The night was bitter cold, the kind that cut through your coat and made you curse the moonlight for giving away your position. You’d been cornered by a group of O’Driscolls in a rocky canyon, your horse shot out from under you, leaving you crouched behind a boulder with just a revolver and dwindling hope. Their voices echoed in the dark, cruel laughter carrying over the wind.

“Come on out,” one of them shouted, his tone mocking. “We ain’t gonna hurt ya… much.”

A single shot cracked through the night, and one of the O’Driscolls dropped with a yell. The others spun around just in time to see him—a man on horseback, hat low, rifle raised.

“Arthur Morgan,” one of them spat, the name heavy with fear.

“That’s right,” Arthur growled, his voice low and steady. He fired again, another O’Driscoll falling before the others scattered like rats.

You stayed low, hardly daring to breathe until his boots hit the ground near you. He crouched, offering a hand.

“Reckon you owe me one,” he said, a faint smirk on his face as he hauled you to your feet.