Epilogue

1907

Blessed Are Those Who Hunger And Thirst For Righteousness.

John Marston stood at the site of Arthur's grave, staring at the marker and wondering why Charles had chosen that particular phrase. It was something from the bible and while it was nice and probably true, John didn't think the high and mighty words suited Arthur too well. It should say something simple. Something like, Decent Man, True Friend and Loyal Brother.

John looked to the sky, scrunching his face and tamping down his emotions. It'd been long enough. He didn't need to grieve so hard no more, but the feelings rose anyway. Charles had convinced him to make this journey and he'd finally managed it. But it weren't the only thing he was doing up here.

He'd been reading through Arthur's journal carefully, which had started as a task in itself. He'd opened it once, when he'd discovered it, read the first few words and snapped it shut. Seeing Arthur's handwriting, his inner most thoughts, had pained him more than he'd thought possible.

But once John got started again, the notes intrigued him to keep on. Maybe he shoulda just got rid of the thing, but his curiosity and grief had him wanting to read the words of the man who'd saved his life. A lot of it, he expected. He skimmed the desperate words Arthur had over Mary, who'd had a stronger hold on him than John had known, but he'd read closely on Arthur's opinion of him.

Arthur had seen him as an idiot, especially where it concerned Abigail and the boy. Couldn't fault him for that line of thinking. John was, but he'd learned how to put everything to rights. At least, he hoped he had. He and Abigail still got to arguing something nasty like the old days.

Like the fight they had before he left on this journey. She wanted him to stay home for longer and he wanted to get off the ranch for a couple of weeks. He thought, after they married, he'd adjust better, but he still got an itch to ride off and it usually ended up days to weeks away. Abigail settled down once he returned and stayed home awhile, but soon enough, the itch would start up and the cycle would begin again.

Which led into why Arthur thought him such an idiot. At least, in the end Arthur had liked him well enough. Got him out of Sisika and away from the Pinkertons, which Arthur didn't need to do since it'd been against Dutch's wishes. For a long time, John thought he'd been the only one with doubts over Dutch until Arthur came 'round. He wished he'd known Arthur had been growing concerned since Colter. Maybe...maybe things coulda turned out different.

John shook his head. It weren't worth thinking like that. He rested his hand in reverence on Arthur's grave marker a moment and then returned to Rachel, his trusty thoroughbred.

This hadn't been his first stop this morning. Out of respect for Arthur, John had dedicated the past few weeks finishing jobs Arthur never got around to. Like mailing the locations of dinosaur bones, of all things. He'd visited Mrs. Deborah MacGuinness this morning. Yesterday, he stopped in Valentine and talked with lonely Mickey and three days before, a Civil War veteran in Rhodes who knew of Arthur.

In addition to the people, John had been revisiting some of the places Arthur had sketched in such detail that John had been curious to see it for himself. Some of them had been easy to find like Doverhill, Fort Wallace, and the abandoned Wapiti Reservation. More difficult had been the house pierced by a meteor and a strange, tiny church stuck in the swamps. But there was one that stumped him more than the others.

John figured, since he was near enough up north anyhow, he'd try to find this last place of interest. Arthur hadn't kept the page in the normal part of his journal. It had been folded and tucked in the back with blank pages. It would seem like Arthur had been hiding it, but the page was worn, as if it'd been unfolded and folded back up numerous times.

The page itself was unexceptional on the surface. There was a small, detailed sketch of a cabin, but its location hadn't been labeled. For awhile, the only small clue John had was that the cabin was somewheres near Annesburg. That's where the page was torn from, following a drawing of Annesburg. John had already been through the town, had asked around until the postal clerk recognized it as 'Willard's Rest'. He told John the trail north of the town would lead him to it. At the time, John was due back home so he didn't attempt the search, but today he was ready to solve the mystery.

As John rode east now, he thought on the entry. There were four sections to the torn page, spaced out, but undated. Each was a time Arthur had visited, except the first. In the first entry, Arthur described learning of a robbery tip after he'd helped a runaway.

