Time, in this new world, didn't move like it used to.
Back in Arthur's time, the sun set behind the hills, wagons creaked along the dirt trails, and a man could hear the wind before anything else. Now, days slipped by in quiet rhythm — no trains, no telegrams, no lawmen on horseback. Just the snow, the patrols, the old ache in his bones that somehow… no longer stung like it used to.
It had been months since Arthur Morgan arrived in Jackson.
And every night, without fail, he wrote.
He sat by the window in the small guest cabin they'd given him. A simple room — wood walls, a stove in the corner, one small oil lamp. The wind rattled faintly outside, but inside it was still. He pulled the worn leather journal from his satchel, fingers trailing over the old scratches and bloodstains that had never faded.
He flipped it open. A few pages were crumpled — some had been written back when he thought death was just over the next ridge. But now… now he wrote of a different kind of world.
Jackson, Wyoming. Year unknown.
If you'd told me I'd live to see a world like this, I'd have laughed in your damn face.
Skies are the same. Trees still sway like they always did. But the roads are cracked with metal beasts they call "cars" just rotting there, vines crawlin' all over 'em. Some towns, what's left of 'em, are ghost cities full of rust and sorrow.
But there's still people. They build fences. Tend gardens. Hunt with rifles made of parts I can't even name.
And they survive.
Arthur paused, dipping the pen back into the ink bottle they'd given him. He looked out the window. Snowflakes tapped softly against the glass.
Down in the town square, people were starting to gather. It was the end of the month — time for Jackson's monthly outlook.
A big meeting. Rations counted. Patrol routes discussed. Birthdays honored. Deaths acknowledged.
But this time, Arthur wasn't just a stranger anymore. He'd helped guard the eastern fence. Patched up a few tools with the engineers. Even taught a few of the kids how to ride properly — none of that sloppy modern posture they called riding.
They trusted him now. Mostly.
He kept writing.
Talked more with Joel. He's a man who carries the kind of weight you don't shake off. Lost his daughter when this all started. I see the cracks sometimes, behind the eyes. But he's got steel in him. Reminds me of Dutch — if Dutch ever had the heart to go along with the brains.
Ellie… she's sharp. Real sharp. Got a tongue on her, but there's good under all that fire. I can tell. She's got Joel wrapped around her finger and don't even know it.
Sometimes I catch her watchin' me like I'm a story she ain't read yet. Maybe I am.
Arthur sighed, closing the journal for now. He placed it back in the satchel, making sure it nestled safely between his ammo pouch and some old cigarette cards that somehow made the journey with him.
He slung on his coat, pulled his hat low, and stepped out into the falling snow.
Lanterns lit the way down the wooden steps. Kids were already scampering ahead, their boots crunching through the white blanket as they laughed. Guards nodded at him as he passed. One even said his name.
"Mister Morgan."
He gave a tip of the hat.
"Evenin'."
The monthly outlook would be held in the central hall. Fires lit. Food passed around. Plans made.
Arthur walked with that slow, measured gait he'd always had — but now, with less of the limp, less of the cough, and a bit more purpose.
The hall was still warm with the echoes of conversation as Arthur leaned quietly against the outer railing, watching the smoke drift from chimneys across Jackson. The monthly meeting had ended. Plans were drawn. Routes were updated. Supplies inventoried. And yet… Arthur felt it like an itch under the skin.
Stillness.
He'd been sitting too long. Walking safe streets. Sleeping too easily. No danger on his back. No wilderness under his boots.
He didn't like it.
"Gotta stay sharp," he muttered to himself. "Else you rust like one o' them cars."
He pushed off the rail and walked back inside where Tommy was wrapping up the patrol assignments. The board behind him was marked with pins and string. West ridge, south perimeter, outbound scout routes for the next few days.
"I'll take one," Arthur said.
Tommy paused mid-sentence. "Say again?"
"I said I'll take one o' them damn patrols. Don't matter which. I've been stiff as a corpse these past few weeks, and that don't suit me."
A few heads turned. One of the guards raised an eyebrow.
"You sure?" Tommy asked, arms folded. "We usually send out teams. Not really the kind of thing—"
"I ride alone," Arthur cut in, flat but not unkind.
Tommy frowned, stepping closer. "Look, Arthur, I get it. I do. But we got systems here for a reason. You go out solo and something happens—"
"I'll go with him."
The voice came from behind. Firm. Familiar.
Arthur turned to see Joel standing just inside the hall's entryway, arms crossed, expression calm.
Tommy blinked. "Joel…"
Joel glanced between him and Arthur, then spoke to Arthur directly. "Figure you could use someone who knows the terrain."
Arthur studied him a second, that ever-present instinct measuring the man's intentions. But this was Joel. If there was anyone in this world he trusted even halfway, it was him.
"Alright," he nodded. "Reckon I could use a ride partner."
From across the room, Ellie's voice rang out. "Wait — what?"
She stomped toward them, snow still clinging to her boots. "You're going out there? Joel, come on. You've been limping lately, and last week you said—"
"That's enough," Joel cut in, not sharp, but final.
Ellie paused, lips parted, frustration clear in her narrowed eyes.
Joel stepped closer and rested a hand on her shoulder. "I'll be fine, kiddo."
"You always say that," she muttered, voice low now.
"I mean it this time."
Arthur watched the exchange quietly. He knew that look on Ellie's face. Saw it in Jack once. That fire born from love… and fear of loss.
But this wasn't the time for talk. The sun was beginning to dip.
Arthur turned and walked to the corner where his gear was stacked. He reached for his rifle — the long, heavy bolt-action he brought with him into this strange future. He ran a hand down the wood, checked the sights, slung it over his back.
Both revolvers were already at his sides.
Joel geared up with quieter movements, checking a worn semi-auto pistol and stuffing a few shells into his coat.
Tommy still didn't look happy. "You two keep it tight. Stick to the creek trail and loop back before dusk."
"I've ridden harder trails in the dark," Arthur muttered with a small smirk.
Joel chuckled. "He's got a point."
Tommy shook his head and gave Joel a slap on the arm. "Just come back, both of you."
Arthur and Joel stepped out into the cold, their boots crunching snow. The air bit sharp at their cheeks, but it felt good. Fresh.
They mounted their horses — Joel on a black mare named Clover, Arthur on a dark-coated stallion the town had given him months ago. Not his old boy, but strong and obedient.
As they rode out the gates of Jackson, lanterns behind them flickering in the twilight, Arthur pulled his hat down low and took a long breath.
"Ain't nothin' like feelin' the cold on your damn face, Joel. Reminds you you're still alive."
Joel nodded beside him. "That it does."
And just like that — two riders rode into the growing dusk. One from the past, one from the ashes of a broken world.
The Old West and the End of the World, side by side.
And both still breathing.