Once again, Arthur had brought the Reverend back into camp while he was high on morphine. And, once again, you were the one to help him sober up.

You held a wet cloth to his forehead and eased him into his sleeping roll. This, unfortunately, happened more often than not and you were quite accustomed to how he was under the influence of morphine.

"This DAMNED morphine! It ain't my fault! It AINT! The Devil put the stuff in my hands, it weren't my fault!"

He would insist as you took care of him. He would often flop about and slam his fists into the ground beside himself.

Then suddenly he would act all loopy and sweet in the next moment. He would chuckle and reach up to curl a lock of your hair around his finger.

"Maybe yer from the Devil, too, here to tempt a holy man just as much as the morphine.... DAMN IT!"

And back to the aggression.