'I don't know if it was wise, but I broke the shackles of an escaped prisoner. I knew what he was alright, but I figured fate had given him a second chance and who was I to stand in the way of that? In return, he told me the location of some rich folks just waiting to be robbed.'

The second entry read,

'There may be money up there, but there's also a devastated and heartbroken woman. Dirty, hungry and in the worst kind of pain. Likely, she wouldn't've survived another night if I hadn't helped her. A lost soul who nearly didn't care whether she lived or died. I showed her how to track and skin an animal. I gave her some advice and I hope she takes it.'

One thing John never realized until he started reading Arthur's journal were how many people he'd met and befriended. He didn't think Arthur trusted many folks on the outside, but he learned that wasn't true. After Arthur got sick, it truly changed his thinking, more than John ever suspected. It really got him regretting all the bad shit they'd done in the gang, and more keen on helping good folks.

That's what had John wanting to find some of these people, these strangers and innocents who knew a different side of Arthur. John wanted them to know what had happened, in case they ever wondered, and to hear their stories.

The third entry on the torn page went,

'Glad to see Mrs. Balfour had taken my advice. I rode up there and found her practicing with her late husband's rifle. We had a little fun with it and her spirits were much higher. She invited me for dinner. Now, I ain't gonna lie. Even Pearson makes a better dish, but the company was infinitely more pleasant. She talked to me like I weren't no one dangerous. Just a normal feller passing through.'

Arthur seemed to have really connected with the old bird. Abigail once called Arthur an old soul and it made sense, in John's mind. Arthur tended to prefer their company over those younger than him. He had never tolerated immaturity well. Probably why he and Arthur hadn't gotten along for the majority of their lives. John knew he'd taken a long time to finally grow up.

The last entry was the most interesting.

'I decided to take one last ride up to Mrs. Balfour's before I join Dutch on this "last" train robbery of his. Just the ride up there had me feeling like I could breathe again. She greeted me like we'd been friends for years. She said I could stay awhile, but I knew I couldn't. It was too tempting to linger. I made sure she was well and went on my way. No sense loitering over fanciful dreams.'

John frowned in the same way he always did after thinking on that passage. What the hell had Arthur meant? In his last days, did he really want to settle down in a cabin with only an old lady for a companion?

John shook his head. He was headed there now. Hopefully, the old gal was still alive and he would see the appeal.

It was well into the afternoon when he passed through Annesburg and started up the trail north, crossing over and then under the train tracks. Even if he didn't find nothing up here, this was beautiful country and worth the ride just for that.

Up the trail, he spotted a path and a cabin in the trees to his right. He dismounted and pulled out the folded page for reference. The cabin didn't look the same as the sketch, but maybe whoever lived here knew where he could find Willard's Rest.

As he was striding up, a voice hollered, "Stop right there, you!"

John did so, looking around. "Uh...hello?"

"Get outta here!"

He didn't see no one so he said to the house, "S'cuse me, mister, I'm lookin'—"

"I said, get outta here! Go away! I'm not buyin' it and I don't want it!"

John frowned. "I ain't tryin' to sell you nothin', friend. I'm wonderin' if you know—"

"Are you deaf? I have no interest in helping you. Get lost before I come out there and kill you."

This was pointless. Paranoid old man wouldn't even give him the chance to speak. John turned his back, deciding to head out, when he heard the cabin door get kicked open.

An old man came out screaming and waving a gun. "You're all bastards, bastards, bastards!"

John raised his hands. "Look, I just—"

The reckless shit-head shot in the air.

"Jesus! Look, old man—"

"Go away or I'll kill you." The man gave him a second of warning before raising his shotgun and firing again.

"What the hell!" John took cover behind a stack of crates. "Alright, already! I'm leavin'."

Crazy old man. Luckily, Rachel weren't easy to scare off so he slipped away, somehow without getting his head blown off and rode away.

