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Glenn Porter scowled as he ducked under another branch. He’d never been one for country life, and he’d told his director as much when he was given this mission on what he was pretty sure was a punishment of his bungling of a recent union busting effort.

“Son, it isn’t like that. You’re just chasing down an old lead that’s stuck like a bone in the craw of our agency. You can set the old rumors to rest and we can move on,” Clyde Giles had said, pushing his glasses up. Age was making him near-sighted and the once sharpshooter was only reluctantly accepting his dimming vision and the glasses required as a result. He had been operational all his career until his eyes had failed him, and he felt like a horse put out to pasture. “Sure, you might not find anything at all. I expect you won’t. That man died on a mountain twenty years ago. But we can close this case for good.”

“That whole gang is dead. Any of them that mattered.” Glenn scanned the papers on the director’s desk. He pointed to a front page article. “Put me on that case, the one with the people who keep going missing on the trains.”

Clyde ignored the suggestion. “Sure they’re dead. Messy business. But the gang is back in the papers and there’s enough clamer about van der Linde’s second hand man. There’s nothing there, but it’s an easy win.” Clyde pushed his glasses up over his nose again before growing frustrated and taking them off entirely. He settled back into his desk chair, a leather monstrosity that he was sure cost more than his entire annual salary when he had started out. He pinched the bridge of his nose and peered up at the young man. “Put it to rest. The Western air should clear your head some. It’ll get you outta town while this whole thing quiets down.”

“Mr. Giles–”

“You’re confusing my order for a suggestion. This is not a barter. Go West, young man. You can spend a month learning how to ride horses for all the agency cares. The man died in 1899, that’s all there is to it. Maybe while you’re out there you’ll find yourself some farmgirl with stars in her eyes. Or you can find yourself unemployed.” Clyde smiled wryly. “I guess it is a barter of sorts.”

Gleen stiffly picked the file off the desk and stalked out of the office.

It was in Emerald, a former ranch turned bustling railroad town that Glenn finally caught his break at a local watering hole. A man named Cooper with red rimmed eyes, a bulbous paunch, and the clumsy movements of a man well accustomed to drink said he knew something about Arthur Morgan. For a jug of whiskey, he said that he was pretty sure the man was dead and the world was better for it but he knew a guy that might’ve known him. For twenty bucks, he pointed Glenn in the direction of O’Creigh’s Run. For another five dollars he gave him an old map, the corners torn and a large stain of what Glenn was sure had been moonshine and blood marred the whole western edge.

It took Glenn a day and a half to find a trail that would lead to the lake and another two days of following an old cowpath before the trees broke into a clearing with a high alpine lake. There was a cabin that looked like it had a recent addition, and a well appointed barn just to the east of it with a paddock. Not far from the cabin was a pier that went out into the still waters, and at the end of the pier was a man sitting with a rod pushed between legs. The sun was just beginning to set, painting the peaks in brilliant shades of purple. Fish jumped in the early evening, casting ripples across the placid waters but not, seemingly, interested in the bait the man had set.

“Hey, mister!” Glenn shouted.

The man turned for just a moment, and Glenn swore there was surprise on his face before he turned back, his bobber dipping. The man jerked the rod and began to reel his catch in. From the thrashing, it was quite a catch. Clear lake water flashed in the setting sun as the man handled the reel with an expertise Glenn had never had the patience for. He waited at the end of the dock. As the battle between man and fish stretched, Glenn considered continuing on his journey but already the shadows were starting to grow deep and Glenn had grown tired of sleeping under trees. If this man did not know where Arthur Morgan was, maybe he’d heard a rumor. At this point, a night in front of a warm fire was worth a rumor, if the man would offer it.

Just as the sun had sunk below the mountains, erupting the clouds into myriads of pastels, the man pulled a giant fish from the water. Studying it for a moment in the wan light, he turned and made his way towards Glenn. Both the fish and the man were larger than the young man had figured them for, and Glenn felt his mouth watering. He’d been on hardtack and jerky for nearly a week and was hungry for something that didn’t hurt his teeth.

As he grew closer, Glenn realized the man was not as old as he had assumed. His broad face was mild, his dark hair plaited over his shoulders in a manner Glenn had only seen in old newspaper photos and dime novels. He caught Glenn in a mild gaze, his black eyes indiscernible.

