AUTHOR'S NOTE: I'd like to thank Emma for permission to use her likeness. All royalties were fully paid in the form of horse cookies.

Arthur Morgan didn't really have time for this shit, but he couldn't justify leaving a perfectly good horse for dead.

He found the buckskin mare making her way through the Heartlands on the way back to Horseshoe Overlook. The story of her breakneck escape was told by the sweat and lather darkening her golden hide, pine needles and twigs snagged in her jet-black mane; she probably woulda kept the pace up, too, if not for getting hung up by her own saddle. Cinch must be broke, Arthur figured. The heavy leather seat hung around the mare's belly and she'd somehow managed to get her back leg through one of the stirrups. She kept on as best she could with her head low, hobbled by the iron around her hock.

"Easy, boy," Arthur said to his own mount, the great iron-gray Ardennes stallion he called Big Boss, gently tugging the reins and settling his weight over the saddle to slow the heavy animal. Boss obeyed, pricking his ears in interest at the buckskin mare, his body vibrating with a low nicker.

Before he had a chance to second-guess himself, Arthur dropped Boss's reins and swung his leg over the horse's great back, dropping to the dirt with a slight grimace. His back was sore and his right bicep burned beneath the bloodied bandana-turned-bandage wrapped around his arm, compliments of an O'Driscoll's shotgun. Hypnotized by the trail and fatigued from tracking down debtors and bounties, he hadn't realized the rival gang was there 'til they were right on top of him. It was all he could do to squeeze off a few shots and get the hell outta Dodge, get someplace he could take care of the fire in his arm.

The encounter had cost him two extra days already, and Arthur was certain that Dutch would be scanning the horizon, anxiously awaiting the return of his loyal gunslinger and the latest score, salivating over the thought of More Money.

Damn it, they always needed More Money.

Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose beneath his hat, then gave up whatever fight he was having with himself and lifted the lasso from its place around Boss's saddle horn.

The buckskin mare would die to predators if he let her be, tied up as she was. Easy enough to cut away the wayward saddle, smack her on the rump and send her on her way. Problem with that plan was Arthur suspected the little mare would fetch a good price. Get More Money.

He coiled the rope in his hand.

"Hey there, girl," he said to the mare. Her head shot up.

Pure quarter horse, he reckoned, and a pretty one. She had a small, stocky build, but what set her apart from the rest of the stock was the heavy muscle in the hind end. She had cutter blood in her, from a good line, too.

"Not gonna hurt ya," Arthur murmured, stepping quietly over prairie grass and dust, curbing the impatient part of him that wanted to chuck the rope at the horse's head and hope for the best. Instead, he hid it behind his back, feeling the thump of it striking his gun-belt with every step.

Poor mare was already coiled up to run, muscles quivering in anticipation, but she seemed to have figured out she couldn't on account of the deal with the stirrup. She kept kicking at it but couldn't quite loose herself.

Her reins were broken. Stripped leather swung from her bit, and Arthur cringed. Hoped she hadn't tore her mouth up when she got free, but now that he was looking, he saw pink froth at the corners of her lips. Blood.

"Where'd ya come from?" Arthur said, dropping his voice to a soothing croon. "You ran pretty hard, didn't ya, girl?"

The mare snorted.

Arthur still approached slow, like one misstep would cause the nervous horse to explode and mangle herself. "Yeah, you're all right. Saddle's not supposed to be like that, is it, now?" He was close enough now that he could feel the heat radiating from her body, hear the ragged breaths she was carving out of the air. "Shh, shh, I'm gonna fix it. Let me fix it."

His fingertips brushed horse hide.

The mare flinched.

"No, no, don't be like that. It's ok. Shh." Arthur flattened his palm against the mare's neck, feeling her pulse as he followed the jugular hollow up to her jaw so he could take a hold of her broken bridle. She tossed her head, only a little bit, and with a quiet, practiced flick of his wrist, Arthur had the lasso over her head and against her withers.

"See? That's it." He undid the broken bridle's throatlatch and lifted the leather away from the mare's face. Just as he feared. The metal bit was bloody. He swiped it with a thumb, frowning deeply. Even so, the headstall was still in decent condition, so he slipped it over a shoulder and slowly faced the horse's rear.

"Let's take care of this, now," he said, daring to kneel beside the tired mare. Yup. The latigo had snapped at some point during her run, but the belly strap held on, preventing the saddle from falling away completely. He released the leather belly strap and the heavy saddle smacked the ground with a puff of dust, causing the mare to dance a few steps to the side. Arthur quieted her with a pat to the rump as he ran his hand down the front of her hind leg, feeling carefully for hot spots, blood, swelling, anything that would indicate an injury caused by the stirrup.

