In a world where outlaws are no longer wanted, the past seems to be another foe. Seven years and one disappearance can hold many wounds. Even as you learn that those wounds are about to be torn right back open.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
____
Dawn stretched through the mountains and the earth came to life. The sun tried to peak through the overcast of clouds. Deer grazing through the fields of the heartlands. Wild horses galloping through streams. Farmhands beginning their day's work.
Fires dying to ash and rumble as the yawns and groans of camp rose. Miss Grimshaw being the first to be up and ready for her day. She woke the other ladies of camp and set them to work. Mr Pearson groaned as he stepped up to the chopping board and began the stew for the empty camp bellies. Abigail Roberts setting up a fresh pot of coffee as she relit the fire under the cooking pot. Charles Smith stood with an axe in his hands and swung it down to spilt a wooden log in half.
As the rest of camp went about its usual morning routine, four members seemed to linger a while longer inside their tents. Molly O'Shea left her shared tent with Dutch Van Der Linde in a huff. Said man sat on their shared bed, a grimace set along his face. The record player next to him playing a solemn medley, a sad trumpet followed by low strings filled the air. Hosea Matthews sat on his bed roll as he watched the clouds pass by in the morning blue. A thought or two drifting away with them. Thoughts that Hosea hoped would fade with the clouds. John Marston emerged from his tent. His hat lowered over his freshly scarred face as he avoided the others in camp and went to his horse. Patting him on the neck before mounting him and riding out of camp. Abigail watched him leave with a heavy heart and a hopeless worry for him.
Arthur Morgan sat on his bed with a book in his hands. Staring at the brown cover, he didn't dare open it. Glaring at the small object in his hands, the sheets inside the leather a blade that would pierce his scarred wound and tear it open if he glanced at them. Clenching his jaw, Arthur stands from his bed, puts the book back into his satchel and leaves his tent. The music playing from Dutch's tent only deepened the frown in Arthur's brow. No words were spoken between them as Arthur passed by. It was clear that the two men weren't okay. Too much had occurred within the past few weeks. Escaping Blackwater and losing members of their family once again. Uncertainty about other members of the gang still floated around. Now today it felt as though they were being trampled by herds of Bison.
Arthur approached the hitching post he had left his horse, Ace. The black rabicano Tennessee Walker greeted his owner with a huff as Arthur patted his neck. Arthur pulled a sugar cube from within his satchel and fed it to Ace. Running his hand over Ace's neck, Arthur pulled a cigarette out and lit a match off the side of his boot. Shaking the match out once his cigarette was lit.
"Arthur!" Said man turned to Hosea as he approached him.
"Hosea." Arthur nodded back in response.
"How'd you like to come hunting with me?" Hosea asks as he pats Ace on his neck. Arthur raises an eyebrow at the older man as he takes his cigarette from his lips.
"What you plannin' on huntin'?"
"A big bear. Somewhere by Dakota River, towards the mountains. Would be a day's ride out from camp." Hosea replies. Arthur ponders the idea of getting away from camp for a while. His decision being pushed towards going when he hears the music from Dutch's tent become even more sombre.