“You’re a long way from home.” It wasn’t a question, and Glenn let the silence widen, thinking the man might continue. When he didn’t Glenn said,

“My name’s Glenn Porter.”

The Indian stood on the end of the dock and stared at Glenn for a long time. The young man felt the weight of the stare. He knew he looked disheveled after days on the trail, and shook off the urge to straighten his collar, opting instead to pull his shoulders back under the scrutiny. “Should I know who that is?” The man finally asked.

“...No,” Glenn said.

“I need to cook this,” the Indian said, hefting up the fish, its silver scales dull in the twilight. He pushed past Glenn, towards the log cabin perched on a knoll overlooking the black waters that reflected the darkening sky above.

“Can I–” Glenn sputtered. “I’m hungry.”

The man paused then made a quick, short movement with his head, beckoning Glenn to follow.

And Glenn, who thought himself very self assured, picked up the pieces of his ego and followed.

The nameless man lit lanterns in his cabin and placed one at the kitchen window, the glow warming the interior as he set to fileting the fish. Glenn glanced around. The man’s cabin was oddly neat. A silk flower sat in a glass jar by the neatly made bed wide enough for two. Old tintypes sat beside the flower. A newspaper, too yellowed for Glenn to make out from this distance, was pinned to the cabin wall.

“You can start the fire.” The man nodded to the empty hearth. “Coals should still be warm. Kindling’s by the door.”

Glenn stared at the cold fireplace. He’d never had to start a fire in his life, but he collected the kindling and piled it into the hearth. He reached into his pocket for his matches he reserved for his cigarettes. Lighting one, he set it to the corner of a curling piece of wood. It flamed briefly before sputtering out. After three more attempts he started to grow frustrated.

“You built it wrong.” The Indian said from right behind him. Glenn started. He’d never heard the man approach. The man squatted beside him, carefully stacking the kindling over pine needles. “You have to give the fire room to breathe,” he explained. “It can suffocate, just like anything else.” Using flint, he sparked a flame, adding sticks into it as it grew into a proper fire. Satisfied, the man returned to the tidy kitchen where he picked up a knife, returning to his work. Glenn had been down to the docks once as a child to see the catch as it was brought in, but he’d never reconciled what he’d seen and the white, flakey flesh his mother set on the table. By the time she’d picked up the meat from the market, they’d been dressed into obscurity of their origins.

“You don’t belong here,” the man said as he worked. He cleaned his hands and poured a flash of gold into a cup that he handed to Glenn. Glenn stared at the contents of the cup.

“A friend of mine made it,” the man said, turning his attention to the fish. “Said he met some old moonshiners a few years ago and learned some tricks.” The Indian threw the fish skin into an empty tin plate on the deck. “Drink it or don’t. It makes no difference to me.”

Glenn drank and coughed. “It’s good,” he sputtered, the burn trickling down his throat. The Indian shrugged.

“I’ll be sure to tell my friend you approve.”

Glenn glanced around the cabin. An old Henry sat over the hearth burning with coals, the gold receiver glimmering in the fire light. He saw the two pillows on the bed, and two cups next to the sink. A third was in his hand.

He looked around the cabin again, slower this time, wondering about the missing occupant.

“I’ve seen a lot of Dudes,” the Indian said. “But you aren’t one.” He pushed the fish around on an iron skillet. “What brings you here?” He didn’t look at Glenn, but the younger man felt trapped in the question all the same. He forced himself to look away from where he was studying the cabin and stared down at the amber liquid in his cup. He took another gulp.

“Looking for a ghost,” he said. The Indian pulled the fish from the skillet and put it onto a plate with roasted vegetables. He proffered it wordlessly to Glenn. “Obliged,” he said.

“What kind of ghost?” The man settled into the rocking chair beside Glenn and began to eat. Glenn made quick work of the fish and roasted carrots. The Indian watched him wryly.

“I never caught your name,” Glenn said, bold after a third sip of golden courage.

“No,” the Indian agreed, “You didn’t.”

Glenn stared at the cup in his hands, unease winding down his muscles. Cooper had not been the most reliable of sources, but after several weeks of wandering and rumors that hadn’t panned out, Glenn had been hoping for anything definitive to get him back to the crowded streets of Chicago. He found the open west unsettling in its limitless blue skies, the horizon rolling on to forever.