She felt ok. Nothing glaringly obvious. Arthur took a hold of the mare's fetlock and clucked his tongue at her, relieved when she obeyed and lifted her foot to be examined. Took a little bit of finessing but he finally released her leg from its entrapment. She set her foot down heavily and blew through her lips. Arthur half-expected her to dance away and take off again, but his white knuckles on the rope were for naught. Poor thing was too tired to go anywhere, apparently.

He led her back toward Big Boss, who let out a low nicker once again and reached out his nose in curiosity. He jerked back in surprise when the mare laid her ears flat and snaked her head at him in warning.

Looping the rope around the saddle horn, Arthur just laughed. "Play nice with him, girl," he said, easily swinging himself back into the saddle. Then, patting Boss on the neck apologetically:

"Sorry, boy. Ain't sure you're really her type."

Another hour's ride saw Arthur, Boss and the buckskin mare loping into camp with darkness at their backs. The mare carried her broken saddle, fastened with a bit of rope Arthur kept on his saddle for tying up game. Other'n being a bit stiff on the one leg, she seemed to be in good shape. Kept pace with Boss's powerhouse of a lope no problem once she put that big ole quarter horse rump to work.

"I'll blow your head off," growled a voice in the shadow behind a tree.

"No, ya won't, dumbass," Arthur shot back. "It's me. Arthur."

"Sheeeeit. Thought you were dead," the voice replied, and its owner, Bill, melted out of the shadows with his rifle in hand. Arthur suspected he was only half-kidding.

"Nah." Arthur rubbed at the back of his neck, looking down at Boss's withers. "I miss much?"

"Same old, same old." Bill jerked his head in the direction of the camp's firelight. "Been askin' after ya. Better git yer ass in there."

"Huh." Arthur squeezed his calves against Boss's sides and took both horses to the clearing where the rest of the herd browsed for grass. A few raised their heads and whinnied a relieved greeting at their friend's return, but flicked their ears at the new addition. Arthur dismounted and removed Boss's bridle, knowing full well the stallion wouldn't go anywhere. The mare he untacked and tied to a hitching post with enough slack in the line to let her graze, but not enough for her to trip herself on.

"Gotta find a spare headstall," he said to himself as he loosened Boss's girth and took the heavy gray saddle into his arms, pretending not to notice the soreness in his left arm. The horse sighed in relief and went to join his buddies, but not before casting a suspicious (and mildly hurt) glance at the buckskin tethered beside him. She ignored him.

"Arthur!"

That was Karen, leaping up from her bedroll and dashing toward him in a flurry of dust and petticoats. "You fool, we all –"

"Thought me dead. Yeah, yeah." Arthur waved her off and turned toward his own campsite, taking care to keep his wounded arm out of sight. He didn't do a very good job, apparently, because the blonde woman flitted around to his other side and had him by the elbow. He grunted in pain and almost let go of the saddle. "Watch it!"

Unheeding to his warning, the woman gasped. "What happened? Arthur, you're bleeding!"

"Eh, not so bad now," he said dismissively, shrugging her off as he set back toward his campsite. "Worse a couple days ago."

"Couple days …? Arthur! Don't you walk away from me! Let me see!"

"What the hell, Morgan? Where you been?" Marston glared over his shoulder, eyes glinting in the firelight as Arthur passed. The shadows set the fresh scars on his cheek to writhing like snakes.

"He's alive!" Pearson chimed in from his post at the stew pot.

"He's hurt," Karen clipped.

"Hurt? How bad?" Javier stood from his bench.

"Just a scratch," Arthur said. "I'm fine."

"You're not fine! Look at all that blood!" Karen was at his shoulder again, yanking his sleeve.

Arthur hissed through his teeth and twisted out of her grasp, fully and painfully aware of the gang's eyes boring into his shoulder blades as he marched toward the awning that protected his bedroll. Soon as he had the saddle on the ground, he yanked his weathered hat low over his brow, flipped open his satchel and made for the collection box outside of Dutch's tent. Without a word, he emptied the contents onto the barrel beside the box, picked out his agreed share, and pocketed it.

Spinning on the heel of a boot and dead-set on making it back to his bedroll before catching any more flak, he just about barreled into Susan Grimshaw.

"Mr. Morgan," she snapped.

Cornered now, Arthur sighed heavily in his throat, swallowed hard, then lifted his gaze to meet that of the intimidating woman. "Miss Grimshaw."

"Sit down, Mr. Morgan." Susan somehow managed to peer down her nose at the injured man, though he stood a full head taller than her.

Casting his eyes to the sky, he shook his head. "Look, I don't –"

"Now."

