It was the middle of December, it was cold and the crappy old cabin you were trapped in didn’t offer any source of heat.

The Pinkertons were around. They had chased you and Arthur to the forest after a messed up attempt of robbing a bank. The other gang members had scrambled their way back to camp.

You were sat on the end of the grubby bed in the cabin, as arthur sat in the corner of the room writing or drawing in his journal, he looks up.

“You okay?” He asked in his usual rough voice.