But all Cooper had done was point him to a nameless Indian and a cabin made for two.

Glenn took another sip of the drink and coughed again as it washed through him. “Have you ever heard of Arthur Morgan?”

The Indian’s eyes sparkled in the firelight, his gaze growing measured and thoughtful. “That’s not a name I’ve heard in a long time.”

“So you know of him?”

The corner of the Indian’s mouth quirked. “There’s not a man out here that hasn’t heard of him and the Van der Linde gang. What’s a city man doing looking for him?”

“I’m an author,” Glenn lied readily. “Trying to get the story of Morgan down while the story of the van der Linde gang is in the papers again.”

Charles glanced at him. “I can take you to him tomorrow.”

“He’s alive,” Glenn sputtered.

“To his grave.” The other man finished dryly.

“There was a sighting a few months ago,” Glenn protested. “Down in Emerald.” In the years since the Van der Linde gang had terrorized the West, it’d settled into a proper railroad town with storefronts showcasing the best Eastern fashions and newest guns. They hadn’t paved their roads yet, but there was an old man by the name of Gantrim who’d bought a Model T in anticipation. He kept it in the barn next to an old wagon that was still used with greater frequency. He’d made his money on wagons, Glenn had learned, and from fencing, if the barber was to be believed.

“Grave robbers have been selling the story of Arthur Morgan for over a decade,” the Indian interrupted Glenn’s thoughts. Glenn blinked muddily, looking down at the liquid in his hands.

Glenn stared out of one of the cabin windows and into the dark expanse that lay beyond. “I heard he’s still alive,” he said, focusing back on his companion.

“He’s not,” the man said with a finality that Glenn felt his interest spark.

“How would you know?” Glenn asked, feeling punchy.

“Because I buried him.”

Glenn stared at the man for a long time, the crackling of the fire and the distant howling of wolves filling the old cabin. The man poured himself a cup of the golden liquid. The Indian continued,

“He was a friend of mine. John Marston too. Good men.”

“They killed a lot of people!” Glenn exclaimed, forgetting his cover for a moment. The van der Linde gang was notorious in the Agency for both the death they’d wrought on both the civilian population and the agents themselves. The legendary Agent Milton, for whom the new wing in the Agency building was named, had left behind a wife and daughter after his murder. Glenn was of the same age as the girl, but she’d shown no interest in him, or any other agent.

“Yes, they did,” the man agreed, and did not expound.

“Agent Milton was murdered in cold blood by them,” Glenn said shortly.

“He wasn’t. He used John’s wife, Abigail, as bait” His host asked. “His death was at her hands when she managed to break free and shot him.”

“...Huh?”

The Indian looked at him with a quirked eyebrow. “Doesn’t quite meet the narrative of a fearless martyr, does it?”

“If he used her as bait, it was only because of Blackwater and he had to do whatever it took to take them down.” Glenn fired back.

At the mention of Blackwater, the man fell silent, his face growing stormy and pinched, as if remembering something unpleasant. The fire spit out sparks as a log collapsed.

“Blackwater,” the man said eventually, “was the end of the gang, even if they didn’t know it yet. Everything after that was collapse.” The Indian looked over, catching Glenn in his dark gaze.

“Were you there?”

The man stared at him with his dark eyes. “All my people are dead,” he eventually sighed. “A valley of ghosts. But I can show you where Morgan died. And a dozen other men better than him by half. Have you ever heard of Rains Fall or Eagle Flies?”

“…no,” Glenn said. “Should I have?”

“This land is full of good men who died for their causes. Arthur Morgan was one of them. He didn’t die for Dutch van der Linde. He died protecting his family. And now they’re dead, too.”

Glenn stared down at his empty cup, and the Indian filled it, gold slushing against the tin. He looked up at the Indian carefully. “Who are you?” Glenn asked, his head starting to swim from the drink. The file on Arthur Morgan was on his horse. He’d looked over it but hadn’t really studied the thick dossier; thought the director’s mission was just an attempt to get him out of town on a fool’s mission while the heat over his botched job quieted down. He tried to remember everyone in van der Linde’s gang, but most of them were dead or had gone straight. “Were you in the gang?”

