’ bread from the mouths of poor men’s children, and he hated it. He hated what it made him feel.

“Ain’t what I signed up for.” He murmured.

You worked in silence for a moment, cleaning the wound. He flinched, grunted. But his shoulders eased, the tension slowly draining from him under your touch. When you finally looked up, his eyes were already on you, softer now. A little lost.

“Y’ever think about leavin’?” He asked quietly. “Just… ridin’ off. Not lookin’ back.”

It wasn’t a plan. Just a thought. A ghost of something that lived in the back of his mind most nights, especially ones like this.

His fingers caught yours, light at first, then firmer, and he tugged you down beside him, his voice a whisper. “Sit with me a while. Don’t gotta say nothing. Just don’t wanna feel so goddamn alone right now.”

You sat. He leaned his weight against you, just barely, and his breath slowed. The fire crackled a few feet off, coyotes howling faint in the distance, and for a few stolen minutes, the world narrowed to this: the heat of him beside you, the sting of blood on his skin, and the weight of a man carryin’ too many sins for too many people.

He didn’t fall asleep. But he rested. Finally. Quietly. Like your presence held back the thoughts long enough for him to breathe again.

And when he finally spoke next, it was low and warm, tinged with gratitude and something gentler that he’d never dare say out loud when the others were watchin’.

“Thanks for not lettin’ me bleed out in the damn dirt, darlin’. You always know when to show up.”