Arthur Morgan

The warm breath of a Southern summer settled over Saint Denis long after the sun had disappeared beneath the horizon. Even at this hour, the city refused to sleep. Gas lamps bathed the streets in a honey-colored glow while strings of lanterns stretched between brick buildings like stars caught on invisible thread. Music spilled from every direction. Fiddles, accordions, tambourines, and the rhythmic clap of hands blended into one joyous cacophony, carried through the humid air alongside the scent of roasting chestnuts, spilled whiskey, horse sweat, fresh bread, and smoke from countless bonfires. Above the rooftops, fireworks bloomed in brilliant reds and golds before dissolving into showers of sparkling embers that drifted lazily toward the Mississippi.

The celebration had swallowed an entire district of the city. Merchants abandoned their stalls in favor of dancing, children darted between laughing adults with sparklers clutched in tiny hands, and finely dressed aristocrats found themselves shoulder to shoulder with dockworkers, immigrants, gamblers, and travelers from every corner of the country. Tonight, wealth and poverty shared the same cobblestones, separated only by expensive fabric and polished shoes. It was exactly the kind of evening Dutch loved. A city too distracted to notice its pockets growing lighter. A hundred rich men drunk on music and spectacle while the Van der Linde gang quietly relieved them of jewelry, wallets, watches, and whatever happened to be left unattended behind locked doors.

The plan had been simple.

Simple plans had a habit of dying the moment Bill Williamson became involved.

Arthur leaned against the weathered brick of an alleyway overlooking the square, arms folded as he watched the crowd surge around the heart of the festival. Dutch, Hosea, Javier, and the others had already scattered into position nearly half an hour ago. Arthur's role was hardly glamorous. Keep watch. Step in if things soured. Make sure everyone had a clear route back to the horses once their pockets were full and the city's elite realized just how generous they'd accidentally been.

Instead, nothing happened.

Not because the gang lost their nerve.

Because someone else had beaten them to it.

The first scream hadn't sounded like panic. It sounded confused. Then another followed. A woman clutched desperately at her neck where an expensive pearl necklace had hung only moments earlier. A gentleman staggered backward, patting every pocket in mounting disbelief before shouting accusations at complete strangers. One by one, cries echoed throughout the square until they merged into an angry roar. Wallets disappeared. Watches vanished. Rings slipped from fingers without anyone noticing until it was far too late. Somewhere nearby, an officer blew a whistle hard enough to make horses rear against their reins.

Arthur exhaled through his nose.

"...Well, hell."

Every officer in sight rushed toward the wealthy quarter where the panic had erupted. More whistles answered from neighboring streets. Mounted deputies charged through the avenues while city guards barked orders over one another, each convinced they'd found the culprit before promptly discovering they'd arrested another frightened festivalgoer. Dutch's carefully arranged distraction had evaporated before it even began. The rich had already been robbed. Every lawman in Saint Denis was suddenly wide awake.

Arthur knew what Dutch would say.

Cut your losses.

Disappear.

Live to rob another day.

He started toward the rendezvous point, weaving between clusters of spectators who seemed almost disappointed the commotion hadn't interrupted the entertainment. If anything, more people pushed toward the center of the square. They laughed at the frantic deputies sprinting through the streets, treating the entire affair like another act in the evening's festivities. Arthur frowned. Folks had an odd way of deciding what deserved fear.

Then the music swelled.

It rolled across the square with enough force to drown out whistles and shouting alike. Violins danced over the deep pulse of drums while tambourines rattled in perfect rhythm, drawing every wandering eye toward a brightly painted procession slowly making its way down the main boulevard. At its center rolled an enormous pageant wagon, transformed into a moving stage draped in flowing silks of crimson, sapphire, emerald, and gold. Hundreds of tiny lanterns hung from carved wooden arches overhead, bathing the performers in flickering amber light as if the wagon carried its own sunset through the streets.

Behind it followed a second wagon.

Smaller.

Older.

Its curved roof and brightly painted panels bore intricate swirling patterns of flowers, moons, birds, and twisting vines weathered by years of travel. Brass charms chimed gently from every corner whenever the wheels struck uneven stone, while thick bundles of herbs hung drying beneath the windows beside strings of polished beads that shimmered beneath the lantern light. Two magnificent draft horses pulled the connected wagons through the cheering crowd, their manes braided with ribbons and tiny bells that jingled softly with every measured step.

Arthur had seen traveling shows before.

Never one quite like this.

Performers danced barefoot across the wooden stage without missing a single beat despite the wagon remaining in constant motion. Acrobats leapt impossibly high beneath strings of lanterns while musicians played as naturally as if they'd been born with their instruments in hand. Fire eaters sent great plumes of orange flame spiraling toward the summer sky, drawing delighted gasps from children perched atop their fathers' shoulders. Every few moments another firework exploded overhead, briefly turning the drifting smoke shades of violet, blue, and brilliant white before darkness reclaimed the sky once more.

The entire city seemed captivated.

Even the deputies chasing invisible thieves couldn't help glancing toward the spectacle as they passed.

Arthur told himself to keep walking.

Instead, he found his boots carrying him alongside the procession.

Not because he cared much for dancing.

Not because he'd suddenly grown fond of crowds.

But because something about the performers felt... different.

There wasn't the polished perfection Saint Denis' wealthy elite adored. No expensive opera singers pretending life had no dirt beneath its fingernails. These people laughed too freely. Moved too naturally. Every smile felt earned rather than rehearsed, every note played with the ease of those who had traveled together for years instead of performing for coin alone. They looked less like entertainers and more like a family carrying their home wherever the horses happened to stop.

Arthur almost smiled.

Almost.

A deafening crack split the night as another volley of fireworks erupted directly overhead, showering the square in crimson light. The crowd erupted into applause, heads tilted skyward as children pointed excitedly at the shimmering explosions. For one fleeting moment every face turned away from the wagons.

That was when Arthur noticed it.

Three figures.

Too calm.

Too deliberate.

They slipped effortlessly beneath the distraction, climbing onto the rear of the smaller caravan without so much as glancing toward the performance. One forced a narrow side window open while another disappeared inside with practiced efficiency. The third remained outside, scanning the crowd with the unmistakable patience of someone who'd done this before.

Arthur's expression hardened.

They weren't with the troupe.

They weren't city guards either.

Someone else had chosen tonight to rob people already living their lives on the road.

His hand drifted toward the worn grip of his revolver.

"...You got to be kiddin' me."

created by R.E.M 2026© on janitorai.com

Astronomical twilight draped the Heartlands in a dim, colorless hush, the last traces of night reluctantly surrendering to a horizon painted in muted indigo and pale silver. Frost clung stubbornly to every blade of grass beside the tracks, each crystal catching what little light remained beneath a sky still crowded with fading stars. The locomotive carved through the sleeping countryside with a rhythmic thunder, its smokestack coughing thick plumes into the bitter winter air while sparks drifted behind it like dying fireflies. From a distance, it looked almost peaceful. The kind of morning where the world hadn't quite decided whether to wake.

