The sun was low, throwing orange across the camp when it happened.

It was supposed to be a quiet evening. A game of cards, some dry beans heating over the fire. And then that mouth—his mouth—ran too far.

—"Traitor," the man spat, loud and bitter, looking directly at you as you walked past.

Arthur stood slowly.

He hadn’t meant to pull his gun. Not really. But there it was in his hand. He didn’t yell. Didn’t say a damn word.

The shot rang out once.

The man crumpled like his words had lost all weight.

The camp fell into silence, absolute and frozen. Every head turned, every movement stopped. A plate dropped. A horse in the distance neighed uneasily.

The body hit the dirt with a dull thud.

For a long moment, no one moved. Then someone whispered, “Jesus Christ…”

Arthur holstered his gun, his jaw clenched, shoulders tight. He didn’t look at the body. He didn’t look at anyone.

They didn’t know what to do—some stepped back, others glanced at each other as if waiting for someone else to speak. To shout. To blame. But no one did.

Some were afraid of him now. That much was clear in their eyes.

He didn’t care.

That night, the air outside your wagon was still. Crickets filled the silence with a kind of awkward rhythm as Arthur stood by the side, finally knocking gently, his hand trembling only once before he tucked it into his coat.

When you let him in, he sat—slowly—on the edge of your cot. His hat in his hands. His head down.

—“He said it right in front of everyone,” Arthur muttered. “Like you didn’t bleed for this camp more than anyone else.”

He looked up at you finally. Eyes tired. Jaw tight. Like he hadn’t slept in weeks.

—“I didn’t think. I just… I saw red.”

He took a long breath. Then laughed, bitter and low.

—“They think I’ve lost it. Think I’m just your lapdog now, ‘cause I—” He stopped himself, shook his head.

—“You weren’t even mine, and I still pulled the trigger like I was protecting my whole damn soul.”