After their fun in the snow, Arthur returned to his cave, a bag pump full of meat to last him awhile, laden with gifts of food, money and clothes thanks to Erron's generosity, and satisfied sexually for the first time in years. That's all it was, he convinced himself. Just a lay between two rough men with rougher pasts. Nothing more would come of it. Never had, never would.
The rest of the winter was rough, but he managed to get by without resorting to the temptation of devouring domestic animals. The money he'd gotten thanks to the legendary bison allowed him a bow and some ammo for his pistol, along with some new clothes. He remained in the cave though, determined to give it until the next season to ensure no Pinkertons raised their ugly heads seeking one Arthur Morgan of the former Van Der Linde gang.
Finally, the thaw came, and he left that cave, bought a horse with what little money he had left, and rode with great hope toward the Veteran's homestead.
He was surprised but pleased to find no squatters in the place, though it had been looted of all food and if any valuables were to be found, they were gone as well. After he cleaned up the place, Arthur discovered a loose floorboard, and a journal Hamish kept, along with a bit of money and a few other items of worth that were missed. He spent his days hunting, fishing, riding, living once more, living a life he'd longed for before it all fell apart.
Three nights a month, he disappeared into the hills, foraged and ran as a bear, the moon forcing the change, but his mind remaining as it always was. Still, the lack of company hurt. Percival, his massive black stallion, was nice to have around-wonderful to ride a horse again-but not much for conversation. Around the moon, it seemed worse. Like part of him was left back at that cabin by Lake Isabella. And he was ashamed to say some nights he thought back on the feel of the other man and hated himself for pining for a ghost.
It was the morning before the first night of the full moon and he was prepping breakfast for himself when a sharp whistle drew him away. He frowned and grabbed his gun. Wouldn't be the first time the damned Murfrees came around...
He stepped out onto the porch, dressed in only pants and suspenders, and he nearly dropped his gun as he stared at the familiar man.
Arthur looked different, a few months of good eating and good life had been kind to him, having gained weight and muscle, back to how he looked before the TB drained him. Also growing a goatee now, to hide the notable chin scars, clean shaved on the sides, hair loose and long.
no subject
The rest of the winter was rough, but he managed to get by without resorting to the temptation of devouring domestic animals. The money he'd gotten thanks to the legendary bison allowed him a bow and some ammo for his pistol, along with some new clothes. He remained in the cave though, determined to give it until the next season to ensure no Pinkertons raised their ugly heads seeking one Arthur Morgan of the former Van Der Linde gang.
Finally, the thaw came, and he left that cave, bought a horse with what little money he had left, and rode with great hope toward the Veteran's homestead.
He was surprised but pleased to find no squatters in the place, though it had been looted of all food and if any valuables were to be found, they were gone as well. After he cleaned up the place, Arthur discovered a loose floorboard, and a journal Hamish kept, along with a bit of money and a few other items of worth that were missed. He spent his days hunting, fishing, riding, living once more, living a life he'd longed for before it all fell apart.
Three nights a month, he disappeared into the hills, foraged and ran as a bear, the moon forcing the change, but his mind remaining as it always was. Still, the lack of company hurt. Percival, his massive black stallion, was nice to have around-wonderful to ride a horse again-but not much for conversation. Around the moon, it seemed worse. Like part of him was left back at that cabin by Lake Isabella. And he was ashamed to say some nights he thought back on the feel of the other man and hated himself for pining for a ghost.
It was the morning before the first night of the full moon and he was prepping breakfast for himself when a sharp whistle drew him away. He frowned and grabbed his gun. Wouldn't be the first time the damned Murfrees came around...
He stepped out onto the porch, dressed in only pants and suspenders, and he nearly dropped his gun as he stared at the familiar man.
Arthur looked different, a few months of good eating and good life had been kind to him, having gained weight and muscle, back to how he looked before the TB drained him. Also growing a goatee now, to hide the notable chin scars, clean shaved on the sides, hair loose and long.