After that fiasco, John was tempted to ride back down to Annesburg for a drink and dinner and bed down for the night. However, Rachel drifted right on the path going up the hill instead of left, so he let her be. He knew there was some sort of waterfall nearby so maybe they'd rest out there in peace and clean air before heading back to the coal town.

When they reached the river and took in the waterfall's natural beauty, John noticed a path leading up a hill and into the trees. Seemed like there could be another house up there, but that old man had him on edge.

John scoffed at his own hesitation. He weren't no coward nor useless with a gun. That old man had only caught him off guard. He led Rachel up the path and dismounted at the top of the hill, under an archway.

John walked up to the cabin, all caution. This one looked real close to the drawing, but the last thing he wanted was to run into another crazy person with a gun. This time he spotted someone outside, a woman writing in a large journal on a bench.

As he stopped near the steps, she looked up at the sound of his footsteps and set aside her writing. She straightened tensely and greeted, "Hello, there. Can I help you?"

This part was always awkward. "I...uh, think you knew a friend of mine. Feller called Arthur Morgan."

She frowned and stood, eyeing him closely and paying special attention to his gun belt. John noticed her own rifle next to her then and tried not to rest a hand on his revolver.

She hadn't answered him so he continued, "He came by and helped you with some huntin' and skinnin', probably seven or eight years back."

"Yes, of course." She stepped closer, resting her hand on the railing and he got a better look at her now that the sun was hitting her face.

This was Mrs. Balfour? The first thing John noticed was she weren't no old lady. Not a conventional beauty like his Abigail, but striking all the same, even with the wisps of silver lining her hair. He no longer wondered at Arthur's interest in her. Eight years ago, she would have been eye-catching enough.

"I wouldn't be here right now if it wasn't for him," she said, running a hand over her tan leather vest. She seemed adapted to the country life, a far cry from the helpless woman Arthur had described.

John lowered his head. "Unfortunately, he passed soon after."

Her brows rose.

"I wanted to make the trip," he added quickly. He hoped she wasn't the weepy sort. "Arthur wrote fondly of you."

She appeared genuinely surprised. "He truly wrote of me as far back as that?"

"He did. I only wanted to stop by and see how you were getting on."

She smiled warmly and told him, "I couldn't be happier."

"Good." John cleared his throat. "I'm glad. Uh, sorry it had to be sad news today." He tilted his hat at her. "You take care of yourself out here, ma'am."

Mrs. Balfour raised a hand and took a step forward. "Hold on. You're a friend of his, yes?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Would you care to stay for dinner?"

"Uh..." He didn't have no more stops tonight, except maybe a bar.

"Please. Any friend of Arthur's is a friend of mine."

John didn't sense she was being anything but friendly, but he didn't know how he'd explain to his wife about eating dinner alone with another woman. She remained the jealous sort even after they married, though he'd told her time and time again she was the only woman he had eyes for nowadays.

"Please come in and eat something," Mrs. Balfour insisted. "It would make me happy."

His stomach growled. John didn't want to disappoint this lady, probably got hardly nobody visiting as it were. Looked like this was going to be one of them times he couldn't tell Abigail about. "Sure, ma'am. I'd love to."

"Wonderful. Now, it isn't much, but edible I promise—" As soon as she opened the door, a burst of fur charged out.

A rambunctious russet-colored mutt bounded on him, and John barely recovered his balance to remain standing. The dog rested its front paws on John's chest and did its best to lick at his face with a wild tongue.

"Beau, no!" Mrs. Balfour ran up to him. "I am so sorry! He was locked in the bedroom for an earlier misbehavior, but he must've turned the knob and got out."

"Smart dog," John commented. He patted the excitable creature. "I don't mind the feller. Got my own crazy pup at home. Probably smells him on me."

Mrs. Balfour let out a sigh. "Still. It is terribly rude of him."

John chuckled and pushed the dog off him. "Don't worry 'bout it, ma'am."

