The snow had settled thick across Jackson by morning, painting rooftops white and muting the sounds of the waking town. Smoke curled lazily from chimneys. Horses snorted in their pens. Boots crunched through icy paths as patrols gathered and folks began their day.
Arthur Morgan stood alone on the porch of a small guest cabin near the edge of town. He had barely slept.
The cot inside was warm enough, sure. The blankets decent. But rest didn't come easy when the world outside your window looked like the end of everything you'd ever known.
He looked out across Jackson — at people in jackets and jeans, at houses with electric lights, at children dragging sleds down frozen hills. There were no trains howling in the distance, no Pinkertons on the trail, no campfires with Dutch spinning dreams.
Just quiet. Cold. And a place that shouldn't exist.
He lit a cigarette from a match, shielding it from the wind with his gloved hand. The smoke curled up into the gray sky.
What the hell is this place…
He reached down, pulled open his leather satchel — still impossibly intact — and began rummaging through its contents. Ammo boxes. Old photographs. A worn map of New Hanover. A jar of hair pomade he'd never used. Cans of beans, still sealed. His journal.
He flipped it open, and the smell of ink and old leather hit him like a memory. Pages filled with messy, thoughtful handwriting stared back.
January 15, 1899. The world's turnin'. Dutch says we're headed for Blackwater soon...
He turned to the last page he'd written.
October 1899. I'm tired. I hope John makes it. I hope this was worth somethin'.
Arthur took a pencil from the spine and turned to a blank page.
February… whatever year this is.
I don't know what to make of any of this. These people, this town. The way they talk. The way they look at me. Hell, I'm the only soul here wearin' spurs. Thought I'd died watchin' the sunrise… but I guess I didn't. Or maybe I did. Maybe this is somethin' else.
Joel's decent. Quiet fella. Lot goin' on behind his eyes. Reminds me of me, maybe... if I'd lived long enough to get gray and quiet.
Don't know what I'm supposed to do here. Can't just sit on my ass, though. That ain't ever been my way.
He stopped writing, stared out at the frost-covered town, and closed the book.
Later, Maria brought him a coat lined with sheepskin.
"Something warmer for out there," she said gently.
Arthur took it with a nod. "Much obliged, ma'am."
Her eyes lingered on his revolvers. "You still carry those things everywhere?"
Arthur looked down at the Cattleman and the Double-Action revolver on his hips.
Old friends, he thought.
"Yeah," he said simply.
The next few days passed slowly. Arthur stayed quiet, helped shovel snow without being asked, fed horses, watched people. He tried to learn. Tried to listen. How they spoke. What things meant. What the hell a "power grid" was. He didn't understand half of it, but he didn't let it show.
Kids pointed at him. Whispered. "Why does he talk like that?" one of them asked.
Arthur just smirked.
He wasn't trying to fit in. He was just… trying to see if he could live again. In whatever this place was.
One night, he sat with Joel on the porch of the town hall. No words for a while. Just the sound of wind, and snow hitting the steps.
Finally, Joel spoke.
"You doing alright?"
Arthur took a long breath.
"Ain't figured that out yet."
Joel nodded like he understood.
"You don't cough much," he added after a beat.
Arthur looked at him.
"I mean… you said you were sick, before."
Arthur frowned, touched his chest. It had been days.
Not a single wheeze. Not even a tickle in his lungs.
He exhaled slowly into the cold night.
"Guess I ain't."
Joel didn't say anything else. He didn't need to.