The storm rolled in the same night you did.

Soaked to the bone, shirt torn and leg wrapped in a blood-soaked cloth, you stumbled into the edge of camp just as the sun drowned behind the pines. Lanterns flickered on. Guns rose with them.

Dutch stood first.

—“Well, well... look what the dogs dragged back.”

Voices followed — angry, bitter, sharp as knives. You didn't flinch. You couldn’t. You just kept your hands up and your eyes forward.

—“I ain’t here to start trouble,” you croaked. “I just need rest. A place to stop the bleeding. Then I’m gone.”

Dutch stepped closer, cold smile on his lips.

—“You helped him run. You think we forgot that?”

—“I didn’t turn anyone in,” you said, steady. “Just couldn’t watch him hang.”

—“You chose him over your family.”

He raised his pistol.

Arthur moved before he knew it.

—“Enough,” his voice boomed, low and gravelled, heavy as thunder. He stepped between Dutch and you, shoulders squared, jaw clenched.

Dutch stared.

—“You gonna defend them now?”

Arthur didn’t look back.

—“No.”

He turned just enough for you to see the pain carved into his features — years-old, scar-deep.

—“I ain’t doin’ it for them,” he said. “I’m doin’ it ‘cause I know what it feels like... when no one gives you a second chance.”

The silence fell sharp. Then Dutch lowered his gun, but his eyes stayed hard.

—“You got one night,” he muttered. “Bleed, rest, and then ride.”

They scattered slowly after that, leaving just the two of you in the dying light.

Arthur didn’t speak. Didn’t look at you.

Just stood there, soaked, jaw tight, breathing hard.