She met his gaze, a smile starting when suddenly her eyes widened as she spotted his facial scars. "I know you."

John froze. Aw, hell. Never turned into a good thing, him being recognized.

"John Marston, right?"

"Uh..." Shit. He tried to play it off. "Have we met before?"

She laughed. "Oh, goodness no. I just now recognized you from Arthur's sketches."

That had John frowning. Sketches? John didn't know anyone Arthur had shown his sketches. He'd kept them real private. He narrowed his eyes on her. "Exactly how much time did Arthur spend up here?"

Mrs. Balfour's face broke into a smile that softened her features and made her seem younger in years. "Much more than you could probably imagine." She called to the dog, who came running and returned to the door, gesturing inside. "Come on in, John."

He followed her, not a little confused and curious. A sleepy gray cat curled up near the door raised its head briefly before lowering it without interest at John's presence. The cabin was small, especially compared to his ranch house, but cozy. He imagined with the fire going it wouldn't take much to keep the place warm.

John faced his hostess. "Mrs. Balfour—"

"Call me Charlotte," she offered. "And please, take a seat."

"Okay. Charlotte." He sat and continued skeptically, "So, you were friends with Arthur?"

"Why, yes..." She gave him a strange look. "In so many words."

He added guiltily, "Sorry, ma'am. I only ask 'cause what he wrote in his journal don't seem like it could turn into friendship."

She lifted a knowing brow. "You're referring to his original intention to rob me?"

"Well...yeah." He didn't mean to be so blunt, but she'd startled him with what she knew. "Knowing Arthur as I did, it's hard to believe he followed up on a tip and didn't rob you. No offense."

Charlotte said with amusement, "At the time of our first acquaintance, I likely appeared too pathetic to be viewed as anyone worthy of stealing."

That rang true as John remembered what Arthur had written about a 'devastated and heartbroken woman'. Arthur did have a soft spot for the less fortunate, especially women. John had never realized how deep that sentiment ran.

As Charlotte poured him a cup of coffee, she asked, "So, you've read Arthur's journal?"

"Uh, yeah." This woman had a soft way about her, something that made you want to tell her things the more she talked. It was unnerving and soothing at the same time.

She sat across from him and rested her chin in her hand. "What did he like to write about back then?"

John sat straighter in his chair, not expecting her to find an outlaw's diary as anything of interest. "Oh, uh...most of it's drawings. Plant and animal life and such."

She nodded. "He's always had a knack for capturing the soul of whatever he draws."

"Yeah." The way she talked about Arthur was like she'd known him like he did. "He could recognize a bad apple, when he ran into one. Even saw himself as one, I reckon."

"I never considered him as such." Charlotte turned contemplative, looking towards the window. "He saved my life, after all."

"Arthur did seem to find some comfort in helping others at the end." John released a breath. "I'm only glad something did."

"The end?" She looked up, her brows drawn together in confusion. "I'm sorry, Mr. Marston. I haven't been entirely upfront with you."

He tensed, his mug halfway to his mouth. "How's that?"

The sound of a horse and wagon rolling in could be heard through the open window, with voices carrying.

"I hoped I had time to better prepare you, but, well..." Charlotte stood and held up her hands. "Just...stay here a minute, would you?"

"Uh...sure," he said, but she was already slipping out the door. He frowned. What the hell was that all about?

John sat for a few seconds, but it made him itchy to be still so he stood and wandered the cabin. A framed sketch on the wall caught his attention. He'd be an oblivious idiot to not recognize the style after staring at the same type of drawing for years.

John cast his eyes about the room and realized there were more of the same. A landscape here, a town there, a horse on his hind legs. Charlotte hadn't been lying about Arthur having been here more than a few times. Enough to gift her his drawings, which he didn't let anyone see. John didn't even know so many existed.