The Indian looked bemused. “I don’t think I’m going to entrap myself to a Pinkerton, even if your agency isn’t what it once was, and even though I’m not who I used to be.”

Glenn felt a shiver slink down his spine, wondering if his complacency had gotten him killed as he had no real idea who was sitting across from him. His gun was hanging on the door, and if the Indian’s broad frame was any indication, he didn’t think he could best his opponent in hand to hand. He felt his fingers curling into a fist. “I’m an author,” he said through dry lips.

“Sure,” the man said, watching Glenn’s clenched fist with a bemused expression. “You’re my guest. Out here, that means a lot. I didn’t feed you and give you my best whiskey so I could kill you.” The Indian looked outside, into the black expanse that lay beyond. “You’re lucky to have come in when you did; there will be a storm later tonight. It was on the wind earlier.” He turned back to Glenn. “You can stay or you can go; it makes no difference to me. But if you stay, you won’t come to any harm.”

Glenn rolled the tin cup back and forth in his hands before holding it out wordlessly. For the first time, the Indian smiled, cutting years away from his face. They fell silent, watching the flames. Outside, the sky flashed bright with lightning, followed by the distant roll of thunder.

“How did you know? That I’m a Pinkerton?”

The man laughed. Glenn stared at him, but the man was not more forthcoming.

“If he wasn’t a bad man, then who was he?” Glenn finally asked, rain pattering against the roof.

The Indian’s eyebrows raised mildly, and he regarded Glenn carefully. “A complicated man. Probably the best one I’ve ever known.” He let that lay between them, and Glenn picked over his next questions.

“How did you meet him?”

The man looked surprised at the question, and he leaned against the chair, staring into the flames for so long that Glenn thought he wasn’t going to answer. “In Blackwater,” he finally said. “But the first time I got to know him was in the mountains outside Colter. He was a confident man, but his strength was that he knew his weaknesses. He asked if I could teach him how to track. So I did.”

“Can I–” Glenn picked over his next words carefully. “Do you mind if I wrote some of this down?” He had forgot his dossier in his saddlebags, but not the leather journal he kept with him. He slowly reached for it.

His host glared.

“Not for the Agency,” Glenn continued quickly. “For posterity.”

The man considered him a long time before shrugging. “He’s dead. It makes no difference to me. Agency or posterity.” A flash of some old memory flashed over the Indian’s face, and his countenance became more mild. “Have you ever heard of Theodore Levin?”

“The author?”

“The same. He sent Arthur on a mission to find famous gunslingers and report back.”

“Theodore Levin, the famous dime novelist, knew Arthur Morgan?”

“Paid him for his troubles, too. But it wasn’t Calloway that won all those duels, or Slim Grant who mortally wounded him.”

“Who was it?” Glenn asked, his mouth hanging open. He’d chewed through all those books as a child, dreaming of the open sky and a world of fast draws and faster justice. He just hadn’t thought he’d find the west so big. The Indian quirked an eyebrow at him. “It was Morgan?” He sputtered.

“It was.” Something shifted in the Indian’s face when he glanced down at Glenn’s journal. “I’ll tell you the story.”

In the morning, the man was true to his word and took Glenn over muddy, rocky trails into the mountains. Vervain and columbine, encouraged by the rain, were blooming on bright green stalks unspoiled by the burden of summer. As they climbed higher, the trail turned to icy slush. By late afternoon, they passed through an old campsite, little more than tattered canvas on skeletal wagons remaining. The Indian pulled his palomino up and stood thoughtfully on the rocky edge. Glenn pulled up beside him and waited for the other man to speak.

“This is where the last ride of Arthur Morgan started. We’ll go on foot from here.”

“Because it’s too steep for the horses?” Glenn asked, sliding off the horse.

“Because that’s what Arthur did.”

Glenn followed the Indian wordlessly. They scrambled up the steep mountain, the thin air catching in Glenn’s throat. “I thought he had tuberculosis,” he wondered, gasping for air.

“He did.” The other man confirmed, moving with a grace that belied his build. They crested the mountain top in the late afternoon sun. A large boulder was positioned to the east, overlooking the shaded valley below. The Indian came to stand beside it. Glenn fell in next to him, following the Indian’s gaze to the rock.

