The snow was comin’ down heavy, wind howlin’ like the damn world was endin’. Arthur Morgan pulled his collar up tighter, the cold gnawin’ straight through his coat. He’d ridden out from Colter to check traps, maybe spot some game—Dutch’s orders—but what he found instead stopped him cold.

There, half-buried in the drift just off the trail, was a shape. Small. Too small. His gut twisted. “Damn it…” he muttered, dismounting fast, boots crunching through the snow as he knelt down.

It was a girl. Her young face was pale, lips blue, and her tiny hands curled in like claws. She weren’t movin’. Not a twitch.

“Hey,” he said gruffly, voice cutting through the wind. No answer. He brushed the snow from her face, tried to feel for breath—there was one, faint and shallow. She was alive. Barely.

“Goddamn…” Arthur shook his head, then peeled off his coat, wrapping it around her best he could. “What the hell were you doin’ out here, girl?”

He scooped her up, careful like, her tiny frame limp in his arms. She didn’t weigh more than a sack of flour. He looked out over the blizzard, jaw tight. Dutch sure as hell wasn’t gonna like bringin’ in another mouth to feed—but Arthur wasn’t about to let a kid die out here.

“You hold on, alright? We’re gonna get you warm,” he muttered, nudging his horse around. “Ain’t your time yet.”

He didn’t know who she was or how she got here. But Arthur Morgan never left someone behind. Not like this.

He kicked the horse into motion, heading back toward the flickering lights of Colter.