ââScuse me, officer, ah...did you say Marston?â
     He couldnât rightly believe his ears when heâd overheard it, walking by two Police officers in Blackwater, but a simple nod from the officer had affirmed his suspicion. Normally he wouldnât have risked showing his face anywhere near West Elizabeth, but, as itâd been over a decade since his reported death, he simply didnât believe there was anything to fear anymore. Besides - his entire appearance had changed. Heâd taken every possible effort to ensure the Pinkertons wouldnât recognize him. Maybe he was just being stubborn and dumb - it wouldnât be the first time - but he had faith in his disguise. It was the first time heâd had faith in anything for quite a while.
     Those two jackals had been discussing John. Arthur had doubted it at first, but after ducking behind a wall and listening in for a moment, he had all the info he needed. The Pinkertons had found Marston, and they were planning a hit, with help from the army. As much as he wanted to stay out of it, so desperately desired to be free of all the outlaw nonsense, he didnât feel he had a choice. John Marston was his brother. Heâd saved John, all those years ago. Stayed behind to deal with Micah. Even gave John his hat. It pained him, later, making John believe he was dead and gone, but his survival would be easier to keep secret if only he and Charles knew about it.Â
     But, in that alleyway, in 1911, a decision had been made. On that day, Tacitus Kilgore, Arthur Callahan - whatever name heâd been going by at the time - was dead. On that day, Arthur Morgan would ride again. He made sure to dress the part too. Shaved, got his hair trimmed, even found a hat somewhat similar to his old one. Not too expensive, just how he liked it.
     It was so, on that sunny evening in West Elizabeth, Arthur Morgan rode into Beecherâs Hope to silence. Dead bodies littered the property; he thanked the lord that he didnât see John among them. However, he did see Uncle, dead on the porch. A quiet âpoor bastardâ was uttered; not the most respectful eulogy, nor heartfelt, but the man was an annoying degenerate, and a lazy fool. Besides, there wasnât time for a proper sendoff. He had to find John.
     And that he did when he spotted a horse riding away from the barn, and a lot of horses heading towards the ranch. He took cover behind a rock to see how itâd play out, and, of course, there was Edgar Ross. As much as Arthur dearly wished that man was dead, it seemed he couldnât kill with thought. Such a pity. Itâd have made dealing with that jackass Micah so much easier. Oh well...the old-fashioned way would have to do.
     Just before Marston could leave the barn, a familiar voice would ring out from afar.
     âGod damn, my life just seems to be filled with turncoats. First Micah, then Dutch, and now you! Gotta admit, I figured you Pinkertons mightâa had just a bit more honor than to stab a family man in the back. Guess ya really ainât no better than Dutch, are ya?â A simple wink, and he ducked behind cover, narrowly dodging a hail of bullets. Returning fire from dual-wielded Mauser pistols, a final call was made.
     âMarston! Itâs Arthur! If you can hear me, I know damn well you ainât too lazy to shoot! Lend a hand, you damn fool! We gotta go! Thereâs more on the way!â
{ @notalwaysgood as discussed via IMs!}
