He slowly opened his eyes and he saw only white. A low hum followed him back into darkness... "Charles" he slurred before passing out.
When he opened his eyes again it was in a cage rolling along a bumpy road. His head ached with each hitch of the rickety cage. Looking around he discovered he was alone. Well, alone in the cage. OUTSIDE of the mobile prison was a different story. About a dozen or so armed men rode alongside, surrounding him.
Shaking his head he slowly eased himself onto the bench.
"Ah, your awake, Mr. Morgan." Came an annoyingly pleased voice.
Arthur cast confused eyes to the stranger speaking.
"Thought you may not wake up, given the nasty fall you just had." The man smirked under a black bowler cap with a broad crimson band.
Morgan he had said, was that his name "Morgan"? He flinched as he gingerly touched a particularly sore spot at the back of his scalp. Pulling his had away he noticed his fingers smeared with scarlet blood.
"Careful, we bandaged you up as much as we were willing but we'd still prefer to get your full bounty by bringing you in ALIVE." The man emphasized the word as tho death would be more of an inconvenience to HIM, not the 'would be' deceased.
Right out the gate, this was not a likable man.
"Alright, then you mind telling me what this bounty is for?" He asked squinting.
The man just laughed. "It is my understanding, men like you wear your many indiscretions as a badge of honor, forgive me for not indulging you."
"What the hell?" He spat, losing the tether on his patience. "I'm just asking you what I've done, or at the very least you could do me the favor of telling me my name."
The man laughed again, turning in his saddle to square off. "You may think yourself a funny man but I-" The man paused for a second before calling the cart to halt. Searching eyes pierced through the bars and the cadged man drew back. Shrinking away from the potential threat. "Well, well well, you really don't remember, do you, Mr. Morgan."
Slowly, he shook his head. "I'd be much obliged if you'd tell me whats going on tho. We can start with my name."
Turns out his name was Arthur Morgan. The man he was talking to was Agent Milton with the Pinkerton detective agency sent to break up gangs in the area. After a long conversation, one where Arthur was told next to nothing about himself, he was let out of the cadge.
Arthur stood alongside the agents as they had him perform a variety of tests. From jumping jacks to answering basic trivia.
"What's today's date?" one said and Arthur glared.
"I don't even know my damn name and you think I know that?"
"There are some things you obviously still remember." Milton corrected. "Speach for one."
"Point taken," Arthur said begrudgingly. "Um, the date is... August, 5th I think... 1898?"
Without telling him if he was right or wrong they challenged him to a few more testes. But with each test, the men seemed to enjoy Arthurs company a bit more. Or at the very least found the situation more and more amusing. Finally, they handed him a pistol and directed him to a jerry-rigged target some yards away. Arthur didn't hesitate, emptying the rounds into the poker card tied to the tree like it was second nature. Easier than breathing. Pulling the card from the tree the Pinkertons couldn't help but marvel, one wide hole at the heart of the ace. Each bullet, single file, chasing after the tail of its brother.
"Well, it's good to see your shooting hasn't been compromised." Milton complimented raising a brow and smirking. "We have talked things over and have reached a decision with what to do with you, Mr. Morgan. Without being tarnished by your memories of your life as an outlaw, we can offer you an alternative to the gallows. Join us in apprehending gangs in the area and we will consider your sentence served. You will be a free man."
Arthur hesitated, there was a catch... there had to be, he was sure. But he didn't really have a choice or a reason to decline, so he shook Agent Milton's hand and was allowed to halter his pistol.
It was three days later when Milton had him riding with them for his first rade. Everyone's spirits were high as they climbed the grassy hill and rode south towards a known encampment of outlaws.
"Now," Agent Rossy, a fat irritating Pinkerton said dismounting and turning towards Arthur. "Whatever happens you are to hold your guns towards these two men." The wanted posters of Hosea Matheus and Dutch Van Der Linde waged in his face.
"I remember," he growled, slapping the pages away.
"Leave him be, Mr. Ross." Milton commanded as he marched ahead.
