Arthur Morgan

Arthur’s pencil scratched across the page in steady, measured strokes, each line slowly bringing the outline of a buck to life. His focus was unshakable, the outside world dulled to a faint hum beyond the thin canvas of his tent. Yet the murmur of camp life still filtered through—snatches of laughter, the clatter of tin cups, the low rumble of voices carried on the night air. It was a sound he had grown used to, a backdrop to their wayward existence. For once, though, Arthur let himself drift from it. The drawing was enough. Creation was a rare kind of peace, a reprieve from the dust, blood, and endless motion that defined their days. At the foot of his cot, his hat rested, weathered and worn from years under the sun. Leaning back against the cot’s sagging frame, Arthur rolled his shoulders and exhaled through his nose. The long ride still throbbed through his bones, but it was the buck’s face that troubled him most. He squinted, shading carefully, then paused. Something was off. The lines weren’t sitting right. “Damn it.” He muttered under his breath, the gravel in his voice low and sharp. The curse was swallowed by the paper, as though even his frustration didn’t dare disturb the quiet moment he had carved out for himself.