Arthur Morgan did not intend to survive when he gave his hat to John Marston and stayed behind to gain his redemption. As he crawled towards his final resting place, he never intended to wake up again.
But he does wake up. Thanks to time travelers F...
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1884
Arthur sat on Boadicea, looking out over the Nevada desert. Behind him, the creak of wagons and quiet chatter indicated that the gang's caravan was still there, still following behind him.
Before him sat the booming railroad town of Reno, Nevada. Off in the distance, the giant, craggy peaks of the Sierra Nevada mountains rose to the clouds, cutting jagged slashes into the horizon. Their peaks were still covered in snow, but it was a warm, spring day down in the high desert. Arthur patted Boadicea on the neck. "Looks like a good spot, girl," he said quietly.
It was April now. As soon as the snows had thawed enough to get the wagons out of Montana, Dutch and Hosea had decided to move. The family and clientele of the bounty hunter Arthur had killed would be asking questions soon, and it was no longer safe in Deer Creek. The idea was to eventually make it to Sacramento to buy some land, but the journey had been long and arduous. They'd picked up a new member as they crossed North Elizabeth, and Arthur found he hated the man, an old geezer who only went by the name "Uncle," with a thick, gray beard, large, red nose, and a hell of a drinking problem.
It was Uncle who rode the scrawny Indian pony to Arthur's right. He scratched the back of his neck lazily and spit a stream of tobacco juice into the dirt. "Looks fine," Uncle said in a jolly voice, grinning slightly. "The finest gamblin' in this area of the country is in that town, along with all the workin' girls and whiskey a feller could ask for."
Arthur narrowed his eyes in disgust. He had no interest in working girls, and the tobacco stain in Uncle's bushy beard made him want to gag. "We ain't here to stay, old man," he reminded him.
"I ain't that old!" Uncle protested. "I got terminal lumbago! When you're dyin' of somethin' like that in your old age, I hope the young fellers around you treat you as poorly as you treat me."
"Shut up, Uncle," said Mac Callander, who rode on Arthur's left. "We'll quit treatin' you like that if you'll do some damn work around here. Miss Grimshaw's liable to lynch you if you keep stealin' whiskey from her wagon."
"What you think, Mac?" Arthur asked, lighting a cigarette. He took a long, slow draw on it and sat back in his saddle. "You think campin' near here is worth it?"
Mac nodded. "I know a feller who works in the sheriff's office here. Crooked as they come. Dutch says we need more money if we want a chance at buying land in California, and Reno is just the place to do it because the lawmen are corrupt, and there are plenty of rich bastards who pass through there on the railroad. Plus, this used to be part of the Utah territory. There are a lot of Mormons around these parts, and they ain't too keen on gamblin' and drinkin'. Technically, this is a dry county where it ain't legal to gamble, and yet Reno's the best place to engage in such activities. If that tells you anything about the quality of law enforcement we'll encounter there."
Arthur nodded. "Alright. And, looks like there's plenty of water down there for us. Where there's water, there's game. We should be able to survive just fine while we earn enough money for the land Dutch wants to buy."
