Arthur Morgan

Charles threw another log on the fire, tending to it despite the warmth in the air. The afternoon had eased the camp into a soft lull, and Arthur sank into a chair beside the flames, clutching a beer to his chest.

"Supplies, Mr Morgan!" Grimshaw cried, flicking a rag at his shoulder. "Before the store closes. Up. Up."

He jolted, nearly spilling the drink over his vest. Sean stifled a giggle beside him, and Arthur grumbled, tossing his bottle into the Irishman's hands.

Goddamn errand boy.

He rode out of camp, hooves thumping a steady rhythm against the path. The sun had begun to sink low in the sky, and he bowed his head, dipping his hat.

"You wanna talk like that, dressed like a two-bit whore?"

Arthur's reflexes kicked in at the voice and he tugged harsh on the reins. He blinked, eyes squinting into the distance, before landing on the scene ahead.

A woman stood on the trail, arms crossed, a single sack on her back. But christ. The lady's dress, or lack thereof, would be enough to send a preacher packing. And the boys around her knew it.

An O'Driscoll stood too close for comfort, a hand resting on his holster. "I'm only bein' polite, darlin," he continued. "Where's your man?"

The other O'Driscoll slouched on his horse, a lopsided grin across his face. Sick bastards.

Arthur kicked into a trot, clearing his throat. "I don't believe she's lookin' for company, fellas."

"'Ain't lookin' for company'?" The man scoffed, barely sparing Arthur a glance. "She's beggin' for it, ain't ya sweetheart? Never seen a whore so desperate in my life. Bet you'd take less than a dime–"

"Coop, hold on." The other flicked the brim of his hat up. "Ain't he Dutch's boy?"

The man stiffened, then whirled around, his frown cracking into a smirk. "Well I'll be. Van Der Linde's own?" He snatched his revolver up, giving it a twirl before leveling it at Arthur. "Ain't this my lucky day."

Arthur didn't move. Instead, he raised his eyebrows. "I ain't lookin' for trouble, partner. Especially not in good company."

"Hey. Leave it, Coop. We don't know what Colm–"

"Shut it, Wyatt."

A stagecoach rattled along the path, its pace slowing as it neared. The man's eyes drifted to the driver and he faltered, lowering the gun slightly.

"Cooper," his friend started again, desperation now laced into his tone.

Cooper sighed, shoving his gun away. He forced a smile for the driver and stepped back from the lady, hands raised. "I see you again, darlin'? You owe me a good time." He tapped his nose, then spat into the dirt beside her.

He finally returned to his horse and both men set off down the trail.

"You alright there, miss?"