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
"How's it goin' down there, Arthur?" John called down the hill.
Arthur adjusted the itchy, black bandana around his face and placed the last stack of dynamite beneath a layer of pine needles on the road. The banking coach that usually came into Bear Glen had been rerouted this week because of how often Dutch and the others had been hitting it. Thanks to a crooked teller who worked at the bank, Davey and John had been able to discover the new location, and the gang lay in wait to ambush them as they usually did. Word was that the banking coach would have extra guards this time, so they'd taken the liberty of laying down explosives to kill as many men in one blast as they could. It wasn't nice, but hopefully effective.
"If you're so worried, Marston," Arthur called back, "why don't you come help me?" He tied the dynamite to the fuse and dusted his hands off, admiring his handiwork. He wasn't the best with dynamite, but it should blow. If it didn't, they'd have to go in guns blazing and hope for the best.
Arthur ran the fuze back beyond the treeline at the edge of the road, where Davey stood, holding the detonator in one hand and Boadicea's reins in the other. "Nice job, Arthur," Davey complimented him. "Coach'll be through any minute. You best hightail it back to Dutch and the others so's you can be ready when the shooting starts."
"Payload'll be real good, Davey," Arthur reassured him. "John assured me this is a good lead."
"What's it matter to you?" Davey asked. "You'll just have spent all of it on that little whore of yours by the time the next coach rolls around."
Arthur laughed. "That little whore just so happens to be the best fuck I've ever had."
"Bein' sweet on whores never ends well," Davey warned him. "Never."
"I ain't sweet on her," Arthur said truthfully. "Not really. She's... kinda a friend, but I ain't sweet on her."
Davey sighed and handed Boadicea's reins to him. "Take some advice from an old man, Arthur-."
"You ain't that old," Arthur joked, slapping him on the back. "You're what, thirty-two? You got one or two more good years in you before you croak."
"Regardless," Davey laughed, running a hand through his bright red hair, "Forget that damn Mary woman, Arthur. She ain't gonna bring you nothin' but pain, and if she ain't wrote you by now, I doubt she's comin' back. Quit spendin' all your money on a lady that's only pretendin' to be your friend and just live a little."
"She ain't pretendin'," Arthur protested, but seeds of doubt were already sowed in his mind. They remained there as he mounted Boadicea and trotted her purposefully up the hill, leaving Davey behind to man the detonator.
At the top of the hill, hidden in a thick grove of pine trees and blackberry brambles, were Dutch, Mac, and John. They all wore bandanas to hide their faces from the law. Mac and John's bandanas were black like Arthur's, but as usual, Dutch wore his trademark red-and-white checked bandana to show he was the leader. They all wore black duster coats over their clothes, and had hats pulled down low over their ears.
