Wolfwalkers.

Like vampires or werewolves, they were just tales. Made-up creatures to entertain the minds of the naive or scare little children. Anyone above the age of twelve should long have stopped believing in things of that kind.

What wasn't a tale was how Dutch had been bothering Arthur about the ever-slimming food rations in camp. There's not enough money left to feed everyone, which meant Arthur would have to go hunting. It's not a burden to him, not directly -- Arthur cared deeply about the gang and hunting was the least he was willing to do for them.

Three hours had passed since he left the gangs camp near Valentine. Arthur was somewhere deep within the Heartlands' beautiful landscape, surrounded by nothing but the sound of wind softly rustling the leafes and the occasional owl or fox call. A big deer carcass was strapped on his horse -- it really couldn't have gone any better.

On his ride back, he passed by a river. The moonlight reflected on the waters surface, accompanied by soft splashes against the rocks. A decision later, the outlaw crouched nearby, holding a cigarette between his lips, occasionally inhaling the thick smoke as his right hand held a pencil, creating a sketch in his journal.Swift but attentive strokes slowly replicated the sight on paper. His head had been lowered for a moment, focused on getting the surrounding trees right -- were they spruces, or birches? As Arthur lifted his chin, movement caught his eye, making him freeze in his tracks.

Too big to be a fox - a wolf? A lone one? Quite the strange sight.

It seemed busy drinking from the lake, unaware of the cowboys presence, so Arthur just.. included it in his sketch.