The fire crackled low in the stone hearth of Arthur's cabin. The logs had burned down to a bed of glowing coals, sending soft orange light dancing across the walls. Outside, Jackson was silent, blanketed in a heavy snowfall. Inside, the only sound was the metallic click of a revolver cylinder spinning.
Arthur sat at his small wooden table, sleeves rolled up, hands methodical.
He carefully pushed a cleaning cloth through the barrel of his Cattleman Revolver, the metal gleaming beneath layers of years-old grime and dust that had somehow returned with him from the old world. His fingers moved slow, practiced, almost reverent. Then came the Double-Action. A faster piece—louder too. He oiled it, reassembled it, clicked the hammer, tested the weight.
Still as good as the day I carried it into Beaver Hollow.
Next was his bolt-action rifle.
He laid the weapon across his lap, checking the chamber, running his fingers along the cool wood stock, eyes distant. He had brought down deer with it. Wolves. Men. And worse.
Arthur sighed, setting the rifle aside. Then he turned to his satchel.
He hadn't dared to go through it fully until now—partly from disbelief, partly from fear of what he might find... or not find.
He unbuckled it and laid it open on the table.
Inside—far deeper than it had any right to be—lay a collection of trinkets, gear, and tokens of a life long lived.
A pocket watch—Hosea's. Still ticking.
A carefully folded letter—Mary's last words to him.
A silver locket. Eliza's.
The old camera.
A lockbox key he never got to use.
Crafted talismans from the native tribes.
Snake oil bottles. Canned food. Throwing knives. A tomahawk.
A bundle of dynamite.
Arthur blinked. "What in the hell…?"
Then, as he reached in deeper, his hand brushed something soft—faded leather.
He pulled it out slowly.
It was a photograph. Worn, the edges curling from years of wear. He turned it to the light.
And there they were.
The Van der Linde gang.
Dutch in the center, smug and proud. Hosea with his quiet smile. John and Abigail on the side, arms tight around a squirming little Jack. Sadie leaning against a tree, hat cocked to one side. Charles standing tall. Javier. Bill.
And himself.
Arthur stared at it.
His younger self was frozen in time, smiling faintly, caught in a lie of a future they never had. A family that never held.
He ran his thumb over the faces.
"We were somethin', once."
He set the photo on the table, beside his revolvers.
Then he reached into the satchel again and pulled out something unexpected: a small wooden carving.
The bear he had once given to Jack.
"How did this get here…?" he whispered.
He closed the satchel finally, carefully rebuckling it. Too many memories, too many ghosts.
Arthur stood, stretched, then walked over to the small cot against the wall. He placed his revolvers on the nightstand, one on each side—old habits.
Laid the bolt-action at the foot of the bed.
Hung his hat on the nearby hook.
Then finally, he lay down.
He stared at the wooden ceiling, eyes open for a long time. The flicker of the fire threw shapes against the roof beams—shapes that sometimes looked like horses, wagons, gunfights, ghosts.
"Wherever this is… I'm still here." he murmured.
And slowly, sleep took him.
Deep and dreamless. For now.