For whatever reasons there weren't any guards on duty to stop them, so the Pinkertons were allowed to walk right up to the picknick tables of the outlaw camp. Something about the vulnerability of the gang seemed particularly disconcerting to Arthur but he couldn't put his finger on it. So instead he focused on the task at hand and aimed his guns towards the men from the posters.
"Mr. Van Der Linde." Agent Milton called, something teasing played out in his voice as he approached the distracted gang.
They had been in some kind of group conversation, all circling around Dutch, who sat at the center.
Arthur walked between Milton and Rossy and when they got close enough, he raised his pistole as he was directed. The reaction was certainly not what he expected.
Hosea looked stricken. As tho a trigger had already been pulled but his body hadn't slumped forward yet but Dutch... Dutch whispered a curse under his breath, soft and disbelieving.
Arthur hesitated, suddenly even more confused by the unanimous intake by the gang. Some spark of recognition? But all expressions quickly turned to stone-faced anger. Arthur couldn't help but notice every glare was directed at HIM, and the invading Pinkertons were ignored.
Arthur felt trapped as his mind grappled for an explanation. Was he a rival outlaw, was he someone they had met before?
"Son." Hosea said suddenly, the simple word drawing Arthur up short and his gun wavered as he took a half step back. 'son?' his heartbeat galloped off as he stared, confused at the grim expression of a man he only recognized from wanted posters.
Arthur kept his guns trained on the wanted men but turned a questioning glance to Agent Milton and his blood ran cold as he took in the man's gleeful expression. Milton's bald skin puckered with laugh lines all the way up to his ugly hat and a devilish twinkle lit his eyes, sending a forboding spark of fear through Arthurs's entire nervous system. Arthur found himself taking an involuntary step back, his gun drawing towards Milton, as if by magnets but in his uncertainty and growing paranoia, Arthur kept his other gun trained on the outlaws.
"What the hell is going on?" he demanded with even less force that he felt he had. His voice wavered and Rossy's smile widened like a fox about to eat the hen.
Dutch slowly stood and walked around the table, drawing Arthurs wide-eyed attention. "My boy." he soothed, raising a hand like you would a spooked horse.
"What did they do to you?" he asked, expression darkening as he turned towards Milton. "What have you done to him?"
Milton let his shotgun rest against his shoulder as he relished in Dutch's growing agony. "It wasn't us. We found him this way, tho I suppose we were the ones who chased him off the cliff." Milton smoothed his jacket, casually looking away before rolling his head back. "really, you should be thanking us. We were on our way to the gallows when we discovered his little... um... problem. Without his memories, he has become a model citizen."
Dutch clenched his teeth and behind him, a gun calked, and then another and another. Arthur looked over and saw that somehow, over the course of the conversation, each gang member had acquired possession of a rifle or shotgun and held them aloft. The gang, now prepared to stand their ground against the Pinkertons.
A warm hand came to rest on Arthur's shoulder and he failed to suppress a shiver of trepidation. If Dutch noticed he didn't show it. Instead, he pulled Arthur back, drawing him away from the Pinkertons and back to the gang. "Well, in that case, I thank you for returning my son to me."
"A pleasure," Milton smirked. "It was rewarding enough to see your face. I know how much you prize family and loyalty. Tell me, how does it feel knowing your most trusted didn't even know who you were when we showed him your bounty poster?"
Dutch sneered in response but said nothing.
Arthur felt another warm hand hesitantly brush up and rest on his other shoulder. Arthur turned to see Hosea, blue eyes soft and sad looking back at him. Out of the corner of his eye, Arthur saw the Pinkertons slowly making their way from the camp. But both Arthur and Hosea didn't pay them any attention. Arthur just soaked in the vision of the man in front of him, desperate for a shred of memory. "I, I'm sorry but I don't..." he whispered after an unknown amount of time and Hosea gripped his shoulder a bit tighter as he smiled warmly.
"That's alright, son. One step at a time, I'm just glad your back."