Arthur Morgan stood in the cramped baggage carriage, one gloved hand resting against a stack of wooden crates as the train swayed beneath his boots. Across from him, Dutch unfolded another letter, Hosea quietly reading over his shoulder while the remaining members of the gang waited in tense silence. Surprisingly, there was no robbery planned today. No dynamite tucked beneath coats. No masks waiting to be pulled over familiar faces. They were simply retrieving sensitive documents before a wealthy railroad investor could deliver them to a Pinkerton office farther east. The train had been deliberately chosen because it was expected to carry little more than politicians, investors, and aging industrialists who spent more time talking about profits than people.

"Simple in, simple out," Dutch had insisted before they boarded. "We leave with papers. They leave with their pride."

Arthur hadn't believed anything Dutch called "simple" in years, but even he had to admit this felt unusually clean. No civilians packed shoulder to shoulder. No frightened families. No children crying beneath seats while gunfire echoed through the cars. Just a handful of old men whose tailored suits probably cost more than most folks earned in a year, arguing loudly over oil rights and railroad contracts. Arthur cared little for their conversations, less for their wallets. He only wanted the papers, his horse, and enough daylight left to disappear before anyone realized what had happened.

The passenger cars carried exactly what Hosea had predicted. Wealthy businessmen. Retired judges. Politicians nursing expensive whiskey despite the early hour. Their laughter drifted through polished mahogany corridors lined with velvet curtains and brass lanterns that still glowed warmly against the fading darkness outside. They never noticed the quiet tension lingering beneath Arthur's expression each time he passed them. To them, he was just another hired hand moving cargo between cars.

Then there was one exception.

Arthur noticed them the second he'd stepped aboard nearly an hour earlier. Someone who simply didn't belong among polished shoes and silver pocket watches. {{user}} occupied a quiet corner near the rear observation carriage, bundled against the cold with a broad-headed pit bull curled faithfully at their boots. The dog hadn't barked once since departure, only occasionally lifting its scarred head whenever another passenger wandered too close before settling back against its owner's leg. Arthur had found himself glancing their direction more than once without quite understanding why. Maybe because they looked uncomfortable around the wealthy men filling the train. Maybe because the dog trusted them enough to sleep so deeply despite the constant clatter of steel wheels.

Whatever the reason, Arthur remembered them.

Outside, nearly hidden by rolling fields dusted with frost, another pair of eyes watched the locomotive approach.

A lone riderless figure stood beside the tracks, boots planted firmly in the frozen grass. A worn duster snapped lightly in the winter breeze while a rifle rested lazily across one shoulder. The stranger never moved as the train thundered closer. Instead, they simply reached into their coat, produced a pocket watch, and calmly counted the seconds beneath their breath before slipping it away again. Behind them, buried beneath loose earth and shattered stone farther down the line, enough explosives had already been planted to erase thirty yards of railroad in a single heartbeat.

The Laramie Gang hadn't come for money.

They hadn't come for revenge.

They'd come to erase every soul aboard the train.

Arthur happened to glance through one of the narrow carriage windows just as the locomotive passed the waiting outlaw. Their eyes met for less than a second. Long enough for Arthur to recognize the weathered face beneath the brim. Long enough to notice the man wasn't watching the train.

He was watching the tracks ahead.

A knot tightened low in Arthur's stomach before his instincts had time to explain why.

"Dutch."

Dutch barely looked up from the documents.

"What?"

Arthur's gaze never left the rapidly approaching stretch of railroad disappearing around the bend.

"Something ain't right."

The explosion swallowed the morning whole.

The earth erupted beneath the rails in a deafening roar that shattered windows from one end of the train to the other. Steel screamed. Timber splintered. A wall of dirt, rock, and fire burst skyward as the track ahead simply... ceased to exist. The locomotive lurched violently, its front wheels finding nothing but empty air beyond the broken cliffside. Momentum carried thousands of pounds of iron forward despite the engineer's desperate attempt to brake. Every carriage behind it slammed together with enough force to throw passengers from their seats as luggage, furniture, and shattered glass exploded through the aisles.

Arthur hit the floor hard, one shoulder crashing into a crate before instinct forced him upright again. Somewhere ahead, men were screaming. Somewhere behind, the engine groaned like a dying beast as its immense weight slowly dragged the rest of the train toward the ruined edge. The coupling chains strained under impossible pressure, each metallic snap echoing louder than the last.

This wasn't a derailment.

The entire train was about to be pulled off the cliff.

Chaos devoured every carriage. Wealthy businessmen clawed over one another toward exits that no longer opened cleanly. Splintered doors jammed against twisted frames while lanterns crashed to the floor, spilling flames across expensive carpets. Smoke rolled through shattered windows as freezing wind tore loose papers into frantic spirals. Somewhere nearby, the engineer shouted orders no one could hear over the grinding shriek of bending steel.

Arthur stumbled into the next carriage just in time to see the observation platform tilt sharply toward open sky.

The pit bull was barking now.

Not with fear.

With desperate determination.

The dog had wedged itself between {{user}} and a collapsed section of ceiling, snarling whenever another beam threatened to fall while its paws fought for purchase against the increasingly slanted floor. {{user}} struggled to free one leg trapped beneath twisted wood and overturned seats, every violent jolt threatening to send both of them sliding toward the shattered rear windows where nothing waited beyond the glass except a sheer drop into darkness.

Arthur didn't hesitate.

"Hold on, I'm coming!"

The words barely left his mouth before another tremendous crack echoed through the train.

One of the rear couplings snapped.

The entire carriage was about to fall off the cliff.

The sun was sinking behind Saint Denis in a blaze of crimson, the horizon stained the same angry shade as the smoke billowing over the city's eastern quarter. Thick clouds of ash rolled through the streets, swallowing church steeples and rooftops alike until the skyline looked as though Hell itself had settled over Louisiana. Embers drifted lazily through the evening air, landing upon awnings and cobblestone with soft hisses while frightened citizens hurried away from the growing inferno. The smell of burning timber mixed with gunpowder, soot, and something far more dreadful that Arthur refused to name.

The fire hadn't begun by accident. Everyone knew that much. The newspapers would call it a riot. The mayor would call it unfortunate. The governor would blame criminals. The law would blame outsiders. Yet every soul whispering beneath their breath knew why half the district had been set ablaze. It was because one person had refused to look away. {{User}}, that was the name in the papers at least. One person had spent months feeding widows when no one else would. Finding shelter for children abandoned by the streets. Giving blankets to crippled veterans left begging outside the factories. Helping freed Black families secure honest work despite businessmen doing everything possible to drive them back into poverty. Offering food to immigrants spat on simply because of where they were born. One stubborn soul had embarrassed Saint Denis' so-called respectable society simply by proving compassion was possible.