“My name,” the man said, “Is Charles Smith. Fifteen years ago I picked up Arthur’s bones up here and buried them where relic hunters would never find him. Go back to your Agency and tell them to put the ghost of Arthur Morgan to rest.”

Glenn stared out over the valley. The ridges swept a blue shadow over the trees below, the branches flowing in the early evening breeze. He felt a muscle jump in his jaw as he realized it would be dark when they made the trek back, and the horses were tired. “Am I still your guest?”

Charles glanced at him. “We’ll ride back to the foothills. This is not a place I have any interest in spending the night.”

They remounted, descending the western face of the mountains, back through the dark holler and under the boughed trees that were already gathering night in around them like secrets. When they hit the open plains, the western sun was a memory on the purple horizon. Charles made a fire of flint and bluestem grass dry from winter. Glenn combed the edge of the forest, picking up deadfall. He brought it back to Charles wordlessly, watching the man bank the fire into something respectable.

Charles prepared a meal of salted meat and beans. They ate wordlessly. Questions burbled through Glenn’s brain like a brook in a storm, but he couldn’t seem to form one that would answer all his curiosity. He had thought this was a dead end mission and instead he’d found a man who knew Arthur Morgan. He’d been just a child when Arthur Morgan had died, and the man seemed like a fable.

“One time I found him wandering a field of flowers,” Charles started over the fire. Glenn glanced down from where he was staring up at the stars. “Turns out, he kept this journal and drew all the wonders he came across. The man was an exceptional artist.”

Glenn gaped at Charles, trying to imagine the fearless brute who’d been such a thorn to the Pinkerton’s as an artist.

Unbidden, Charles continued. “He spent a whole month riding the west looking for bones for some woman who called herself a scientist searching for proof of monsters that roamed the world long ago.

“He was a better father to Jack Marston for years before John took up the role. I think a part of that boy died the day Arthur did.

“He beat a man within an inch of his life for pennies and caught his tuberculosis from him. It was maybe the best thing that ever happened to him.”

Glenn gaped at Charles. “The best thing?”

Charles nodded, looking out over the moonlit prairie. “It reordered his priorities. He realized he had more in his life to do than try to be validated by a man who called him a son but saw him as a tool used to be ground down and thrown away when its purpose had run its course.”

“Who? Van der Linde?”

Charles nodded. “He wore the suit of Dutch’s brute well enough, but it was ill-fitting. When he found out he didn’t have to wear it anymore and he could be the man he’d always known he could be, he was better for it.”

Glenn wrote Charles' words down as quickly as he could in his tight shorthand. He filled pages of stories of the man that had been Arthur Morgan until Charles was tired of talking, and they fell back to their bed rolls, Glenn’s hand cramping.

Charles had already tacked the horses by the time Glenn woke the next morning. Song birds flitted from the nearby pine boughs, the prairie before them alight in spring wildflowers. Coffee was steaming over the fire and Charles poured some into a tin cup when he saw Glenn stir. He held it out wordlessly. Glenn propped himself up and took it gratefully. He wasn’t used to sleeping on the ground, and everything had dug at him wrong. He rolled his neck around. He noticed the horses were already tacked.

“Where do we go next?” He asked, eyeing the creatures. His butt was still ripe with saddle sores but he felt something new in him, something that wanted to follow Charles Smith and learn all the dying stories.

“It’s time for you to go home.” Charles said and Glenn swallowed his protest. He looked out over the morning prairie, the mountains behind him an ancient presence. He could see the appeal, and he thought to say as much. Charles nodded.

“Beautiful and untamed, but not for much longer.” Charles held out the reins to Glenn’s mare.

Recognizing the dismissal, Glenn grabbed the reins. “Maybe we will meet again.”

“If you come back as you are, it will not be as my guest,” Charles said shortly. Glenn opened his mouth then closed it shut with a click. Charles continued, “If you ride south, you’ll hit the train tracks. Follow them east to the train station.”

Glenn looked around him. Charles huffed and pointed. “That way. South. East is where the sun rises.”

“I knowthat,” Glenn said, although he hadn’t quite known which way was south. As he rode away, he glanced behind him only to find Charles Smith and his camp gone, as if they’d never been there at all.

Charles rode back to the cabin, watching the smoke stack curl into the late afternoon sky. As he grew closer, he could smell dinner in the high, still air. He put his horse in the barn they’d built, and when he came around the corner of the old farmhouse he found Arthur on the porch, his heels on the rail and the chair tipped back.

