Hosea had asked that they lie low, and Arthur was not entirely sure how to go about that while still providing the funds the gang desperately needed. Once camp was set, and each of his photographs were lovingly set out around his cot (thank God Grimshaw had had the wits about her to save those when they'd fled!), he resolved himself to sleep on it.

It ended up being late morning when he finally awoke, though it seemed most of the others were in a similar position. It had been a long day of travel and a late night of work for everyone. The line at the chuckwagon stretched far as everyone had the same idea: get sustenance. As Arthur took his place at the back of the line, he began taking a head count out of sheer boredom. All of the girls were accounted for, at the front of the line; apparently they'd been rousted before the men because Grimshaw had given them some kind of work to do. Abigail and Jack had already gotten their oatmeal and were seated at a table eating. Charles, Javier, Lenny, John, Bill, all joking around as they waited their turn, and Micah watching sourly as he stood behind them. Leopold and Uncle with Sadie sandwiched in the middle, enduring Uncle's attempts to be cheerful. Hosea helping serve with a smile next to Pearson and Grimshaw. Hell, even the tied down O'Driscoll rounded out the picture as he fairly salivated at the smell. But…

"Hey, where's Reverend Swanson?"

Bill, who had been on guard duty the night prior, chimed in. "Saw him take off for Flatrock Station in a hurry early this mornin'. Said he had a lead on somethin'."

Arthur groaned loudly. "Did ya ever consider that lead was for somethin' alcoholic?"

"Eh." Bill shrugged. "No point in stoppin' the man. He can do what he wants. It ain't like he's gotta stay sober so he can do any jobs, lucky bastard."

Bill wasn't wrong. Reverend Swanson didn't do a whole lot for the gang; he was perhaps even more of a parasite than Uncle, who at least managed to be sober more often than not. Dutch had brought him in, claiming the Reverend had saved his life and was owed his support. Dutch wasn't there to vouch for him now, so why not let him go wander to his heart's content? No skin off their teeth if he didn't return.

Somehow, Arthur just couldn't convince himself of that. Once a member of the gang, always a member of the gang, though Lord knew Swanson played the role of obnoxious dependent found in any true family. "After breakfast, I'll go have a look." He finally stepped up to the chuckwagon. "What've you got today, Pearson?"

Pearson looked apologetic. "Sorry Mister Morgan, all the hot food is gone. I've got, uh…" He rummaged through a box until he withdrew a can. "Peaches." When Arthur frowned in disappointment, roughly grabbing the can from Pearson's hands, he added "Maybe while you're out lookin' for Swanson you can hunt somethin', huh?"

"And if I do, I get first dibs on it," Arthur grumbled, walking away.

It was past noon by the time he finally set off, having taken a moment to trim his beard so he'd look presentable and switch into some lighter clothes for the temperate climate. It was a pretty enough ride down to the station, though the O'Driscolls standing along the side of the road spewing arrogant threats in their ridiculous accents polluted the view. What good fortune, he could get some money and beat people up without remorse! That was exactly what he did, and after hiding their unconscious bodies in the bushes, he walked away five dollars richer and in a whole lot better mood.

It didn't last. Near the station, he spotted a pig roaming freely. When he saw it, all he could think of was salty, crispy bacon and his already growling stomach from his meager breakfast. It didn't occur to him that wild pigs didn't really live in this part of the country; he just whipped out his bow and took a clean headshot to the idiotic animal.

"What the hell!?" an outraged voice rang out. Arthur snapped his head towards the noise, and found himself staring down a very pissed off farmer who had come running. "My pig!"

"That was yours? Look, I had no idea, mister. It was just wanderin' around!" He threw up his hands, hoping to diffuse the situation.

"You're right by a train station! You tellin' me it didn't occur to you that the pig got out of the fence?"

"You can take 'im back, sell the meat…"

"He's dead! By the time he gets to a butcher, he'll be rotted!"

Well shit. All he could think of were Hosea's words: no trouble. "Look, here's…five bucks. For your loss. I'll take 'im." Ouch, that hurt. So much for his good fortune.

