Mud and Gold [Arthur Morgan] [RDR2]

➵ chapter viii

He felt the blanket sliding down his back, and dropping onto the floor by his feet as he immediately stood up. "Damnit!" Arthur grumbled out, dropping the game by the fire as he reached back for his revolver.

"You think they're O'Driscolls?" (y/n) asked, panic lacing her voice.

"Don't know, but I ain't riskin' it," he turned to (y/n), saw her standing up just as fast as he did. "Go hide! Quick!" he ordered.

Yet again, she heeded his order without hesitation, and ran behind him, towards the forest. Arthur waited until she was out of sight before he proceeded to pat his horse on the back, ushering her to follow (y/n), and hide as well—if need be, she could take the horse, and run away.

The sound of the hooves increased, got louder and louder, and Arthur turned just in time to see three horses coming into view then, emerging from the trees across from the camp at a fast pace before they halted, neighing loudly.

Arthur recognized one of the men immediately—the same O'Driscoll he had shot in the shoulder back at (y/n)'s farm.

The O'Driscoll hadn't come alone, had two other friends with him this time, and none of them waited to unholster their guns as they jumped down from the horses. All three of them stood menacingly at the other side of the campfire, staring up at Arthur with smirks on their faces. One of them had a large scar across his face, which crooked his smile in an odd way. The other had his dirty hair pulled in a ponytail, and a bandana covering half of his face.

Arthur made a mental note, and named them Scarface and Greasy. He almost laughed at the thought.

"Well, well, well, look who it is!" The O'Driscoll, still with bandages wrapped around his shoulder, gesticulated with his good arm as he laughed obnoxiously loud. "Arthur Morgan!"

Arthur let out a small groan as he held his revolver tightly, aiming it at him first. "Don't ya have quite the observation skills, friend!" He scoffed. "The hell you want? Another bullet to the shoulder?"

"Shut it, Morgan!" the O'Driscoll growled. "Where's the girl?"

"What girl?"

"Don't play dumb with us, come on!" he aimed the revolver at Arthur, his forefinger dangerously close to the trigger. "Tell us! And you won't get hurt... much," he grinned, showing off his yellow teeth.

Arthur gritted his teeth, as the other two raised their own guns at him—with only one revolver he could not do much against three. But he had no intention of giving (y/n) to those bastards. Even if his life depended on it, he'd make sure (y/n) got out of there alive, and well.

Greasy was the first one of the three to make a move. At the deep silence Arthur gave them in response, Greasy stepped forward and knocked Arthur's gun out of his hand with a swift move. The weapon flew to the side, collided with the dirt by the tent with a soft thud. Before the outlaw could react, Greasy hit him in the side of the head with the butt of his gun, snarling as he did so.

Arthur dropped to his knees, growling in both pain, and frustration—he hated losing control of situations like this, even when he was aware of how at a disadvantage he was. Three guns were aimed at him once again, as the three O'Driscolls stood around him. He raised his hands over his head, and sighed. "Damnit."

"What's it gonna be, cowboy?" Scarface spat.

"I ain't tellin' ya nothin'," he growled, glaring daggers at the three of them.

"Woah, he a brave one, ain't he?" The O'Driscoll barked out a laugh. "What's the girl done to ya to have ya so overprotective of 'er, huh?"

After he spoke, he suddenly moved forward, pressed his boot to Arthur's chest forcefully, and shoved him backwards until his back hit the ground. The collision with the harsh surface knocked the air out of his lungs, and he felt a slight increasing pain already rising up his spine, reaching the back of his head. The O'Driscoll hovered over the outlaw, smirking viciously at him as he pointed the barrel of his revolver to Arthur's forehead.