John noticed a family portrait on the mantel and idly wandered over to it. John picked it up, studied it, but had a hard time comprehending what the hell he was looking at. At the same time, more voices from outside drifted in through the open window and John slapped the picture back on the shelf and strode to the door. His heart was ramping up, muffling his hearing.

John swung open the front door. Charlotte was gesturing his direction, near a man holding onto the reins of a horse as he listened with a frown.

Thinner, with more gray in his beard, but that man was Arthur Morgan. Whole and standing and alive.

John could only stare.

Arthur—Arthur—looked his way. "John?"

John stepped off the porch, perfectly speechless.

He barely noticed as Charlotte shepherded two children up the steps. "Into the house now, girls. Time to clean up for dinner."

As they were pushed past him, one asked, "Who is that, Momma?"

"Hush, now."

Arthur took a couple steps from the horse, shifted with agitation and scowled. "Quit your fool staring, Marston, and get over here."

John didn't remember his feet moving, but the next moment he had his arms around the man, his lost brother. He grabbed a solid hold on him, still not believing he wasn't delirious somehow. He'd never hugged Arthur like this before, like he was true family. Didn't know how much he'd wanted to.

"You made it."

Arthur said it, likely meaning getting out and surviving since they'd last seen each other, but another meaning was there too. That Arthur had been expecting him, hoping for his visit.

"I made it," John agreed and added, "You made it."

"It ain't for a lack of tryin' to spite Fate."

"I got...so many questions."

Arthur chuckled. "I bet you do."

"But how-how did you survive? Charles said he buried you. I was at your grave today."

"Er..." Arthur rubbed the back of his neck. "Charles is a wonder."

John shook his head as all the questions came rushing to the top of his mind. "He said you was where you wanted to be, on a hill facing the evening sun..." Wait a minute. Charles did the grave-digging. Then he knew there weren't no body under that marker. "Does Charles know you're up here?"

"Er, yeah."

Why the hell hadn't John listened sooner to all those times Charles kept pestering him to take a ride north? On the other side of it, why hadn't Charles been more forthcoming with what John would find when he did?

"Sadie too," added Arthur.

John couldn't stop from feeling hurt over it. "Neither one said nothin' to me."

"I mean..." Arthur didn't look surprised. "I ain't seen neither of them come through in a few years. They mighta thought I wasn't...here no more."

John frowned. "Why would they think that?"

Arthur gave him one of them looks that John took to mean he'd asked a stupid question. "You know I got TB. It don't just disappear, John, and it's a lifelong illness. Sometimes, I go a few months without feelin' too godawful, but I got a cough I can't shake. These days, winter 'bout kills me." Arthur paused and added, "And I ain't the muscle I used to be."

That was the grim truth of it then. John did his best to shake off his hurt over being kept in the dark. Even he recognized he should be damn grateful he didn't miss finding Arthur completely.

Even so, it made him feel better when Arthur said, "I'm sorry that I ain't never tried to find you. To let you know I survived."

"I know how it is." John kicked some pebbles on the ground. "The law was hot on our heels in the end there. I still got them chasing me 'round." He saw Arthur frown so he added, "Sometimes."

"You best be stayin' out of trouble," Arthur warned. "If not for yourself, then for that woman and kid of yours. If you still got 'em."

"Yeah, yeah." He weren't an idiot. "And 'course I still got 'em. In fact, me and Abigail tied the knot."

"'Bout time you did the decent thing with her." Arthur quirked a grin. "Bet she didn't see that coming."

"No. No, she didn't." John returned the smile. "The wedding was real nice too. Sadie and Charles were there. Weather was perfect and Abigail looked beautiful and happy."

"I wish I coulda seen it. Sounds like you're finally doing well for yourself."

"Got me a house down by Blackwater too. Called Beecher's Hope."

John always felt a burst of pride in his chest when he told someone about his ranch and it was no different this time, especially after Arthur's impressed look.

"No kiddin'? Blackwater, huh? You sure you're John Marston?" he joked. "I'm glad you finally got your head on straight."

"Uncle's staying with us too."