“I’ve told you not to tip back,” Charles said with irritated fondness. Arthur grinned back at him.

“How was your visit?”

“We’ve grown too complacent,” Charles replied, settling into the chair beside Arthur.

“I’ve been ‘dead’ for twenty years, we’re allowed a little complacency.”

“What if it had been you fishing that he’d caught?”

“Then I’m sure he and Arthur Callahan would’ve had a nice talk. And if something had happened to that fine young guest, I’m sure his boss would’ve attributed it to the dangers of the west. I saw how that boy rode a horse. He would’ve broken his neck at the sign of the first rattlesnake that caused his horse to buck.”

Arthur held out a salt glazed jug of clear liquid. Charles took it and coughed, his face screwing in disgust, holding it back out for Arthur to take. “That’s awful.”

Arthur grinned. “Well if somebody hadn’t given a Pinkerton the best whiskey we had, you wouldn’t have to drink that ‘shine. Next batch isn’t ready yet.”

Charles narrowed his eyes at Arthur before his face broke into a grin and he held out his hand. Arthur passed the jug back. “Knew it wasn’t so bad.”

“It’s not that it isn’t bad,” Charles retorted, “it’s that it’s all we got.” He paused. “It’s a good thing we came up with that light in the window,” Charles said seriously after he’d taken another swig. “And that you weren’t around when he came. We should think about moving.”

Arthur’s mouth drew into a line. “I’m not moving anymore. If someone finds us, we’ll handle it. And if we don’t, well.” Arthur trailed off, looking out over O’Creagh’s Run Lake. “It’s been a good run, and more than I would’ve ever figured us for.” His face grew somber. “Longer than John.”

“We could find Jack,” Charles suggested quietly. Arthur threw a rueful look.

“He’ll be better without me in his life. Most people are.”

“I’m not,” Charles said, staring out over the lake.

Several months later, as Arthur threaded his line through a new fishing pole, Charles dropped a book on his work bench. Arthur flashed a look of irritation at the man before he set aside the pole and picked up the book.

“What’s this?”

“Arthur vanquishes Boy Calloway.”

Arthur grabbed the book, flipping through the pages. Someone had drawn an amazing likeness to his young self throughout the pages. He scanned the pages before closing the book and staring down at the cover. “Glenn Porter. Ain’t that the Pinkerton?”

“He sent a letter,” Charles said, unfolding the document that had come with the package. Gantrim had given him the padded envelope with a raised eyebrow but the old man hadn’t asked any questions, and that had always been his strength.

“Dear Mr. Smith,

Please see the enclosed. I have quit the Agency. Or perhaps they have quit me. Either way, it was a consensual parting of ways. I have always wanted to be a writer, but my father told me there wasn’t much money in it. And perhaps he is normally right–except the story of Arthur Morgan still sells, and my first edition was so popular we are already on the second. It turns out there’s quite a market for the Old West. I thank you for the time you spent with me, and the world I thought was little more than a fairytale. Perhaps we will meet again, as friends, and not former adversaries.”

“Well,” Charles interrupted, “I didn’t quite see us adversaries.” He commented before continuing,

“I plan a visit out next Spring. I hope to meet you at Gantrim’s on the last day of April, and perhaps I can learn more of you and the story of Arthur Morgan. The Agency is quite displeased with me, and perhaps you will find that reason enough to invite me back into your good graces.

Sincerely, Glenn Porter.”

“You made quite an impression on that boy,” Arthur said when Charles had finished. The other man kept the letter open, rereading the words over again.

“I guess I did.” He admitted.

Arthur picked up the book again, reading the first page. “Well this is a hell of a thing, Charles,” he stood up from the workbench and headed out onto the porch where he settled into the old wooden chair. “Reading about myself and it ain’t just about what bad deeds ended up in the papers.”

Charles spent the day chopping firewood, the mid fall sun warm. Mountain chickadees chirped above him as he worked. The memories of fifteen years ago flowed around him, and he lost himself in them as he worked. He had returned to the mountain he’d taken Glenn to, expecting to find a pile of bones. Instead, he’d found nothing and had spent the afternoon sobbing. Arthur had been the best man Charles ever met, and he deserved better than to be strewn across the mountain floor by scavengers. That night, he resolved to find every bone he could find and bring them to a gravesite worthy of Arthur Morgan; somewhere he could look out over the untamed west.