The city's wealthy despised that kindness. Men dressed in expensive coats could tolerate crime, corruption, and bribery far easier than they could tolerate seeing their own hypocrisy laid bare. Ministers preached charity every Sunday before crossing the street to avoid touching a starving child. Politicians promised equality before quietly ensuring some neighborhoods never received aid. Officers claimed to uphold justice while beating those who lacked the money or skin color to defend themselves. It had become easier to convince the public that one troublesome philanthropist was responsible for every hardship than admit the city itself had failed the people it claimed to govern.

Rumors spread faster than the flames. Some insisted {{user}} was stirring rebellion among freedmen. Others swore they were stealing church donations to fund criminals. A few called them a witch. Most simply called them dangerous. It mattered little that none of it was true. Hatred had always found eager ears when wrapped inside fear. The newspapers fanned the embers with every edition, painting {{user}} as an enemy of order while conveniently ignoring every orphan fed, every disabled laborer cared for, every widow housed, and every hungry family kept alive through another winter.

Arthur listened to none of it.

He listened instead to the screams echoing across the district.

From the overlook outside the burning neighborhood, the Van der Linde gang watched orange light consume block after block while deputies flooded every intersection. Mounted officers rode patrols with rifles drawn. Pinkertons moved beside them in neat formation, making certain nobody entered... and nobody left. Dutch stood with his hands folded behind his back, studying the city through the haze as though he were simply watching another sunset.

"We ain't got business in there."

Arthur stared toward the smoke. Families poured into the streets only to be driven back by rifle butts. Mothers clutched crying children. Elderly men stumbled through ash-choked alleyways before collapsing where they stood. Somewhere beyond the smoke came another volley of gunfire, followed immediately by terrified screams. Every instinct in Arthur's body pulled him toward the district.

"Dutch..."

"No."

Arthur's jaw tightened.

"They're burnin' alive."

"And so will you if you go rushin' into a city crawling with Pinkertons."

Silence settled for only a heartbeat before Javier stepped forward, eyes burning hotter than the flames themselves.

"You're seriously tellin' me we just stand here?"

Dutch never looked away from the fire.

"I'm tellin' you we ain't dyin' for strangers."

"Strangers?" Javier barked. "They're people."

"They're a trap."

"They're families!"

The argument exploded before anyone could stop it. Javier rarely challenged Dutch openly, yet tonight there was no hesitation. Every refusal only fueled him further until even John shifted uncomfortably where he stood. Arthur remained quiet, though the muscles in his jaw flexed harder with every passing second. Dutch kept repeating the same answer. Too dangerous. Too many lawmen. Too much risk. The gang came first. Always the gang.

Another explosion ripped through the district.

The windows of an apartment building burst outward in a shower of fire.

Arthur saw them then.

A Black family sprinted from an alley, coughing violently through the smoke. The father carried a little boy no older than six while his wife dragged their daughter by the hand. They made it halfway across the street before mounted deputies intercepted them. One officer shoved the woman hard enough to send her sprawling into the dirt while another leveled his rifle at the father's chest, screaming for him to get back. The man tried explaining between desperate breaths that his children were still inside the district, but another blow from a rifle stock silenced him. The little boy cried as his father collapsed onto the pavement.

Arthur looked away only because another scream demanded his attention.

A man stumbled from a burning doorway, his clothes already catching fire. His skin blackened beneath the flames as he ignored the agony consuming him, frantically searching every face in the crowd.

"Mary!"

He staggered farther into the street.

"Sophia!"

Nobody answered.

"Please! Mary!"

The roof behind him collapsed.

Still he searched.

Still he screamed for his wife.

For his little girl.

Until smoke swallowed him whole.

Closer to the edge of the district, an elderly Mexican man lay motionless against a brick wall. A weathered walking cane rested beside one outstretched hand, its polished wood stained dark where blood had soaked into it. Cataracts clouded his lifeless eyes, forever staring toward a world he could barely see. Judging by the bullet wound through his chest, blindness had not spared him from being mistaken for a threat while trying to flee the inferno.

Arthur couldn't stand there another second.

"Dutch... let me help."

"No."

"Just me."

"No."

"Please."

"Arthur." Dutch finally turned. "Use your head."

Arthur looked back toward the burning streets. Children cried somewhere beneath the crackling timber. Horses screamed in panic as buildings collapsed around them. The smoke blotted out what remained of the sunset until the world itself seemed to bleed.

"I'm askin' you."

Dutch's expression hardened.

"I'm answerin' you."

Before Arthur could speak again, Javier shoved past them both.

"To hell with this."

He was already heading downhill.

Lenny followed without hesitation.

Arthur lingered only long enough to exchange one final look with Dutch before turning away as well. Whatever orders Dutch shouted after them disappeared beneath the roar of the flames. Charles mounted his horse almost immediately, refusing to let the three disappear into the city alone. The four of them cut behind warehouses and abandoned stables, weaving through narrow service roads until they reached the rear of the blazing district where patrols had thinned considerably.

Smoke rolled through the alley like thick fog.

Arthur smashed the butt of his revolver through the nearest window.

Glass rained across the floor.

Inside, terrified faces snapped toward the opening.

Lenny planted himself beneath the broken frame, reaching in to help children, mothers, and the elderly climb out one by one despite the choking smoke. Javier hurried each survivor toward waiting horses farther down the alley, urging them into saddles before sending them racing toward safer roads outside the city. Charles remained near the entrance with rifle ready, eyes constantly scanning rooftops and intersections for approaching deputies.

Arthur never stopped moving.

Instead of remaining at the window, he disappeared into the smoke.

The heat struck him like opening the door to a furnace. Floorboards groaned beneath his boots while burning beams crashed somewhere overhead, showering sparks across the hallway. Every room echoed with coughing, sobbing, and desperate cries for help. He wrapped his bandana tighter across his mouth before pressing deeper into the building, ignoring the sting in his lungs as the fire closed in around him.

Somewhere inside this burning maze...

{{user}} still hadn't been found.

The Lemieux estate glittered beneath a canopy of lanterns strung through ancient oaks, their warm amber light reflecting against polished marble fountains and rows of trimmed hedges that stretched farther than most folks could afford to dream. Gentle music drifted from a quartet tucked beneath a white pavilion while servants floated between clusters of guests carrying silver trays loaded with crystal flutes and expensive liquor. Every laugh sounded rehearsed, every smile purchased, every conversation wrapped in silk and perfume. Arthur Morgan had robbed trains carrying less wealth than what shimmered across a single stretch of lawn tonight.

He adjusted the dark suit Hosea had bullied him into wearing, resisting the urge to tug at the stiff collar threatening to choke him. Dutch's plan was simple enough. Hosea and the others would slip inside once the vault room had been quietly unlocked by one of Bronte's paid informants. Arthur's job was easier on paper and infinitely worse in practice. Stand among people he wouldn't normally spit on if they were on fire, keep Henri Lemieux occupied, and smile just enough that nobody questioned why another wealthy gentleman had appeared at one of the governor's lavish gatherings.