"Uncle?" Arthur shook his head and rested his hands on his belt. "That lazy bastard still stealing our breathing air?"

"Actually, he ended up a big help with building the house, if you can believe it."

"I don't know if I can." Arthur chuckled and clapped his shoulder. "Come on. Let's go inside. Come meet my family."

His family. John followed Arthur, his head spinning again as he tried to comprehend this new reality.

"You've met Charlotte..." She was at the stove, stretching and reaching in the cupboard above. Arthur frowned and strode up to her. "What the hell you doin', woman?"

"I'm...trying..." She dropped down from her tiptoes and blew on a strand of hair that had fallen out of place. "I'm trying to get down an extra plate for John."

"Here, let me." He grabbed her by the waist and bodily moved her aside. "Why didn't you call me in?"

"Well..." She glanced at John. "I didn't want to bother you."

"Damn, woman. If you didn't want to bother me, you shoulda left me on that mountain."

John frowned. Left on the mountain?

"Oh, stop. You don't mean that." Charlotte laughed and bumped him. "Besides, who would've kept me company all these years?"

"You woulda found something. You're always collecting strays."

"I am not—"

"Got it."

"Thank you, Arthur." She held out her hand. "I appreciate it."

Arthur lifted it out of her reach and a mischievous look came over eyes. "What are you gonna give me for it?"

Charlotte pursed her lips. "I'll start with dinner, since I'm feeling generous."

"If that's all, I'll have to steal what I want." Before she answered, he gathered her up and kissed her soundly. John averted his eyes.

"Arthur," Charlotte broke off the kiss, a blush starting as she glanced John's way. "Arthur, we have a guest."

Arthur started nuzzling her neck. "It's just Marston and he don't care."

"Well, I do," she scolded, swatting him lightly. "He'll think we're heathens."

"He's used to it." Arthur released her and moved to set the table. "He ain't no better."

John asked, "What the hell you talkin' about?"

Arthur rolled his eyes. "You know how many goddamn nights I heard you and Abigail rollin' around—"

"Arthur." Charlotte gave him a pointed look.

Arthur turned around as two children entered the room. "Ah, here's my girls!"

John now had something else to take in, but this time it was a little easier. The two girls were in the portrait he'd spotted on the mantel. One was about seven with dark hair and suspicion in her gaze. The other was five or six, a thumb in her mouth and wide-eyed with curiosity.

"We got Eleanor..." Arthur dropped a hand on the dark-haired one's shoulder and then the younger one with wheat-colored hair. "...and Lila." Arthur gestured. "Girls, this here's your Uncle John."

They both turned and said in unison, "Hi, Uncle John."

"Er, hi." He'd never been that comfortable around kids, not even Jack at the best of times.

"Have a seat, John," Charlotte said.

They'd brought in an extra chair from somewhere since he'd been inside again so he took it. Immediately, the dog Beau's snout was in his lap and the older of the two girls crawled on the chair next to him sideways, facing him, leaning in and staring without blinking.

"Eleanor, give the man space to breathe." Charlotte scolded. "I'm so sorry, John."

"It's alright, ma'am."

The little girl studying him asked, "How'd you get them scars on your face, sir?"

"Eleanor Rose! Manners."

She scrunched up her face. "I said 'sir', Momma."

"I don't mind her askin'." John touched his cheek. "It was wolves, actually."

Her mouth dropped open. "Wolves?"

The other one, Lila, ran up to him and rested a hand on his knee. "For real, mister?"

Arthur moved around the table and knelt to their level. "That's right, girls. Wolves." Arthur put his hands up like claws. "They tried to...eat 'em!" He pulled the younger daughter up and tickled her.

"How'd you make it out, Uncle John?" asked Eleanor, undeterred with her questioning.

Arthur stuck out his tongue and answered, "They spit him out 'cause he don't taste good."

The girls giggled.

Lila tilted her head. "Is that true, Uncle John?"

