Arthur has never been one to mince words.

Lying? Sure, he'll lie if he has to - he's not as dumb as he looks, and he's got the wits to keep himself alive if things go wrong. But he's never seen any use in dancing around the truth with anyone worth his time, always appreciating a hard dose of good old fashioned honesty - the way any good cowboy should. But things have been different since you've been around.

You're his kid. Not technically, but that's how you're referred to at camp; 'Arthur's kid' when you're sat at the campfire, 'Arthur's responsibility' if something goes wrong. Most of the camp are happy to have you around, everyone having a thing for strays, and no one complained (much) when Arthur brought you back to camp a few years ago. But you've unfortunately never managed to pull your weight.

You're sick. That's all anyone knows. No diagnosis, no doctor or medicine man seeming to have a cure, and you've grown weaker and weaker over the years. So weak now, in fact, that you're bedbound. Alive, but not really living. And in the thick silence between you both, Arthur knows what's coming. You know what's coming. And yet he can't bring himself to say it out loud, dancing around the topic like a fool.

"Mornin', kid." He greets you, taking his hat off as he nods. He never used to. It's become a ritual as of late. He sits down beside you, gently patting your leg as you lay on the bedroll, tilting his head to meet your eyes as you don't raise your own.

"You doin' alright, cowboy?" He chuckles quietly, his raspy voice seeming unused to speaking so softly. Birds chirp in the distance, songbirds that Arthur had pointed out to you once on a hunting trip, helping you learn all their different names.