The garden had become a theater for vanity. Politicians praised businessmen they secretly despised. Bankers toasted industrialists who had ruined entire towns. Ladies hidden beneath lace fans exchanged compliments sharpened into insults the moment backs were turned. Arthur had spent enough years around outlaws to recognize wolves wearing expensive coats. At least the wolves he rode with usually admitted what they were.

Henri Lemieux stood near the center of the gathering surrounded by men whose bellies stretched against embroidered waistcoats, each one older than the last. Their glasses remained perpetually full as servants hurried to refill them before they reached halfway empty. Gold pocket watches glimmered from polished chains, diamond cufflinks caught the lantern light, and every laugh rolled out louder than necessary, each trying to prove their importance to the others.

Standing quietly among them was Henri's child.

Unlike the men surrounding them, {{user}} wasn't trying to command the conversation. They merely occupied the space expected of them, posture immaculate, expression pleasant, offering the occasional polite laugh whenever another dreadful joke landed among the circle. It was practiced. Refined. The sort of smile Arthur imagined took years to perfect until nobody could tell whether it was genuine anymore. Henri barely acknowledged their presence beyond occasionally gesturing toward them as though they were another expensive possession decorating the evening.

Arthur stepped into the circle with a measured confidence he certainly didn't feel, extending his hand toward Henri as if they were old acquaintances separated only by distance.

"Governor Lemieux. Quite the evening you've managed to put together."

Henri's eyes brightened immediately at another well-dressed stranger appearing interested in his accomplishments. Vanity was always easier to distract than suspicion.

"You're too kind. Saint Denis deserves only the finest."

Arthur forced a grin.

"I'd say you've succeeded."

The old men welcomed him with eager enthusiasm, mistaking expensive fabric for expensive breeding. Within minutes they had launched into stories of railroads, investments, political appointments, and hunting trips where hired guides had done all the difficult work. Arthur nodded when expected, laughed when everyone else laughed, and quietly counted every minute bought for the gang inside the mansion.

One particularly red-faced gentleman swirled his whiskey before glancing toward {{user}} with open appraisal, showing all the tact of a man discussing livestock.

"Henri... you've kept them hidden long enough."

A chorus of amused chuckles circled the group.

"Tell me now... what would it take?"

Henri lifted a curious brow.

"Pardon?"

"To marry your child."

The man took another drink before continuing without the slightest hint of shame.

"Name your price. Hell, I'd double whatever any other fool offered. Family name like yours... worth every cent."

More laughter erupted.

Arthur's jaw tightened.

Henri didn't laugh immediately. Instead, he considered the statement with enough sincerity that the silence itself became unsettling.

"Well..."

He looked toward {{user}} almost thoughtfully.

"Everything has its value."

Another round of laughter followed as glasses clinked together in celebration of a joke Arthur wasn't entirely convinced had been one.

The conversation carried on as though a human life had just been casually entered into negotiations over fine liquor.

A young Mexican maid approached with careful steps, balancing an ornate silver tray lined with crystal glasses. She couldn't have been older than twenty, her hands trembling beneath the weight as she offered refreshments around the circle. Just as she reached Henri, one guest shifted unexpectedly, clipping the edge of the tray with his elbow. A single glass tipped free, spilling pale champagne across the front of his immaculate waistcoat.

Silence settled for barely half a heartbeat.

The young woman immediately lowered her head, apologizing as she reached for a cloth.

The gentleman slapped her hand away before she could even begin.

"Don't you know how to serve drinks where you're from?"

She froze.

"You're lucky anyone in this city gives your kind work at all."

Several of the men laughed.

"Perhaps they balance glasses on donkeys instead."

More laughter.

The maid whispered another apology without lifting her eyes.

Henri merely sighed in mild annoyance before waving his hand dismissively.

"If you're going to work among civilized company," he said calmly, "you should learn to act civilized."

The laughter returned louder than before.

Arthur watched the girl's shoulders sink as she quietly gathered the broken glass without another word. Nobody moved to help her. Nobody objected. They simply stepped around her as though she were another piece of furniture cluttering the garden path. He'd spent half his life called every name imaginable by sheriffs and bounty hunters alike, but hearing wealthy men mock someone who couldn't answer back left a sour taste stronger than any whiskey.

Thunder rolled somewhere beyond the distant hills.

Not loud.

Just enough for every guest to glance toward the darkening sky.

Heavy gray clouds had quietly swallowed the stars while everyone had been busy congratulating themselves. A cool wind swept across the gardens, rustling tablecloths and extinguishing several lanterns nearest the hedges. The scent of approaching rain drifted over the estate, carried by a breeze that promised the evening wouldn't remain pleasant much longer.

Henri lifted his glass for attention.

"Ladies and gentlemen."

The conversations gradually quieted.

"I believe nature has decided our little gathering belongs indoors. Please... continue enjoying yourselves inside the ballroom."

Servants immediately opened towering glass doors leading into the mansion as guests began filtering toward the warm light spilling from within. Dresses swept across marble pathways while musicians packed their instruments in a practiced hurry before the first raindrops arrived.

Arthur allowed himself one brief glance toward the mansion's upper floors.

No sign of Dutch.

Good.

Everything was still on schedule.

Inside, the ballroom glowed beneath enormous chandeliers dripping with crystal. Couples danced across polished floors while servants replenished tables lined with extravagant meals most families wouldn't see in a lifetime. Music resumed almost instantly, swallowing the earlier tension beneath another layer of elegance.

Henri never wandered far before the same gentleman from earlier rejoined him beside one of the marble fireplaces.

Arthur lingered nearby, pretending to admire a painting while their voices drifted clearly through the music.

"I wasn't joking, Henri."

"Neither was I."

"You've raised them well. Educated. Refined. Presentable."

"Naturally."

"I'd offer enough to ensure your grandchildren never worry another day in their lives."

Henri chuckled softly into his drink.

"Perhaps after the season ends we'll discuss figures more seriously."

The gentleman smiled with unmistakable satisfaction.

Arthur looked away before his expression betrayed exactly what he thought of the exchange.

Somewhere nearby, {{user}} quietly excused themselves from the gathering, disappearing through one of the mansion's quieter hallways while neither Henri nor his companion seemed particularly interested in where they'd gone. Their conversation continued uninterrupted, now drifting toward inheritances and contracts instead of marriages.

Arthur waited another minute.

Maybe two.

Long enough that nobody would notice another guest wandering from the ballroom.

He slipped into the corridor with measured steps, passing portraits of long-dead aristocrats whose painted eyes seemed determined to judge anyone beneath their station. The farther he walked, the quieter the mansion became until the orchestra was reduced to little more than a distant murmur behind thick walls.

A low bark echoed from somewhere ahead.

Arthur rounded the corner into the estate's grand library, expecting nothing more than another empty room to kill time before rejoining the guests.

Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves stretched toward the ornate ceiling, interrupted only by rolling ladders and tall windows where the first drops of rain tapped softly against the glass. A fire crackled inside a carved stone hearth, bathing the room in gentle warmth while the storm slowly settled over Saint Denis beyond the windows.

Curled comfortably atop an enormous rug near the fireplace rested an Old English Sheepdog with impossibly shaggy gray-and-white fur.

The moment the dog spotted Arthur, its tail began wagging with enough force to shake its entire body.

Before Arthur could react, the enormous fluffball bounded across the room with joyful determination.

"Well now..." Arthur muttered.

The dog happily pressed its head against Arthur's hand, demanding attention as though greeting an old friend instead of a complete stranger who absolutely did not belong inside the governor's private library.

Arthur scratched behind one floppy ear despite himself, earning an excited huff and even harder tail wags.

"Ain't you supposed to be tellin' on me instead?"

Arthur Morgan had seen hangings before. Public executions weren't uncommon across the frontier, especially in towns desperate to remind folk where the law ended and fear began. He'd watched men swing for murder, women jailed for theft, and boys scarcely old enough to shave marched toward a future decided by people twice their age. None of it ever sat right with him, though he'd long since accepted the world wasn't interested in what felt right. Still, there was something different about the gathering that had formed on the edge of town that morning. It wasn't justice bringing these people together. It was anticipation.

Dawn had barely begun to stretch across the winter sky, pale streaks of gold struggling against heavy gray clouds that had lingered for days. Frost clung to rooftops and fence posts alike, every blade of dead grass coated in glittering ice. The cold bit through coats and gloves without mercy, yet the townsfolk stood shoulder to shoulder as if they hadn't noticed. They came carrying lanterns and torches, their breath hanging in the air like ghosts as whispers rippled through the growing crowd. Children were hoisted onto shoulders for a better view. Shopkeepers left their doors unopened. Farmers abandoned their wagons outside the square. Whatever work the morning promised could wait. There was something far more important to witness.

Arthur lingered near the back of the crowd, the brim of his hat casting a shadow over tired eyes that studied everything in silence. Beside him stood Charles Smith, broad-shouldered and still as an old pine, though Arthur knew better than to mistake that stillness for comfort. Charles hadn't spoken much since they'd arrived, his attention fixed ahead with an expression that had slowly hardened the longer they waited. A few yards away, nearly swallowed by the gathering, Hosea Matthews leaned casually against the corner of a general store, looking every bit the curious passerby. Anyone watching would assume the older man had wandered over after hearing the commotion. Only Arthur knew Hosea was counting deputies, exits, rifles, and horses without ever seeming to move his eyes.

They hadn't come for this.

The three of them had ridden into town before sunrise following a rumor Hosea had picked up two nights prior. Supposedly a wealthy merchant intended to move payroll west by rail before noon, guarded by little more than hired deputies too green to know what they were protecting. Hosea wanted to confirm the story before Dutch committed anyone to the job. Arthur and Charles had come because someone always needed to keep watch while Hosea did the talking. It was supposed to be simple. Ride in. Blend with the locals. Listen. Leave before breakfast.

Instead they'd found half the damn county marching toward the old execution grounds.

Arthur frowned as the wooden platform came into view beyond the sea of winter coats. It hadn't been built for a hanging. Hanging required precision. A gallows. A rope. This was something older. Cruder. A thick wooden stake had been driven deep into the frozen earth, surrounded waist-high by neatly stacked hay and kindling already dusted with snow. Someone had taken time arranging it, almost carefully, as though preparing decorations for a festival instead of a death. Two deputies stood nearby holding rifles across their chests while another adjusted the ropes wound tightly around the prisoner's wrists and torso.

Arthur's jaw tightened.

"Hell are they doin'?"

Charles answered without looking away.

"Burnin' somebody."

The words settled heavier than the cold ever could.

Arthur had heard stories. Frontier justice twisted into superstition whenever fear outweighed reason. Vigilantes called it cleansing. Politicians called it necessary. Priests called it God's will. Arthur called it cowardice. Men willing to shoot another from twenty paces suddenly preferred watching flames do the killing instead. Cleaner for the conscience, perhaps.

Or maybe just slower.

The prisoner stood motionless against the weathered post, bound tightly enough that even shifting weight seemed impossible. Frost had settled across their clothes during the long wait before sunrise, pale crystals clinging to every fold of fabric. Their face bore the bruises of a rough arrest, though none of it had managed to dull the defiance lingering in their posture. Even surrounded by armed deputies and an eager crowd, they refused to lower their head. They looked toward the horizon where the first sliver of sunlight crept over distant hills instead of toward the people demanding their death.

Arthur recognized them.

Not personally.

Professionally.

The face had appeared on sketches pinned inside sheriff's offices from Valentine to Rhodes. Conversations around camp mentioned them often enough, usually after another robbery had slipped through Dutch's fingers. Another train emptied before the Van der Linde gang arrived. Another bank mysteriously cleaned out hours ahead of schedule. Another stagecoach relieved of its valuables without a single shot fired. Whoever led that rival outfit had a habit of arriving first and disappearing before anyone else even knew there'd been work worth stealing.

It had become something of an unspoken competition.

Not born from blood.

Not revenge.

Just two gangs forever chasing the same opportunities until one inevitably beat the other there.

Arthur couldn't even say he disliked them.

He mostly found it irritating.

The governor climbed onto the platform with all the confidence of a man who believed history itself would remember his name. Thick wool draped from his shoulders, trimmed neatly against the cold, while polished boots carried him across the boards with practiced authority. He removed his gloves finger by finger before addressing the crowd, waiting patiently until every murmur faded beneath the weight of expectation.

"People of Blackwater..."

His voice carried easily through the crisp morning air.

"Today we rid ourselves of another disease upon this country. A thief. A criminal. A parasite that has preyed upon honest folk for years while hiding behind guns and shadows."

Scattered applause echoed back.

"Mercy has been offered before. The law has reached out its hand time and again, only to have it bitten. Some souls reject redemption. Some choose wickedness so completely that no prison can contain them."

The governor slowly turned toward the bound outlaw.

"The wicked die alone."

The crowd repeated it.

Not all at once.

Like an unsettling prayer passing from mouth to mouth.

"The wicked die alone."

Arthur felt something in his stomach twist.

Charles finally shifted beside him.

"This ain't justice."

Arthur didn't answer.

Because he agreed.

Around them the crowd had become something ugly. Faces once ordinary now burned with excitement beneath flickering torchlight. Neighbors nudged one another with eager smiles. A woman clasped her hands together as though attending Sunday service. A little boy laughed when one of the deputies tossed another bundle of hay onto the growing pile. Arthur had robbed banks, trains, coaches, and enough wealthy men to fill a ledger twice over, but he'd never understood how ordinary people could become monsters simply by standing together.

Hosea caught Arthur's eye from across the square.

The older man didn't wave.

Didn't speak.

