Ghosts of the Past [ RDR2 - Arthur Morgan ]

Chapter 1 - Good Men Deserve Kindness

Wordcount - 3022
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1889 - Calendar

Gunshot wounds were never something to laugh at.

The excruciating pain alone is often enough to leave someone for dead. However, if the victim could bear the pain, their fears were not quelled. The next issue to be concerned about was blood loss. If a bullet is lodged inside the body, the metal is often enough to stop the bleeding long enough to give the victim a chance at reaching a doctor. If the bullet was lodged, this usually proved a far more painful surgery overall. Still, pain is always preferable to death in a game of chances.

In this case, the slug was not lodged. This wound was what a doctor may call 'through and through'. Thick red blood oozed from the shoulder of a young man, dressed in shabby, unkempt clothing, who pressed as tightly as he could against the wound with his blood-soaked hand. God alone was to be thanked that the bullet had missed his bone; otherwise, he may have had to simply accept fate and give himself to the wolves.

The wound was not exactly superficial; however, it had only caught the edge of his shoulder. While still very painful, he had survived far worse, and this was the thought that kept him moving. The pistol slug had ripped away skin, causing a fairly substantial amount of surface damage.

"Fucking stupid Lemoyne bastards," a deep voice and drawling accent came between his clenched teeth as he cursed the gunmen who had caused his injury.

Arthur Morgan was a young man in his mid-twenties. He might like to describe himself as a Robin Hood to the poorest of the country—The law would describe him as a criminal. Caramel brown hair stuck to his forehead from sweat, and bright blue eyes scanned the area in front of him, as he breathed through pain.

He thought mostly of his return, triumphant, to his surrogate fathers, Hosea Matthews and Dutch Van der Linde, as he slowly crouched through long grass, searching for somewhere to lay low while he tended his bleeding wound. The Lemoyne gang was no longer on his tail, but he couldn't be too safe to ensure his escape.

In the distance, the looming silhouette of a stable formed out of the darkness. This seemed as good a place as any to take sanctuary and heal. One quick glance over his shoulder told Arthur he was okay to move, but he'd have to move quickly to avoid unwanted attention.

In a silent sprint, he entered the sliding stable doors, horses briefly fussing at the unexpected arrival, this late at night. Once the stable doors slid shut behind him, he was plunged into darkness. The light of the moon only pierced through cracks between the wooden boarded walls.

The young man sparked a match on the bottom of his shoe and squinted with the tiny light into the stable beyond. Six paddocks held six different horses. A few large stallions and some nimble-looking mares. At the last paddock, nearest Arthur, was a fussing foal, pole thin legs, with large hooves that seemed to weigh it down, ideal for clomping around and making noise. Perhaps months old, Arthur thought. He'd always wanted a horse he could raise from infancy.

Sliding down the wooden walls next to the foal, Arthur lit another match and stuck it between his teeth. The lighting was awful, but what other choice did he have? The sleeve of his shirt was soon ripped at the seams to give him better access to the bullet wound, causing him so much anguish. It looked worse than it was, he was sure. Still, he took the already bloodied shirt sleeve and began attempting to wrap his shoulder tightly.

Then the match burned out.

"God dammit." He grumbled irritably, fumbling in the dark for another match, lighting it against his boot and placing it in his mouth to continue his work.