Arthur paused a fraction of a second, realized there was no way he was gonna win this one, and sat down heavily on an empty bench next to the fire. His hat went on the bench beside him and he thrust his face into his hands, scrubbing at hair that was heavy and greasy and in desperate need of a wash, rolling grit through the pads of his fingers and pushing so hard on his eyelids that colors began to dance.

There were hands on his wounded arm now. He tried to pull away, but was stalled by Miss Grimshaw's steely glare when he looked up. He surrendered and dropped his chin to his chest.

The bandana, crusted and stiff with dried blood, came away, and Arthur heard a gasp. "Oh, God – Arthur," said Karen, apparently assigned the role of playing nurse. "This … this is downright awful."

Yeah, it was pretty awful. Awful enough to knock him on his ass for half a day while he tried to figure out how not to bleed out and stay hidden at the same time. Still felt awful, too, like he'd gotten a hot branding iron stuck in the muscle. Was that bad? That was probably bad.

"We must see it," Miss Grimshaw said sharply.

Numbly, Arthur undid his cotton button-down, shrugging out of the one sleeve with some effort and letting the garment hang off his opposing shoulder, feeling mildly self-conscious as the center of attention. Abigail gently observed the wound, lifting his arm to study it from all angles, and he looked away.

"What happened?"

Arthur wasn't sure whose voice demanded that, but he was sure he didn't care. He scuffed a boot through the dirt and cleared his throat. "Ran into some O'Driscolls."

"… And?"

"They shot at me."

"Yeah, no shit." That was Marston from behind. "Here. You're gonna need these." There was the sound of a glass bottle striking wood, a thump of something else placed on the bench.

"What for?" Arthur cocked an eyebrow and cast a glance to the side, saw an unopened bottle of bourbon within the coil of a thick leather belt. Feeling the sweat on his brow for the first time, he shifted his gaze upward and picked out Marston in the fire's glow.

The younger man lifted a shoulder. "That shrapnel's gotta come out and it ain't gonna feel good."

"Aw, hell." Frowning, Arthur peered at his shot arm. Couldn't really see anything, but it hurt like hell now that he was thinking about it, so he uncapped the bourbon with his teeth and took a long pull, willing the burn in his throat to spread its numbness quicker. He swallowed, took the traces off his lips with the tip of his tongue, and drawled, "You sure? Coulda swore it went straight through."

"There's no exit wound, moron."

"Goddammit." Arthur took another drag of bourbon. His head started to buzz. Or was he just tired? Who cared. He sat there a minute, watching the smoke draw patterns in the night sky, trying real hard not to think about how much his damned arm hurt or how much worse it was about to get.

He picked up the belt with his good arm, downed some more bourbon for the road, and slid the leather between his teeth.

Aw man, Arthur thought when he came to the next morning. Damn sky ain't there.

It was, of course; he just couldn't see it beyond his tent, not 'til he rolled over and sat up, dirty blankets pooling in his lap. He scrubbed his palms over his eyes with a grunt of mild discomfort. The only remnants from the night before were the taste of cowhide on his tongue and the deep ache of damaged muscle twitching in his upper arm, and he was glad for the gap in his memories. He considered himself a tough man and could take one hell of a beating, but even those with the roughest hides had their limits.

Fetching his satchel from its place hanging from his wagon, Arthur produced a pencil and his leather-bound journal, sat there staring out over the hills a minute while he strung together words to put on the page.

Made it back to camp. Honestly, there were a few times there I didn't think I would, but here I am. I'm tired as hell and everything hurt but I guess that means I'm alive. Alive and free.

He tapped the pencil on the page, chewing his lower lip.

O'Driscolls did a number on me. Shotgun shrapnel hurt worse coming out than it did going in, and I remember Susan said she weren't sure it's all out. Certainly won't be the first bullet fragment to become a permanent part of me, but the thought of it still makes me a little ill.

"Mornin', Arthur."

"Charles," Arthur said, dipping his head in respect as the man paused in front of his tent.

"You bring in that little mare?" Charles jerked his chin in the direction of the herd.

Arthur nodded. "Yup."

"You thinking of keeping her?"

He shrugged. "Ain't decided yet."

"She's a good-looking animal," Charles said over his shoulder as he went about his business. "I'd give it some thought, I were you."

"Haven't written her off yet." Arthur slotted his pencil between the pages and threw his sore shoulders back, releasing the tension in his upper spine with a chorus of pops, before hunching back down over the small book.

I came across a horse yesterday. Little buckskin mare. Her saddle was broke and she'd made it halfway through the Heartlands with her foot through one of the stirrups. I don't know how long she was like that and I took pity on her. She doesn't seem hurt and she's got some good bloodlines I think, so she might be worth something. I'll find out soon, maybe.

I think Big Boss would be jealous if I hung onto her.