As the Pinkertons disappeared Dutch called everyone to pack up. And with military proficiency, the gang members scattered to carry out those orders.
Tent poles fell and crates of food were loaded onto carts as Hosea inspected the wound at the back of Arthur's head.
"Does it hurt?" Hosea asked, snapping Arthur's attention away from a little boy in a blue coat, who also watched him intently.
"Um, no. Not any more. I, well it stings some times. but doesn't really hurt."
Hosea hummed, fiddling with the strands of hair that covered his bruised head.
"Hosea!" Dutch called, startling Arthur enough to make him jump. "I'm sorry Arthur, I didn't mean to... Well, how is he, Hosea?"
Hosea sighed pulling away from Arthur and let his warm hand rest on Arthur's shoulder. "I'm not sure. There's quite a bit of bruising and I can see a large gash is healing but I have no idea if his memory loss is temporary or permanent but I think it would be best if he was allowed to recover his memories on his own, not be told who he is and who we are."
Dutch nodded before turning to Arthur. "Alright, we are gathering your things and when we get to the next camp we will have you go through them, see if they trigger any memories."
"My things?" Arthur asked surprised.
Hosea looked crestfallen and Dutch grimaced. "Yes, Arthur. Your things. You will also be traveling in a wagon with a Charles Smith."
"Dutch," Hosea whispered harshly, "Are you sure? We don't want to rush things and spoil Arthur's introductions to people." Arthur felt a double meaning behind Hosea's words but Dutch just waved his hand dismissively.
"The sooner he remembers the better off we all will be. And the happier he will be."
Hosea didn't look convinced, in fact the pinched brow intensified as his worried expression slid over to a dark-skinned man standing a few feet from Dutch.
"This is Charles Smith." Dutch said, motioning the man to come closer.
His steps were slow, hesitant as if he were walking on cracking ice over a fridged lake.
"I'll leave you both to be reacquainted." Dutch nodded, tugged Hosea to follow after him.
Arthur watched them leave, catching Hosea cast a worried glance over his shoulder before he turned back to Charles. "So, you're my traveling companion?"
Charles didn't respond right away. Shifting his weight from one leg to the other like a bouie in the water. "Ah, yeah." his dark eyes clenched closed as he stammered a bit. "I, I mean we've traveled before, together."
"So you know me?" All things considered, Arthur knew it was a stupidly obvious question but he got the feeling this Charles character deserved an easy answer so he could find his footing in the conversation. Or else he may just drown.
"Yeah, we go hunting sometimes. Or just... Well." His words petered out and the big man seemed to deflate. He looked ridiculous, like a giant dog afraid of a kitten. "Here, our wagon is just over here." Charles lead Arthur to a full wagon and even gripped Arthur's hand to steady him as he climbed on.
Arthur held on a heartbeat longer than necessary as he scooted over into the passenger side of the cart. There was something familiar in the act. Some motion set to muscle memory triggering a vague wisp of déjà vu.
"What do you remember?" Charles asked, sitting beside him and giving the reins a gentle snap, directing the horses forward.
Now it was Arthur's turn to stammer. "I, well I remember bit's and pieces but I can't figure out what they mean. It's sorta like an incomplete puzzle. I can't really tell what the picture is because I don't have all the pieces. If that makes sense?"
"No, it does," Charles politely assured. "Can you tell me what the pieces are?"
"Well," Arthur ignored his recent hint of memory of when he touched Charles, in favor of explaining a mostly fully remembered event. "There was a woman whose horse died on her and needed a ride to a place called Emerald Ranch. She gave me something for helping her but I don't remember what it was. I think I sold it to a man near there."
Arthur grew quiet as he imagined Hosea with him at Emerald ranch. Talking to a man about his relatives... by marriage? The memory was still hazy but something felt right about it.
"Is everything alright Arthur?" Charles asked.
"Yeah." Arthur answered, albeit a bit hesitantly. Charles piqued an assessing eyebrow but didn't argue. Somehow Arthur knew he wouldn't.