Forcing John to run to his family without looking back by insisting that he'd hold off their attackers, Arthur got into cover behind a rock on the cliff and managed to shoot about four Pinkertons before he was attacked by Micah, tackled onto the floor to which he yelled in his face.

Arthur managed to throw them both down to a lower part of the cliff, landing on his lung with a sickening crunch but somehow still intact and breathing, if only labored wheezes under the influence of the Tuberculosis in his system.

They both managed to get up, finding themselves in a fair fist fight this time, Arthur now being able to dodge punches and throw them back forcefully.

After a few chokeholds, grapples, and a lot of blood drawn, Arthur somehow pistol whipped Micah, sending his pistol flying further into the ledge they were fighting on.

Though, when Arthur dragged his weak body over to the pistol, his fingers just barely making contact, his technically adoptive father stood on his hand, earning a pained sound from him.

Dutch: "It is over now, Arthur. It's over."

Arthur, poor unfortunate Arthur, replied in a hoarse, pained voice that barely held any hatred or form of a grudge.

"Oh, Dutch.. he's a rat. You know it, and I know it.."

Micah, still hanging on (mores the pity), spoke up again, clutching his arm.

Micah: "He's sick, he's dying.. he's talking crazy."

Dutch didn't respond, looking down at the man he once classed as his son.

"I gave you all I had.. I did."

Dutch: "I.."

The man started, backing up, removing his boot from poor, unfortunate Arthur's fingers which let the man languidly roll onto his back with another wheeze.

Micah tried to convince Dutch to go with him, but Dutch ended up fleeing the other way, leaving Arthur all alone, gazing out at the sunrise. Poor, unfortunate Arthur Morgan.