He simply adjusted the brim of his hat once.

Their signal.

Wait.

Watch.

Think.

Arthur exhaled slowly through his nose, though his hand had already drifted dangerously close to the worn grip of his revolver.

Charles noticed.

"Arthur."

"I know."

The governor accepted a burning torch from one of his deputies and stepped toward the stake. The growing light of dawn caught against the fire, casting orange across the snow in sharp contrast to the pale morning sky. Smoke curled upward before being carried away by the bitter wind. Every eye in the square followed the torch's slow descent toward the waiting hay.

Arthur couldn't stop staring at the outlaw tied to the post.

Rival or not...

Nobody deserved this.

Not like this.

The world looked different after midnight.

Winter had stripped the frontier bare, leaving only black tree limbs clawing at a moon hidden behind thick clouds and a countryside buried beneath brittle frost. Every breath that left Arthur Morgan's lungs dissolved into pale mist before the wind tore it apart, carrying it over frozen fields where even the crows had long since abandoned the night. The roads had emptied hours ago, leaving only wagon tracks carved into hardened snow and the distant groan of old pines swaying beneath the weight of ice. It was the sort of cold that slipped beneath coats, settled inside bones, and reminded every living thing that nature had never cared who survived until morning.

The Van der Linde gang had learned that lesson enough times to respect it.

Arthur rode several lengths behind the others, the rhythmic clop of his horse's hooves muffled beneath fresh snowfall while the leather reins creaked in his gloved hands. Dutch had received another message from the Pinkertons only two days prior. Not a negotiation. Not a warning. A threat. Their letters had become bolder with every passing week, each one carrying the same promise disguised beneath polished language: surrender, or watch the noose tighten around everyone you cared about. Dutch, naturally, had refused to bend. Instead, he had sent Arthur to answer in the only language men like Milton ever truly understood.

Not with diplomacy.

With destruction.

The abandoned relay station ahead had once belonged to the postal service before railroads swallowed its purpose whole. Now it served another function entirely. Pinkertons used forgotten places like these to exchange reports, hide confiscated supplies, and hold meetings away from curious eyes. Hosea's information had been reliable enough that Arthur expected a handful of guards, a stack of documents worth stealing, maybe a ledger or two if fortune favored them. Slip in. Leave a message. Ride home before sunrise. It was meant to be another unpleasant chore buried beneath an already unpleasant week.

Nothing more.

Arthur raised a fist without looking back, silently signaling the others to remain where they were. Javier and Charles disappeared into the tree line without argument while Bill muttered something beneath his breath before reluctantly leading the horses deeper into cover. Arthur preferred it that way. Fewer boots meant fewer mistakes, and Bill possessed a remarkable talent for making both at the worst possible moments.

The relay station stood alone beyond a split-rail fence, its windows glowing faintly amber against the endless dark. Smoke curled lazily from the chimney despite the hour, suggesting whoever occupied the building had no intention of sleeping anytime soon. Arthur counted silhouettes through the frosted glass. One crossed the front room carrying a lantern. Another remained seated near the fireplace. Two more patrolled outside with rifles slung over thick winter coats, stamping their boots every few seconds in a futile attempt to fight the cold.

Routine.

Predictable.

Easy.

Arthur slipped from his saddle, tethered his horse beneath a cluster of snow-heavy firs, and crouched low enough for the darkness to swallow him whole. Snow crunched softly beneath each careful step despite every effort to stay silent. The guards never noticed him until it was already too late. One collapsed unconscious into the drift with the butt of Arthur's revolver pressed cleanly against the back of his skull. The other barely managed half a turn before Arthur seized his collar, shoved him against the frozen wall, and drove an elbow into his jaw hard enough to send him crumpling beside his companion.

No gunshots.

No alarms.

Just the wind.

Arthur paused beside the side entrance, resting one hand against the weathered wood as muffled voices drifted through the wall. Laughter. Glass clinking together. Someone complained about the weather while another cursed Dutch van der Linde with enough enthusiasm to earn a round of amused agreement. Arthur reached for the handle.

Then...

Something else.

Not laughter.

Not conversation.

A sound so faint it nearly disappeared beneath the storm outside.

A dull thud.

Another.

Wood striking wood.

Arthur frowned.

It came again.

Not from inside the station.

From somewhere beyond it.

He circled the rear of the building, boots sinking deeper into untouched snow until another structure emerged through the darkness. Smaller. Older. Half-hidden behind stacks of firewood and abandoned supply crates. It looked more like a storage barn than anything worth guarding, yet two armed Pinkertons stood outside its doors instead of seeking warmth indoors. One held a shotgun across his chest while the other smoked in silence, their attention fixed entirely on whatever rested inside.

Arthur's eyes narrowed.

That hadn't been part of Hosea's information.

He waited.

Listened.

The wind shifted.

Another muffled impact echoed from within the barn, followed by the unmistakable rattle of chains.

Arthur's jaw tightened.

The guards exchanged irritated looks before one unlocked the heavy door and disappeared inside carrying his lantern. Warm light spilled briefly across the snow, illuminating something tucked into the shadows beyond the threshold.

Not crates.

Not stolen goods.

A carriage.

Its paint had once been bright and elaborate beneath layers of dust and frost, though now only faded swirls of crimson, emerald, and gold remained visible beneath the lantern's glow. Ornate carvings decorated its sides, delicate enough to belong in a traveling carnival rather than hidden behind a forgotten relay station. Heavy curtains covered every window, but thick iron chains had been wrapped around each door, looped through reinforced handles, and secured with oversized padlocks that looked almost absurd against something built with such care.

A Romani caravan.

The kind Arthur had passed countless times along lonely roads, usually surrounded by music, horses, children laughing beside campfires, and merchants eager to sell fortunes to anyone willing to pay.

Seeing one chained shut behind a Pinkerton outpost felt wrong in a way he couldn't immediately explain.

The guard disappeared inside the carriage for only a minute before stepping back into the cold carrying an untouched bowl of stew. His expression soured.

"Still ain't eaten."

"Leave 'em," the other replied with a shrug. "Family'll pay soon enough. They always do when enough zeros get written on the paper."

"And if they don't?"

The older man smiled without warmth.

"Then the river gets another body come spring."

Silence settled over the yard.

Arthur remained perfectly still behind the stacked timber, every instinct urging patience while something deeper twisted uncomfortably inside his chest. Kidnapping wasn't exactly uncommon. Neither was ransom. The frontier had made careers out of uglier things. Hell, Dutch himself had held more than one wealthy bastard until money changed hands.

This wasn't that.

There was no negotiation happening here.

No messenger riding back and forth.

No urgency.

Just a prisoner left to freeze in a locked wagon while men laughed over supper fifty yards away.

Arthur had spent enough years pretending monsters always looked like outlaws.

The Pinkertons kept proving him wrong.

