Inside the Gunsmith's Shop…
Jake burst through the door like a man who mistook a weapons store for Disneyland.
"HELLOOOO, beautiful instruments of death!" he shouted, arms wide as if he were greeting a room full of long-lost lovers.
The old gunsmith behind the counter froze mid-cleaning a Springfield rifle. "Can I... help you?"
Jake sauntered to the display case like a peacock in heat. "Oh, you can do more than help me, my friend. You can change my life. You got anything that screams 'main character energy?' Like, something big, bold, and compensating for emotional trauma?"
The gunsmith blinked. "Uh… we got a Cattleman. Standard issue."
Jake squinted at it. "Cattleman? That's like handing a lightsaber enthusiast a glow stick."
Still, he picked it up and turned it over in his hands. "Okay, okay, it's got that old-school western vibe. Dirty Harry'd be proud. Can I get, like... one of those spinny things on the trigger guard? Y'know, for flair?"
"No."
"What about engravings?"
"No."
"A suppressor?"
The gunsmith blinked. "What the hell is a suppressor?"
Jake sighed. "Ugh. Right. 1899. Steampunk dreams, actual tech nightmares."
He eventually slapped the gun on the counter. "Fine. Wrap it up. Give me ammo. Also… can I get a cowboy hat? Something iconic. I wanna look like Clint Eastwood met Johnny Depp in a fever dream."
The gunsmith, now visibly regretting his career path, simply nodded. "Back wall."
Jake skipped over. "This is the best timeline. I've peaked."
Meanwhile, Outside…
Arthur leaned against the hitching post, chewing the inside of his cheek.
"That boy ain't right."
John adjusted his belt. "He ain't even from this time. What the hell we supposed to do? He knows everything."
"Exactly," Arthur muttered. "He knows too much. Dutch. The Pinkertons. Even you. Stuff no stranger should."
John looked toward the door, eyes narrowing. "You think he's dangerous?"
Arthur exhaled slowly. "That mouth? Absolutely. That gun he's buyin'? Even more."
"But…" John scratched his chin. "He saved me from wolves. Or at least, he said he watched you do it."
Arthur chuckled darkly. "Yeah, and he called me a 'main character' like I'm in a damn play."
John leaned in. "Do we trust him?"
Arthur stayed silent for a long beat. Then, reluctantly: "No. But he's with us now. And that's the problem."
Back Inside…
Jake strutted out of the store like a catwalk model from hell—hat tilted just slightly forward, revolver holstered like he was born with it, and a grin that said I've watched too many Tarantino films.
"Y'all ready to cause some yeehaw chaos?" he said, finger guns blazing.
Arthur stared.
John facepalmed.
Jake winked. "I call this look 'Midlife Crisis Cowboy.' It's trending nowhere, but damn if it ain't stylish."
Arthur mounted his horse with a sigh. "Let's just get back to camp before you kill us with words."
Jake climbed up awkwardly behind him, clutching on. "Aww, we're bonding! This is the horse-riding montage moment where we laugh and ride into the sunset—"
Arthur elbowed him. "Say one more word and I'll throw you off."
Jake zipped his mouth with a literal hand gesture. Then opened it again immediately. "But what if—"
Arthur raised a finger.
Jake nodded. "Shutting up. Yep. Total mute mode."
John snorted. "We should've left him tied to that tree."
They rode off toward camp as the sun dipped below the horizon.
Jake leaned close to Arthur's ear and whispered, "This is my villain origin story, you know."
Arthur whispered back, "This is my migraine's origin story."