The Sins and Virtues of Gunslinging and Love

Broken Spirits

Sorry this part has taken me so long to get up! I'm struggling with a creative block right now and I just couldn't find the motivation to write.

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 Arthur wakes up to the sound of the birds in the nearby trees, a stark difference from the sound of Colter's whistling winds. A murmur of conversation could be heard from the campfire. He stretches and groans to rid his body of post-slumber fatigue. He stands up while adjusting his clothes that he, accidentally, fell asleep in (again). He buckles his slightly oversized gun belt and lets it hang crooked on his hips. He steps forward to walk out of his tent when the sudden urge to give himself a once-over strikes him. Sighing, he looks into his dingy tabletop mirror. The face that looks back at him is crude, but it's real. It's him — a callous, cold-hearted, awful man — he'd let his cynical thoughts eat him alive if it was possible. Something you'd always told him not to do.

It was hard to look in the mirror. Every time he would, his thoughts drifted to her. Inferior he thought to himself. Half-man, Dimwitt, Delinquent, just a few of the things Mary Linton's father, Mr. Gillis, had called him. Hideous, unworthy, the voice repeats like a mockingbird. Facing himself for the first time in months, his mind poisoned him again.

"She was right to leave you. Yer' nothing. A useless killer. Should'a been hanged long ago. What's wrong with you? Sour face bastard." Arthur spits his words at the reflected image of himself as if he were talking to a real person.

Walking past his tent, your interest was piqued by his words. "Shoulda know it'd never work, ya fool. Reckon you'd be better off dead. Better off if ya'd never even met 'er," he continues, speaking to the mirror.

"Ya don't really believe that do ya?" You spoke to him with genuine kindness and concern. He flushed a deep red when you made yourself known.

"I- uhm," he scratched at the back of his neck as he spoke.

"You know that's not true. Don't let me hear that bullshit again," you said to him with a stern, light-heartedness. He was left speechless at your reaction, watching with a partially open mouth as you walked away.

The two of you weren't exactly known for being kind to each other, your undeveloped 20-year-old brains causing arguments like you were 12. You'd never shown him that kind of concern for him, especially not like that. But after Mary left, you were a crutch for him. Your bond was strong; like siblings.

He shakes his head and pulls on his hat, derailing the train of thought into a foggy cesspool of memories. Walking out of his tent, the matinal sunlight that blushes Horseshoe Overlook greets Arthur. Poking at his eyes and showering his skin with a gentle warmth, the sun's unforgiving brightness temporarily blinds him. After a moment, he regains his focus and walks to the percolator. Hosea, Karen, Tilly, Lenny, and Charles stand around the campfire taking sips of coffee. He greets everyone before filling his tin cup, hissing as a few drops of the steaming liquid fall on his hand. He takes a sip that burns his mouth but relishes the rich, bitter taste. The peaceful moment lasts just a few seconds before being interrupted.

"Anybody seen Y/n," Abigail questions the small group around the fire. She glances around waiting for an answer.

"I haven't, no," Hosea answers, breaking the silence. He looks at Arthur to his left wordlessly questioning him.

"She ain't in 'er tent?" Arthur asks Abigail, confused.

"I went in there this mornin' to check on her and it looks like a wild animal's been through there. Some glass n' and some kind of paper everywhere, clothes all over the place," she tells them, recounting what she had seen.