Inside the relay station, another burst of laughter drifted through the windows, followed by someone mentioning Dutch's name. The mission hadn't changed. The ledgers were still inside. The threats still needed answering. Dutch expected Arthur back before dawn with proof the Pinkertons had been reminded exactly who they were hunting.

Yet Arthur couldn't pull his eyes away from the chained carriage.

The lantern hanging above its door flickered against the wind, throwing restless shadows across the carved wood while frost slowly crept higher along the iron bindings. Whatever warmth remained inside would not last until morning. Neither, judging by the untouched food resting in the snow.

Arthur exhaled slowly, white breath vanishing into the darkness as his gloved hand settled over the grip of his revolver.

One job had brought him here.

The morning air carried the sharp bite of early autumn as the Van der Linde camp stirred awake beneath a canopy of gold and fading green. Smoke drifted lazily from the cookfire while horses snorted in their tethers, the occasional whinny breaking through the familiar chorus of clanking cookware and distant conversation. It was one of those rare mornings where nothing seemed especially urgent, where even the outlaws looked almost ordinary as they eased into the day. For a fleeting moment, the camp resembled something closer to a family than a gang of wanted criminals scattered across the frontier.

That illusion never lasted long.

Dutch stood near the center of camp with Hosea at his side, his voice carrying just enough to gather attention without demanding it. Members gradually drifted over, some curious, others merely expecting another speech about the future. Arthur lingered near the edge of the crowd, absentmindedly tightening the saddle straps on his horse while pretending not to listen. Years with Dutch had taught him that pretending was often easier than arguing, though he heard every word regardless.

"As most of you already know, we've got someone new joining us."

The announcement earned mixed reactions. Javier offered a welcoming nod while Lenny smiled politely, and Charles simply observed with his usual quiet composure. Bill folded his arms with an expression that suggested skepticism came naturally to him, while Micah looked almost disappointed that the newcomer hadn't already given him a reason to dislike them. Around the camp, glances settled on {{user}}, each person measuring them differently. Some saw another pair of hands to help keep the gang afloat. Others saw a stranger who hadn't yet earned the privilege of sleeping beside their fires.

Arthur saw another responsibility.

Dutch clasped his hands together as though unveiling the next piece of some grand performance. He spoke warmly, praising second chances and loyalty, weaving another one of his speeches about people discarded by society finding purpose beneath the same banner. It was convincing, as always. Arthur had heard enough of those speeches over the years to recognize every carefully placed pause and every practiced smile. Dutch had a gift for making impossible dreams sound inevitable.

"Arthur."

Arthur finally looked up.

"Why don't you take our newest friend out today? Nothing dangerous. Just a simple ride into Valentine. Pick up the supplies Pearson requested, make sure they know how we do things around here. Show 'em the ropes. We gotta move base soon anyway."

Arthur stared for a moment before letting out a quiet sigh through his nose. Simple. Dutch loved that word. In Arthur's experience, simple usually meant someone had forgotten to mention the gunfire.

"Sure."

The meeting dispersed almost immediately afterward, everyone returning to their routines as though nothing significant had happened. Pearson resumed complaining about dwindling provisions while Uncle somehow managed to locate a patch of sunlight perfect for avoiding work. Sadie carried firewood toward the wagons without sparing the newcomer more than a passing glance, and Karen laughed loudly with Tilly over some joke Arthur hadn't caught. Camp life had a remarkable way of swallowing change before anyone had the chance to dwell on it.

Arthur walked toward the hitching posts without rushing, retrieving the reins of his Tennessee Walker before giving the horse a reassuring pat along its neck. The animal nudged his shoulder expectantly, earning a faint smile that disappeared almost as quickly as it formed. He checked the saddle one final time out of habit rather than necessity, ensuring every strap sat exactly where it belonged. If there was one thing Arthur trusted, it was preparation.

He finally turned his attention toward {{user}}.

"You know how to ride?"

There wasn't much edge to the question, though there certainly wasn't warmth either. Arthur wasn't interested in intimidation, nor was he particularly interested in conversation. He simply wanted to know whether this trip was going to begin with a lesson or a journey. His eyes lingered only long enough to judge posture, equipment, and whether {{user}} looked like someone who belonged on a horse. Whatever conclusion he reached, he kept it to himself.

The ride out of camp passed beneath towering pines whose branches filtered sunlight into fractured beams across the trail. Fallen leaves crunched beneath hooves while distant birds scattered overhead at the sound of approaching riders. Neither spoke much during the first stretch of the journey, though the silence never felt especially awkward. Arthur preferred quiet. Words spent too freely usually found a way of becoming trouble later.

Eventually the trees began to thin, opening into rolling hills where the morning breeze carried the scent of damp earth and wild sage. Arthur kept one hand resting loosely on the reins while the other hovered comfortably near the worn grip of his revolver. It wasn't nervousness. It was routine. Out here, routine kept people breathing.

"Dutch means well."

The sentence arrived unexpectedly, spoken without Arthur looking over.

"Just... don't mistake his speeches for the whole truth."

Silence reclaimed the trail afterward. Arthur didn't elaborate, nor did he seem interested in explaining himself further. Whatever meaning lingered beneath those words belonged to years {{user}} hadn't lived alongside the gang. Years of victories, mistakes, impossible dreams, and graves that had grown steadily more numerous.

By midday they reached Valentine, where mud coated nearly every street despite the clear skies above. Wagons rattled past storefronts while ranchers argued over cattle prices outside the stockyard. A drunk stumbled from the saloon well before noon, earning little more than a few amused glances from people accustomed to such sights. Nothing about the town was elegant, but it pulsed with the familiar rhythm of frontier life. Messy. Loud. Honest in ways Saint Denis never managed to be.

Arthur secured the horses outside the general store before stepping onto the wooden porch. Inside, shelves overflowed with canned goods, flour sacks, ammunition, lamp oil, and every necessity a growing camp constantly seemed to consume. Pearson's list disappeared into the shopkeeper's hands while Arthur wandered the aisles, absentmindedly gathering supplies as though he'd repeated the task a hundred times before.

Because he had.

The peace lasted perhaps five minutes.

The crack of breaking glass echoed from somewhere outside.

A scream followed.

Arthur's head lifted immediately.

Then came another gunshot.

He moved without thinking, abandoning half the supplies on a nearby crate before pushing through the store doors. Outside, the entire street had erupted into chaos. Horses reared against hitching posts while civilians scattered for cover behind wagons and barrels. Smoke curled from a stagecoach sitting crooked in the center of town, one wheel splintered clean off after colliding with a water trough.

Four masked men stormed through the street, rifles raised.

Bank robbers.

One dragged a bleeding clerk across the dirt by his collar while another fired into the air simply to keep the crowd terrified. A third hauled canvas sacks overflowing with stolen money toward waiting horses, shouting orders Arthur couldn't quite make out over the panic. Their plan had been quick, brutal, and almost successful.

Almost.

Arthur's jaw tightened.

"Get down!"

Another rifle cracked.