"Could be." John shrugged. "Didn't much care what they was thinkin', but in the end it was your daddy that saved me."

Now the amazement shifted to Arthur. "You fought wolves?"

Charlotte served up dinner and, while the girls calmed down, they still were questioning their dad about all the animals he'd been up against. John remained quiet, listening to their banter, marveling all the while that this weren't a dream or part of his imagination. Arthur was alive. Arthur had kids and a woman and a home. Maybe that crazy coot down the path hadn't missed and John was bleeding out in the woods somewhere.

After they got done eating, Arthur said, "Come on, Marston. Help me with feeding the horses their own dinner."

He and Arthur walked outside, down to collect his own horse. Dusk was falling and the summer air was turning cool. John led Rachel to the area behind the house where Arthur kept two other horses in a small stable. Arthur spent a few minutes greeting each horse. One was an affectionate female and smaller than the other, a large workhorse who was white in the face with age.

As John brought Rachel in, Arthur pointed at his saddle. "Is that whiskey you got there?"

"Yeah." John pulled it from his bag. "You want some?"

"Charlotte don't let me touch the stuff no more." He took a swig and started coughing immediately, like he was some kid trying his first drink.

John tried not to laugh, but couldn't resist goading him. "You alright there, partner?"

"Shut up, Marston." Arthur wiped his mouth and handed it back. "Shit. The stuff is stronger than I remember. Burns like hell."

They fell into a silence, watching the sun lower further and the stars above become more visible. John didn't think there'd ever been a time where he and Arthur had relaxed like this. Not since they were kids, but they hadn't even really been friends then. Barely a family, if one could call it that. Two outlaw fathers raising orphan rascals.

"I couldn't kill Dutch, Arthur," John said finally, heavily. It had been on his mind since dinner. "I had him. There was a moment..." he sighed. "But I didn't do it."

Arthur was leaning against the stable and turned his head. "It don't matter, John. I wouldn't want you to have a burden like that on your conscience anyway."

John argued, "But you was almost killed 'cause of Dutch's madness. And leaving you up on that mountain...we thought you was dead, but I-I shoulda went back. Made sure."

"I wouldn't of wanted you to. I was up there for a lot of reasons. Not just Dutch." Arthur shook his head. "But it don't matter no more, Marston. None of it. It was years ago and I ain't the same man. I don't got a heart full of hate no more and everything worked out fine besides."

John eyed him. Maybe Arthur was right. Plus, he hadn't heard the story yet, but he was willing to bet Miss Charlotte had something to do with how Arthur made it out.

Arthur said quietly, "I saw in the papers someone got Micah. That you who done it?"

"Yeah," John challenged. "I finished him off for good."

He sighed. "Marston..."

"Don't you start. I got an earful already from Abigail," John said. "Besides, killing Micah weren't just about avenging you, Arthur. There weren't no guarantees he wouldn't come gunnin' for me and mine if he lived."

Arthur lowered his head, his hat hiding his expression as he seemed to think on that a moment before he finally nodded. "I understand. Just all around a bad business is all. Wish you could keep your nose clean for longer."

"I'm out of all that now," John assured. "I've gone straight."

"We ain't never out of it. Not really," Arthur said somberly. "No matter how good we think we got it."

John frowned. "What do you mean by that?"

Arthur laughed a little. "Nothin', I guess. Just the ramblings of an old man who's seen too much shit in his lifetime."

The door to the cabin opened and the dog went streaking across the yard and barking. Charlotte stepped out next, and then the two girls.

"Maniac pup," Arthur muttered. "For only gettin' around on three legs, that damn dog can outrun the best of us."

John hadn't even noticed the dog was missing a leg and looked for it now in its loping gait.

Charlotte walked up to them. "Eleanor is requesting a fire."

"Please, Daddy?" The little girl hung on her father's arm.

"Sure, sweetie." Arthur smiled down on her. "But you gotta help with carryin' firewood to the pit."

"Yes!" Eleanor started running over to the wagon. "Come on, Lila."