In the morning sun the next day, he noticed something he’d missed the day before–a faint carving on the sandstone rock. “A. M.” he’d rubbed his thumb over the carved surface, supposing it had been Arthur’s last action to make his mark on the world. Charles had almost left it at that, but a huge, golden stag had taken that moment to breach the clearing. It stared at him preternaturally, and Charles felt a sense of hope and peace wash over him. He’d never had a spiritual experience before, but knew it for it was. He reconsidered the rock before him again. Down near the bottom, so faint as to easily be washed away after months of winter rains was another word carved,

“Lives.”

When he looked back up, the stag was gone. He’d never mentioned it to Arthur in all the years since, but he’d picked up his pack, saddled Taima, and headed back down the mountain, but not before picking up Susan Grimshaw, who had also been scattered by scavengers and deserved better than that. He put her bones in his saddlebag. He didn’t know where he’d bury her, but it wasn’t here. He did not know where to find the man, but the tightness that had been around his chest since he’d learned of Arthur’s death had finally eased, and for the first time, he felt he could breathe again.

It took years to find him, and when he fell back in with John, he never mentioned his suspicion. He figured if Arthur wanted his brother to know he was alive, he would’ve made his presence known. Sometimes he doubted himself; that he’d imagined the stag and the words on the rock, but then he’d catch a glimpse of something golden out of the corner of his eyes when he was hunting, and knew he had to keep on.

He yelled at it one day. “Dammit, if you want me to find him, then help me.” The stag gazed at him mildly before looking west. So that’s where Charles went, allowing Taima, now old and slower, to plod west as she wanted. He finally found Arthur in Valentine, older and with a full beard, his shoulders still broad despite his gaunt cheeks he looked a right mountain man, his hair graying at the temples and the corner of his mouth. He wore a heavy coat despite the warm spring air, his pants stitched deerskin. An old Henry was tucked into the saddle of his horse.

Charles felt his lips dry, and a weird pain in his chest. “Arthur,” he’d whispered, but then realized he might have given the man away if he said it any louder. So he slid from Taima and approached Arthur carefully. The other man had noticed Taima before his gaze fell on Charles, his blue eyes widening.

“Charles?”

Charles was close enough now to speak without concern of passers by hearing them. He let out an anguished “Arthur.”

Arthur pulled him into a bear hug. Charles could feel how much thinner the man was under the layers of his jacket, and had to clench his jaw tight to fight back the sob that threatened to break free from his chest. He tried to blink back tears, but they poured freely anyway. “How?” he managed.

“Guess it wasn’t my time to die,” Arthur said, as if that explained everything. “Come on, let’s go home.”

Home was the residence of a Civil War Veteran by the name of Hamish Sinclair, who had died years ago. In time, Arthur would come to explain how he knew the man. Charles looked around the well built cabin and glanced outside at the barn just beyond. “He was rich?”

At this, Arthur had grinned. “No, but I went back and got the Blackwater money. It’s easier to get around when everybody thinks you’re dead and you're a shadow of who you once were.” He paused. “Looks like you got my message.”

“Why didn’t you come for us?” Charles couldn't hide the anguish in his voice.

Arthur’s face fell and he looked up into the mountains before letting out a sigh that ended in a cough. “Figured people would do better if everybody thought I was dead. Thought John could make something of himself. This ain’t my time no more. Figured—well I guess, I just figured if we were meant to cross paths again, we would.”

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

Charles found Arthur on the porch, the closed book on his knee as he gazed out on the placid waters. He looked up at Charles’ approach, who settled in beside him to watch the sunset. “How was the book?”

Arthur looked down at the novel in his lap. He handed it over. “It’s a little…over the top. But I guess that’s the style.”

Charles huffed in amusement. “Everything about you is ‘a little over the top.’”

“Seems like you told this boy quite a lot.” Arthur said, a strange note in his voice. Charles raised his eyebrows.

“You disapprove?”

“No,” Arthur said, then hesitated. “I just don’t think I’m much worth writing about.”

Charles’ smile warmed, and he reached down, clasping Arthur’s hand in his. “I disagree.”