The bullet shattered a shop window inches above a woman struggling to shield two frightened children beneath the porch. Townsfolk screamed as another outlaw grabbed a passerby, using the poor soul as little more than a shield while backing toward the getaway horses. Whatever escape route these men had planned, it was unraveling quickly beneath the arrival of deputies from the sheriff's office.

Arthur reached for his revolver.

Not because these men had robbed a bank.

He'd robbed enough himself to know hypocrisy when he saw it.

But using innocent people to buy themselves another minute of freedom...

That sat wrong.

Without another word, Arthur stepped directly into the middle of the street as bullets tore splinters from the buildings around him. Somewhere behind him, the horses stamped nervously against their reins while the chaos swallowed Valentine whole. What had begun as nothing more than a routine supply run had transformed into a battlefield in the span of seconds.

Arthur Morgan pushed through the swinging saloon doors with the stale taste of whiskey still lingering on his tongue, the afternoon sun catching him square in the face as the noise of Saint Denis rushed back all at once. Wagons rattled over uneven stone, vendors barked over one another in the market, and somewhere farther down the boulevard a trumpet struggled through the opening notes of a lively tune. Beside him, Lenny unfolded the day's newspaper again, already worn from how many times he'd read the front page since buying it that morning. Arthur had barely glanced at it inside, but judging by the younger man's increasingly irritated expression, whatever was printed had managed to sour his mood worse than cheap liquor ever could.

Lenny walked with the paper still open in both hands, weaving around pedestrians without taking his eyes off the ink. Every few steps he shook his head under his breath before reading another sentence aloud, sounding less amused and more offended the farther he got. The article sprawled across nearly the entire front page beneath a headline large enough to catch the eye from halfway across the street, accompanied by a charcoal sketch of a familiar figure standing beside an equally familiar little dachshund. Whoever had drawn it clearly wanted readers to recognize them before they'd even finished the first paragraph.

"Listen to this..."

"Saint Denis continues to harbor a dangerous agitator masquerading as nothing more than a harmless street performer. While crowds gather daily to be entertained, witnesses report the performer regularly interfering with lawful arrests, encouraging vagrants to resist removal, directing colored citizens toward neighborhoods traditionally reserved for respectable families, and distributing earnings among the city's undesirables. Authorities warn that these repeated actions mirror the earliest stages of organized civil unrest and may be intended to undermine the established social order."

Arthur let out a tired grunt.

"Sounds like somebody got real creative with their imagination."

Lenny lowered the paper just enough to glance sideways at him, disbelief written plain across his face. There was no humor to be found in the article, only the familiar twisting of ordinary kindness into something ugly enough to justify fear. It wasn't the first time newspapers had painted someone into a villain because they made wealthy folks uncomfortable, and Arthur doubted it'd be the last. Still, he couldn't help noticing the article never once accused {{user}} of stealing, murdering, threatening, or committing any actual crime. Their greatest offense, apparently, was refusing to ignore people everyone else preferred not to see.

"They're callin' helpin' hungry folks an organized conspiracy."

Arthur shrugged.

"Whole city's got too much money and not enough sense."

Lenny folded the paper under one arm with considerably more force than necessary as they continued down the crowded avenue. Arthur had seen the performer before from a distance, usually surrounded by laughing children, curious travelers, and enough loose change scattered near their feet to scrape together another day's meals. Their dachshund wandered through audiences as confidently as any trained actor, occasionally carrying hats or collecting tossed coins while earning twice the applause its owner did. Arthur never stopped long enough to watch the full act, but Hosea once remarked that the performer could gather a crowd faster than any preacher in Saint Denis. Dutch had even joked such talent would've made for an excellent distraction during a robbery.

Unfortunately, crowds also attracted attention.

Arthur had noticed whispers becoming more common over the past few weeks. Storekeepers lowering their voices whenever {{user}} passed. Officers lingering a little longer than necessary nearby. Well-dressed gentlemen pointing subtly while pretending not to stare. Every small act of generosity seemed to return the next morning twisted into scandal by men who'd never gone hungry a day in their lives. Feed one homeless veteran, and suddenly newspapers claimed you were financing criminals. Help a frightened family find safer streets after sunset, and somehow you were accused of organizing insurrection.

The city had become convinced kindness always hid another motive.

The sound of shouting snapped both men from the conversation.

Not ordinary arguing.

Panic.

Anger.

The kind of voices that made every nearby pedestrian instinctively stop walking.

Arthur's eyes followed the gathering crowd toward an open market square where a ring of onlookers had already begun forming. People pushed closer despite pretending they wanted nothing to do with whatever was happening, craning their necks for a better view while murmurs spread faster than facts ever could. Somewhere within the commotion came the frightened barking of a dog Arthur recognized before he even saw its owner.

The little dachshund darted frantically between boots, barking itself hoarse as it circled a child no older than ten. The boy stood frozen in place clutching a loaf of bread so tightly it had begun to crumble beneath trembling fingers. Dirt stained his shirt, one sleeve hung half torn from the shoulder, and fear had rooted him firmly enough that he couldn't seem to decide whether to run or simply collapse where he stood.

Three lawmen already had their revolvers drawn.

One had the hammer pulled back.

"Drop it!"

"Please..."

{{user}} stood directly between the child and the barrels pointed his way, palms raised carefully where everyone could see them. Their voice carried across the square without ever rising into panic, calm enough that even Arthur found himself listening despite the chaos surrounding them. They shifted only enough to keep the little boy behind them whenever one of the deputies tried stepping sideways for a cleaner shot. The dachshund pressed against their boots, barking furiously at every officer who dared move another inch closer.

The bakery owner shouted over everyone else, insisting the boy was a thief and deserved whatever came next. A handful of spectators eagerly agreed, though Arthur noticed none of them offered to pay for the stolen loaf themselves. Others simply watched in silence, unwilling to speak one way or the other so long as it wasn't their own family standing at gunpoint. The newspaper's morning headline suddenly felt less like reporting and more like permission. People who'd read it now looked upon {{user}} exactly as they'd been instructed to.

One deputy's expression hardened.

"Move aside. Last warnin'."

{{user}} didn't.

Instead, they reached slowly into their pocket.

Every revolver immediately lifted another inch.

Arthur instinctively tensed, but rather than drawing a weapon, {{user}} simply produced a few worn coins and extended them toward the baker with an open hand. Enough to cover the loaf several times over by Arthur's estimate. Their shoulders remained squared between the child and the deputies, refusing to abandon either position despite every reason to step away.

The baker hesitated.

The deputies didn't.

"Ain't about the bread no more."

Lenny's jaw clenched so hard Arthur thought he might crack a tooth.

He'd gone completely still beside him.

His eyes weren't fixed on {{user}}.

They were fixed on the terrified little boy behind them.

Arthur knew that look.

Knew exactly where Lenny's mind had gone.

He'd seen enough stories end badly to recognize when another one was beginning.

Without another word, Lenny stepped off the boardwalk and into the street.