Until Death - Red Dead Redemption II

Act I: Bounty Hunter

Arthur had never done something so utterly stupid.

He was riding like usually finds himself doing. It's about the only thing he can do. Earlier that morning he'd promised the chief of the Wapiti Indians, Rains Fall was his name. That he'd collect some plants for a ceremony the tribe was holding—for a fee of course. He wasn't about to do something for free.

After some searching around the plains he found the herbs that were requested, but that's where he made his mistake. He needed to carry a large amount of the herbs. More than he could carry in his hands, and maybe because he was feeling tired he didn't feel like making multiple trips. So, looking down he removed both his side arms. The holsters looked perfect for holding bushels of Sage and Oregano.

However, on his way back to his horse, he heard the familiar gunshots of a bounty hunter. Arthur cursed to himself as he ran to saddle up as quick as possible. With bullets flying and the sound ear shattering his horse couldn't take it, it bucked him into a tree and took off running without looking back. Leaving him in the middle of a field without anything besides a handful of herbs. All he could do was duck behind a single tree.

"We've seen you Morgan! Get out here and don't make this hard!" The hunter shouted. The tone of his voice is telling. That kind of talk that reeks of self absorption. Talking down to someone as if you were smarter than them. Arthur didn't listen, standing behind the trunk, trying to think of some convoluted reason for the hunter to leave him be.

Of course they wouldn't. At this point, it's free money, and that bounty of his doesn't say wanted alive. It says wanted dead or alive.
"Damnit!" Arthur growled under his breath, the man audibly approaching the tree line. Almost as if he's stalking his prey. What a stupid way to die Arthur thought. How embarrassing would it be to know he died by the hand of some beer-bellied pissant.

"C'mon ou—" the man's taunt was cut short when the always jarring sound of a bullet ringing out filled the air. Just barely peaking from his cover, Arthur watched the man limp to the floor with half his head blown out his ear. The chunky red mush from the wound was enough to make Arthur shudder. No matter how many people he's killed, no matter how many animals he guts. Something about seeing what's inside the human body like that is just disgusting.

Arthur was silently appreciating that he was safe, but that brief solace was quickly lost when he had the very real thought of, who shot him? Arthur pondered the idea, another bounty hunter. Wanting the cash for himself. Morgan had to do something, so he mustered up the most powerful voice he could pull off and shouted.
"Get the hell outta here if you know what's good for ya!" Kind of hurt his throat it was so gravely.
"Calm the hell down I ain't one'a them." An unknown voice echoed out. Much more pleasant sounding than his or the dead man's own. Sounds young, not threatening. "I don't much like talkin' to trees, care to show yourself?" The stranger asked. It had to be a man, that ain't no woman's tone.

Arthur obliged. His gut told him he was safe. And his gut never led him wrong. Well, that's not entirely true, his gut told him things would work out with Mary and they did not in the slightest. So his gut is usually right, to say it's always right would be an overstatement.

Arthur slowly stepped out from the tree line to see a fellow with a gun. Brown hair, brown eyes, skin that was either oily or sweaty. Most likely oily as it's been raining for the past couple a' days. He had to be around twenty or so if he had to guess. The most visually noting thing about him was the deep forest green wool coat that he had on. It looked soft. It complemented the brown boots and vest he had on. The white of the undershirt helped further enhance the colors, all of which were neutral tones.

He gave off this energy, he looked polite and well-mannered. But the way he stood, the way he just blew apart that man's head without as much as a second thought. All that polite exterior had to be a front.

"I reckon I owe you some sort of thank you. Don't I?" Arthur asked. The boy scoffed, eyes rolling,
"You ain't too happy are you pretty boy?" He barked at Arthur in a humorous tone. Arthur despised that false name.
"You gettin' smart with me? Or do you just lack respect?" The blonde asked violently. The boy taken aback,
"Christ it's a compliment. Pardon me for savin' your skin."

Arthur had never thought of it like that. Being called pretty isn't a bad thing, is it? what makes it any different than being called handsome? They mean the same thing he figures. Even if not it's just an idiotic comment. Still, he hates that goddamn nickname.
"Hm," Arthur replied.
"Jack Yorke." The boy introduced himself, putting out a hand.
"Arthur Morgan."

Jack smiled, the name was strangely delicate sounding for such an aggressively masculine fella. Nearly knocked the younger man's head off with his obnoxiously loud voice.

"Well... I'm hungry, care if I sit down for a moment?" Jack asked, looking at the scruffy man.
"Go right on ahead," Arthur replied. "Well, I figure I'd thank you for Y'know savin' my hide back there." Arthur never thanked people. Because quite frankly he didn't need to, he never really asks for help. Not because he's embarrassed or something other, he just doesn't need help often if ever.

"Don't mention it... Really don't." Jack responded with little thought.
"Why'd you do it? What's in it for you?" Arthur asked. Jack attempted to speak while chewing on some blackberries. Nothing comprehensive came out. He quickly swallowed and sighed,
"I don't like Bounty Hunters. So I shot him. Simple as that."

Jack isn't one for talking and conversation. He finds himself constantly lost in speech as he struggles to express exactly what he's feeling. Unless he's completely and utterly drained which at that point he'll just pour out exactly what he's thinking. Often in barely comprehensible monologues. He prefers writing letters for communication as writings can't stutter or forget words. It can be off-putting to some extent when he gives such blunt responses to questions, But that's all he's really capable of responding with fluently.

As Arthur explained something unimportant Jack looked at him. Analyzing his face, the curve of his cheekbones. He was a noticeably good looking man and if he had to guess Jack would probably say he's married. Because there's no way a woman didn't lock him down. Jack doesn't see a ring but most cowboys don't wear them. He might even be a father for all he knows, he looks like the fatherly type... Kind of. The type of dad the mom would be worried about influencing the kid.

Often people are scarred, diseased, bruised, and dirty. Teeth often have a dark yellow tint. Bathing is often just a dip in some questionable smelling swamp water that does nothing but relocate the dirt on your body to other parts of your body. But not this guy.

"So what'd you do for work kid?" The older man asked, sitting down next to Jack.
"Whatever pays. Usually, I'm serving some rich folk." He replied, Arthur keeping that information in mind.

"Well, I reckon I best be goin', gettin' late." The younger man exclaimed, rising from his squatting position. He didn't have anywhere to go but he wouldn't want to keep Arthur hostage in conversation.
"Come back to camp with me." Arthur said,
"What?"