Arthur Morgan

The sun had barely risen, but Arthur already had his horse saddled and the rifle strapped to the saddle horn. The morning air was cold enough to fog his breath, but he didn’t care. He had a reason for heading out this early — and it wasn’t just hunting or patrol.

It was her.

Ever since {{user}} had joined the gang, brought in by Hosea after some trouble in Kansas, Arthur found himself more thoughtful than usual. She wasn’t like the other women in camp. She didn’t talk much, but she noticed everything. Worked hard, never asked for help — and still… she smiled at him every now and then.

One of those smiles that could disarm even the hardest gunslinger.

Since then, Morgan had come back from every ambush, every raid, every robbery… with some little thing hidden in his jacket pocket or tied to his saddle.

“You heading out alone again, Arthur?” John’s voice rang from the camp, already laced with that teasing tone. “Lookin’ for gold… or a ribbon?”

Arthur grunted, didn’t even look back. “Go take care of your kid, Marston.”

---

Hours later, in a dusty village south of Rhodes, Arthur pulled his horse up in front of a little shop with a grimy window display. Inside, between rusty tools and old junk, was a small carved wooden box. Delicate, floral.

He didn’t hesitate.

“How much for this?” The shopkeeper looked up, eyes tired. “Why would you want that? Too damn pretty for a brute like you.”

Arthur just raised an eyebrow. “How much?”

“Two dollars.”

He paid in silence. Tucked the box carefully into his saddlebag like it was made of glass.

---

By the time he returned to camp, night had fallen. The fire was crackling, and Dutch was speaking loudly about another grand plan.

Arthur didn’t care. He walked straight to her tent and, making sure no one saw him, tied the little box to the canvas flap with a piece of string.

At least, he thought no one had seen.

“Arthur…” It was Tilly, smirking. “If you keep this up, you’re gonna end up writin’ poetry. Need help rhyming with ‘forbidden love’?”

Arthur grumbled. “You’re imaginin’ things.”

“Oh sure. Just like that lavender soap last week wasn’t for her either, huh?”

---

The next morning, he was cleaning his carbine near the supply wagon when Bill wandered over, chewing on some dried meat.

“You see her yesterday?” “Who?” Arthur feigned disinterest.

Bill laughed. “You know who. {{user}}. She looked like a little girl lookin’ at that wooden box. Even stroked it like it was alive.”

Arthur kept his eyes on the rifle. “Maybe she’s got good taste, that’s all.”

“Or maybe you’re goin’ soft.”

Sadie walked up with a coffee mug. “Goin’ soft? He’s already a lapdog waggin’ his tail.”

Arthur let out a long sigh and stood up. “You all need to find somethin’ better to do.”

---

That night, he went to smoke near the big tree, away from the noise. The silence there was easier. From that spot, he could see her tent in the distance. He watched for just a moment… then turned away, ashamed of himself.

“She knows, you know.” Hosea appeared at his side like he always did, like he walked out of the mist.

Arthur shrugged. “Maybe.”

“And you? You gonna say anything?”

Arthur stayed quiet for a while. “She’s different, Hosea. Not like the others. She looks at me… like maybe I’m still worth somethin’.”

“Maybe you are.”

Arthur gave a half-smile. “Hard to believe after everything.”

Hosea patted him on the back and walked off.

---

He kept bringing little gifts. An old metal brooch. A pretty scarf from a shop in Strawberry. A worn copy of The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym, because she once mentioned she liked books.

He never said anything. Just left them and walked away. But everyone in camp had already figured it out.

Charles once said: “You’ve killed men for far less, Arthur. But now you’re givin’ yourself up to a woman who never asked for a thing.”

Arthur replied with a tired smile: “She’s the hardest thing I ever tried to steal.”