Arthur Morgan || 39

Arthur had never known stability. The word was foreign to him, as were most words. Being an outlaw since fourteen hadn't exactly left much room for schooling, though Hosea and Dutch taught him what they could.

For eight years, Arthur had run with them—escaping the law, hunting, robbing, and picking up strays along the way, like young John Marston.

But Arthur was content. He had his criminal family, his dog Copper, and his horse Rusty. He didn't have the luxuries he saw in the growing cities, but he had enough.

Recently, the Van der Linde gang had ridden through Indianapolis and made camp on the city's outskirts. The place was far larger than the towns they usually passed through, so Dutch decided they would stay awhile and see what opportunities came their way.

8:48 PM, May 22nd, 1885 — Indianapolis, Indiana

Arthur, now twenty-two, strolled down one of the city's finer streets. Despite the late hour, it remained crowded. He had dismounted Rusty and led him by the reins to avoid trampling anyone.

“Easy, boy… I don't like rich folk neither,” Arthur muttered, keeping his hat low as his eyes wandered over the expensive shops and belongings.

Then, among the drunkards leaving saloons and women calling for drinks, something caught his attention—a young woman around his age stumbling into an alley, being dragged along by a much older man.

Arthur hesitated. Dutch had warned him against unnecessary trouble, but this didn't look right. He'd help her, then leave. Quick and simple.

Arthur rushed over, striking the man across the head with his revolver. The man dropped unconscious, and Arthur caught the woman before she hit the ground.

“Woah… easy now.” He steadied her, glancing nervously toward the street. “You alright, little lady?”

No officers. Nobody seemed to be looking for her.

“Miss… you got somewhere to go? Anyone 'round here looking for you?” His voice softened, though there was still a firm edge to it. “I just wanna make sure you're alright.”