"You spoil them." Charlotte kissed Arthur's cheek and frowned. She sniffed and asked accusingly, "What's that on your breath?"

"It was only a swig and I didn't even like it much."

"Arthur."

"Marston insisted upon it."

John chuckled. "Whoa. I didn't do nothin'."

"Daddy, can you help?" called Lila from across the yard.

"Sorry," said Arthur. "Can't keep the little lady waiting."

Arthur made his escape as Charlotte shook her head. She handed John a steaming cup of coffee, remarking, "He's missed you, you know."

He watched Arthur speaking with the girls, helping them choose a small log they could handle on their own. "I'm only grateful he's alive."

"It'll be a weight off his mind knowing you're doing well," Charlotte said softly. "He doesn't like to talk about what happened all those years ago."

John took a sip of the coffee. "The thing of it is, ma'am, there ain't much worth talkin' about."

"I'll have to take your word for it." Charlotte turned to him. "How is your family, John? You have a wife and son, correct?"

"Yeah. They're...alright." Except Abigail was pissed at him right now and he still hadn't figured entirely how to talk to Jack.

"Arthur once told me he had more worth living for here than dying for out there." Charlotte met John's gaze. "I hope that's true in your life too."

"It's a mighty fine way of looking at it, that's for sure."

In fact, it had his gut twisting with guilt. He'd been starting to feel envious of Arthur's new life, but he needn't have. John only had to open his eyes a little to realize he was lucky with a near similar situation. A woman who loved him, a kid who was mouthy, but respected him, and a home he built with his own goddamn hands. Not many men had all three.

"Hey, Marston." Arthur had returned. "We got an extra cot in the shed if you wanna stay the night."

"Thanks, Arthur." The itch had returned, but his feet were wanting to move in another direction. "But I think I'm gonna head out soon."

"Oh." Arthur's face fell. "You sure?"

"Yeah. I...got some groveling to do at home."

Arthur grinned. "Why do I get the feeling it ain't the first time?"

John offered, "I know Abigail and Jack would love if you came down."

"And I'd love to seem 'em. All of it. Trouble is..." Arthur looked away and Charlotte rested a comforting hand on his arm. "I don't do much long distance traveling no more. Can't handle a lot of riding nowadays."

John could see the subject was a sore spot for him. "What about them coming up here? Might have to leave Uncle behind to care for the ranch, but the other two would come willingly enough, if they knew who they was coming up here for."

Arthur smiled. "I'd like that."

"It's been a pleasure having you." Charlotte gripped him in an unexpected hug. "I look forward to your next visit."

"Yeah," John cleared his throat. "Me too."

John didn't know how to say goodbye to Arthur. It seemed wrong to leave so soon after finding out he was still in the world, but he couldn't help the growing, restless feeling inside. Instead, he said, "You...uh, you seem real happy here."

"I am." Arthur clapped a hand on John's shoulder. "Don't be a stranger, ya hear?"

"I won't." John swallowed. "It's real good to see you well, brother."

"And you." Arthur pulled him in tight. "Brother."

John had a nice sendoff with the girls following him excitedly, Beau running circles around him as he mounted up, and Charlotte and Arthur waving from the porch. He paused at the wooden archway at the top of the hill to glance back once.

During their conversations, John had been thinking Arthur had changed, but more true was he had come into himself. Arthur was always meant for the family life. It'd been obvious by the way he was always taking care and providing for everyone else in the gang for years. But now he had a woman, two kids, horses, pets and a house to care for. He'd turned his robbery tip into a fairy tale ending, like from one of Jack's books.

Maybe...maybe Arthur needed to die to get himself a life worth living. John shook his head and scoffed at himself. Look at him, trying to be all philosophical. Abigail would have a right laugh at his foolishness if she knew what he was thinking...and damn if he couldn't wait to tell her anyway. With the image of his awaiting wife and son on his mind, John turned his horse in the direction of home.