At least it was enough to placate the farmer, who eagerly snatched up the cash. As he walked away, counting his coins carefully, the unwitting culprit sighed and began tying the carcass to the back of Tennessee. When he sat down later that night, he was going to work on sketching this pig so he could tell the difference next time…

It really didn't get much better at the station. He found Reverend Swanson in a back room attempting to gamble at poker when he could barely even make a coherent sentence. The stench of alcohol on his breath was a pretty good indicator of how he'd ended up in that state, though he insisted he was resisting Morpheus's grasp. Made sense, seeing as he'd already been complaining of withdrawals in Colter. By the time Arthur had excused the Reverend from the poker game, turning down their requests that he fill in, the man had somehow gotten away. How he was even able to walk in his condition was a mystery! At least he wasn't hard to find; he was further down the hill getting beat on by some random stranger who he'd probably pissed off. Arthur got to him before any serious damage could be done and laid the bastard out, only to find Reverend Swanson on some nearby railroad tracks with his foot stuck. With a train whistle in the distance. Fuck!

Running at a full sprint up the slope, he managed to pry him loose before he was splattered by the oncoming train. "You crazy bastard!" he howled in anger, his patience all but used up. Why was he trying so hard for this good-for-nothing?

Swanson's eyes immediately watered. "I've been bad again, haven't I?" he half slurred, half cried. He was a pitiful sight.

Arthur Morgan had killed many men, sometimes ones that weren't even bad. He'd lied and stolen more than he could count. Despite all that, he couldn't leave this sad, broken man to his fate. He rubbed his forehead, annoyed at his own damn mercy. "Let's just get home."

"Home? Then I can have tea with Margaret!" Swanson instantly brightened, mood changing in the blink of an eye.

"Who the hell is Margaret?" But before he could get an answer, the Reverend passed out dead drunk.

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

There must be a God, because He was testing him, clearly. After yesterday's fiasco with Swanson, this morning he was met by Uncle, wanting to go into town. Then, all the girls in camp overheard and begged him to let them come along. What happened to being an outlaw? He was all of a sudden a glorified babysitter! Perhaps it was the bacon sitting well with him, and perhaps it was the knowledge that at least the girls were going to get some spying done, because he relented.

Even the ride there couldn't be simple. One of the horses got loose from the carriage in front of them on the road, and at the urging of the girls, he got down and helped the old man get his horse back. "If it weren't for you, I'd a robbed 'im," he insisted as he took up the reins once more.

"It's no shame to have a heart, even if it is a small one," Mary-Beth teased back with a pleased smile. She was a good girl despite running with a bunch of outlaws, but she had it all wrong. Outlaws didn't have hearts.

Once in town, Uncle had bought a bottle of whiskey and passed it to him as they waited for the girls to do their work. Between the alcohol and Uncle's incessant babbling, Arthur was pretty sure he nodded off somewhere in there, only roused when Mary-Beth returned, bringing with her news of a train that would make easy pickings. The adrenaline certainly kick-started his system when he noticed Tilly being accosted by a stranger in an alley across the way. It pleased him that when in full rage mode, he could send the asshole packing in a hurry. But even that wasn't enough, because Karen had gone to get a hotel room with a drunk guy and hadn't come back, and when he investigated, he found the man beating her. He put an end to that real quick. "So much for lyin' low," he muttered as he escorted the young woman down the steps, receiving nervous glances from the hotel clerk.

Fucking Jimmy Brooks was the last straw. What kind of idiot openly declared he'd seen you in Blackwater before riding away at full gallop? That was not going to be allowed to happen. Despite all his efforts to be good, Arthur grabbed the nearest horse and gave him chase until Jimmy's horse threw him, nearly off a cliff. It would have been so easy, all his problems solved, to step on his fingers and let him plummet to his death. Would look like a complete accident too. But there he was, pleading for his life, swearing he was mistaken and had never seen him before. For no logical reason at all, Arthur was inclined to pull him back up to safety.

"You're a good man, sir!" he said breathlessly.

No. Wrong. "Not usually."

"My name's Jimmy Brooks." As he introduced himself, he held out a very nice ink pen made of steel from his coat pocket. Arthur could already imagine how nice it would be to write with in his journal. "Here. Take this."

"Gee, thanks?" This was just getting weird. "Look, Jimmy Brooks…" Arthur pointed a finger to his own forehead. "I ain't gonna forget that name. But you're gonna forget this whole thing ever happened. We ain't NEVER met, am I clear?"

