The morning came cold and wet, the fog sitting low along the trees at Horseshoe Overlook. Wyatt was already up, polishing Mercy and Judgement by the dying embers of the night's fire. He didn't need much sleep anymore. Not since that night.
Arthur stepped over the log toward the tent, his brows low and irritated. "Uncle!" he shouted. "Wake the hell up!"
A groan rolled out from under the blankets.
Arthur didn't wait. He kicked the bedroll hard enough to send Uncle flopping off the cot.
"Goddamn it!" Uncle grunted, rolling over like a turtle on its back. "You're a real bastard, Arthur Morgan."
Arthur muttered, "Probably."
Wyatt stood, sliding his guns into their holsters.
Dutch called out from across the camp, "We're headin' into town. Get the girls in the wagon, make a day of it. Scout the place out."
Karen, Mary-Beth, and Tilly were already gathering up their things, giggling over nothing. Uncle groaned again as he stumbled toward the wagon.
Arthur waved Wyatt over. "You comin'?"
Wyatt nodded. "Can't let you all have too much fun without me."
They loaded up the wagon. Arthur sat up front, reins in hand. Wyatt climbed onto his horse — the same monstrous black beast that had followed him from that old winter camp. The others had grown used to it, but folks in town hadn't. The horse was too large, too quiet, too intelligent.
They set off down the trail toward Valentine.
Arthur glanced back at the girls, who were still chattering. "This what you call peace?"
"Feels close enough," Wyatt said.
Arthur chuckled, then muttered under his breath, "Damn wheel's actin' up again…"
There was a sudden crack, and the wagon tilted.
"Goddammit!" Arthur shouted, hopping down. "I broke the damn wheel!"
Wyatt slowed his horse. "You sure you know what you're doing?"
"I've had about enough of today already," Arthur muttered, inspecting the wheel.
They made repairs with some effort, Wyatt helping lift the axle while Arthur hammered the pin back in.
Once they got back on the trail, the conversation lightened. Mary-Beth asked about the town, Karen was already dreaming of whiskey, and Tilly was keeping them all in line.
As they rolled into Valentine, the town revealed itself — muddy streets, corrals full of steaming horses, men yelling about cattle prices, and the smell of too many people living too close together. A railway cut through the center like a scar.
The girls leapt from the wagon, eager to visit the general store.
Arthur and Wyatt split off, heading for the saloon with Uncle dragging behind them like a drunk ghost.
The saloon was alive with sound. Piano in the corner. Loud talk. Glass clinking.
Arthur took a drink and started chatting up a couple folks at the bar. Wyatt leaned against the back wall, watching. Always watching. His red-hued eyes scanned the faces.
Then came the sound of heavy boots.
A man named Tommy stepped in. Local brute. Built like a brick wall with half the brains.
He spotted Karen, who was now sipping whiskey at the bar and laughing with Mary-Beth.
"Well now," Tommy said. "Ain't you a pretty thing."
Arthur's voice cut in, sharp as a whip. "Walk away."
Tommy turned. "What was that?"
Arthur stepped forward. "I said, walk. Away."
Wyatt didn't move, but his fingers tapped the grip of Judgement.
Then, the bar exploded.
Tommy lunged, and Arthur slammed into him. Fists flew, chairs broke. Wyatt moved fast, grabbing one of the flanking goons and dragging him outside by the collar, slamming him into the post.
He could hear Arthur grunting, taking hits. The sound of flesh on flesh echoed. Karen was screaming. Uncle was yelling about "not my damn back again!"
Wyatt turned just in time to see Arthur hurled through the saloon doors and into the muddy street.
"Son of a bitch," Arthur growled, pulling himself up.
Wyatt cracked his neck and drew Mercy, aiming it squarely at Tommy's foot.
"You don't want to test me," he said coldly.
Tommy hesitated.
Arthur dusted himself off, limping a bit. "I got him."
Wyatt holstered the pistol, stepping back.
Arthur slugged Tommy hard, finally dropping the giant with a fist like a sledgehammer.
The street was quiet now, except for the panting and moaning.
People peeked out of windows. The sheriff walked up but didn't draw.
"Mr. Morgan," he said, slowly. "This becoming a habit."
"Just settlin' in," Arthur said, wiping blood from his nose.
The girls came out, shaking their heads. "Everywhere we go."
As they regrouped and walked back toward the wagon, Uncle sighed. "Just once I'd like to visit a town and not end up bleeding."
"Then you're in the wrong gang," Wyatt muttered.
Later, as the sun set over the hills and Valentine faded behind them, Wyatt rode beside Arthur, the memory of blood and laughter clinging to his coat like smoke.
"Hell of a start," Arthur said.
Wyatt gave a tired smile. "Could be worse."
Arthur looked at him sidelong. "You're startin' to sound like me."
"God help me," Wyatt said.