Maybe it was the hard edge to his tone, or maybe it was the way his nostrils flared when he said it, but Jimmy was agreeing profusely before scampering away.

Christ, what was wrong with him? Was he really going to trust that intimidation was going to be enough when killing him would have been so easy? If the others found out, there'd be no end to the crap they'd give him. Seething, he got back up on the horse he'd borrowed. Because he wasn't going to steal it, he was going to return it. Got to lie low.

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

Once the horse was returned to its rightful owner, Arthur decided to head to the saloon. There was no sign of Uncle or the girls, so apparently they'd left him stranded here in Valentine. Fine by him. He needed some time alone to process things, and a few shots of tequila would probably help.

Lo and behold, when he pushed open the doors to the saloon, Javier and Charles were already inside with their own shot glasses in hand, flirting with a pair of entirely shameless girls. Peace, it seemed, was not in the cards. At least a well-placed insult to the girls' honor had them storming off, much to his companions' dismay. No matter how they thought themselves, they weren't real ladies, not even close.

Before his friends could complain too much about his interference, though, Bill stumbled in with another fellow and started throwing punches for God-knew what reason. Javier and Charles leapt to join in along with every other patron in the bar. What the hell happened to lying low?! Well, not his fault now, was it? He started attacking the goons that were all over his friends, losing his hat but putting them in their places.

Then some brute named Tommy stomped down the stairs. When Arthur tried to get him off of Javier, he ended up thrown through the saloon window and covered head to toe in mud. "Not lookin' so hot now, are ya pretty boy?" the big man sneered as he climbed through the remains of the window to finish the job.

The insult sparked some red-hot fury within him. Arthur usually had a pretty level head; he wouldn't have lasted as long as he had in this business if that weren't so. However, when someone struck a nerve, not even Dutch or Hosea could hold him back from his desire for retribution. "Pretty boy?" He wiped the mud from his face as he staggered to his feet. "Well, you ain't gonna look so pretty when I'm done rearrangin' yer face!"

In the next few minutes, he took several blows that were probably going to hurt tomorrow, but he was equally confident he was giving Tommy even more. Finally, he saw his opportunity to pin him down in the mud and wail on his face until there was blood everywhere.

"Please, stop!"

The voice that cried out was pleading and pitiful, but it snapped Arthur from his rampage. He finally noticed the large crowd that had gathered to watch this display, and the single cowering man that had meekly dared to intervene, his glasses nearly sliding off his nose as he trembled at his own audacity.

"What's it to ya?" Arthur snarled, refusing to relinquish his hold on Tommy's collar.

"It's just that…we don't want nobody gettin' killed here, mister. You won. You beat him. Everybody knows it. Isn't that enough?"

He looked down at his foe again, realizing just how severely he'd injured him. His nose was busted for sure besides his cut lip and blackened eyes. It frightened him to realize just how far he'd gone without even being aware. Roughly, he dropped Tommy to the ground and pushed himself up on shaky legs. "Bastard asked for it." As if he had to explain his actions to the world.

"Mister Morgan, is that you under all that mud?" A familiar voice, one entirely too proper for this setting, reached his ears, and Arthur pushed through the crowd of gawkers, probably leaving muddy handprints on their sleeves as he did, until he found the source: Josiah Trelawny, flanked on either side by Bill, Charles, and Javier.

"It's been a long time, Josiah. Wasn't you supposed to be to New York?"

"Hmph, things come up, you know how that goes. Listen." He waved Arthur to the side, away from the people as they dispersed, each one casting apprehensive glances his way, and a few even cowering as they snuck past. Fuck, Hosea was going to be pissed when he found out about this incident... Trelawny continued his explanation, bringing Arthur back to the moment. "I have important information regarding young Sean's whereabouts."

Arthur's eyes widened. "Sean? He's still…?"

"Shhh!" Trelawny scolded, but he nodded. "I'm headed out to camp to speak with Mr. Matthews. You should join us…after you've gotten yourself cleaned up." His eyes wandered Arthur's soiled form with no small amount of distaste. "Not exactly sending the right impression."

As he left with the others, Arthur looked down at himself, feeling a similar disgust at the sight of his filthy appearance. Good man? What a laugh. Even when he tried, he couldn't be a good man.