Purgatory. A small, godforsaken town in the far West of the American continent. Population: 15.
The year is 1892, and the greatest challenge facing the pioneers who settled the uncharted lands of the American West was the lack of women. And a town without women always meant untidiness… gloom… slovenliness…
In a town without women, men had to do everything themselves. Even those special moments lost their charm. A bar fight that didn't start over a lady's favor was a bar fight without heart! Yes, a pitiful town indeed where even throwing a punch wouldn't bring satisfaction, and going back home had no appeal—since no one was waiting for you there.
What was almost as bad was that a town without women meant a town without children. A town without women was doomed to disappear, leaving the last man to bury himself… The situation was all the more dire given that back East, there were thousands of women without a man to call their own. That left only one solution: crossing an entire continent in a wagon train to find one's soulmate.
It was this problem of towns without women that had brought Arthur Morgan to within a few miles of St. Louis that day—though he didn't know it yet. And this is where our story begins…
Arthur splashed his face with the cold water of a nearby creek. As the water stilled, he caught sight of his reflection. The face of a man just past thirty stared back at him. Green eyes, full mouth. A handsome face, he always thought—even with the scar on his chin. A three-day stubble and messy light-brown hair completed the look. He got to his feet and turned to face his horse.
"All right there, boy?" he rumbled, patting the horse's neck. The horse nudged him slightly to the left.
"What is it, boy?" Arthur scanned the area and spotted a rugged cowboy hat lying on the ground near the creek. He strode over and picked it up.
"I couldn't last a day without you," he said, patting the horse again. It was true—he was about as lonesome as a man could get. Never thought much about finding himself a lady, settling down, becoming a rancher, maybe. Living an ordinary life.
Instead, he was a bounty hunter. His life consisted of hunting down outlaws and spending his bounty in St. Louise's finest parlors. He enjoyed good whiskey, expensive cigars, prime rib, and luxurious baths. Maybe an occasional massage. He didn't waste his money on gambling, though. Or women of the night. In fact, Arthur Morgan was known as one of the most honorable bounty hunters around these parts. The sort of man who'd once run outside the law but had since turned himself around—a story most folks knew better than to pry into.
He didn't miss the ladies. The thought of marriage filled him with dread. To him, it meant giving up the freedom to ride, explore, breathe… to live. Me, settle down? he thought as the idea passed through his mind like lightning. Now there's a fool notion for this early in the morning… He frowned, nudging the thought aside and shifting his focus back to the task at hand. A telegram had arrived from the mayor of St. Louis, urgently seeking his help to escort a convoy.
"What sort of convoy d'you reckon it'll be this time?" he asked his horse as he mounted up. Talking to his horse had become second nature. Those intelligent eyes seemed to understand him better than most folks. With a tug of the reins, they set off toward St. Louis at a steady gallop.
When Arthur dismounted in town, the mayor was already waiting for him on the steps of City Hall, hurrying down to greet him.
"Mr. Morgan! I knew we could count on you!"
"I came as soon as I got your telegram, Mr. Mayor. What sort of convoy is it this time? Cattle? Horses? Settlers?"
The mayor, a short, portly man with dark sideburns framing his wide face, chuckled nervously and scratched at his balding temple. He gestured for Arthur to follow him inside City Hall. Curious about the unusual secrecy, Arthur obliged. An old man in a reclining chair near the entrance snickered as they passed. Arthur raised an eyebrow at him.
"Come, I'll introduce you to your… er… cargo." said the mayor.
As they neared a large hall, muffled murmurs reached Arthur's ears. A sense of unease crept over him as the mayor pushed open the massive doors. A wave of high-pitched shrieks erupted, nearly making Arthur flinch. Women. Fifteen of them, to be exact. All eyes turned to him, their faces lit with grins, hands clasped in gratitude. They seemed thrilled to see Arthur.
"Ladies, may I present Mr. Arthur Morgan!" the mayor announced enthusiastically.
"Hurray!"
"Look, he's handsome, too!"
"Hurray for Mr. Morgan!"
Later, Arthur would recall the moment only faintly. It was as if he'd blacked out, the moment stealing his wits. His face froze, blank, as he fought to keep his jaw from dropping. Then reality struck, and he spun on his heel, bolting out of City Hall. The mayor rushed after him, panting, barely catching up as Arthur already reached the bottom of the steps.
"Morgan, wait! Please, listen to me!"
"Oh, no! Anything else—but this?! No!" he barked. The mayor kept pace, breathless but persistent.
"At this very moment, there are fifteen men in Purgatory who are only living for these women! They sent photographs of themselves and…"
"NO!" Arthur growled. But the mayor wasn't deterred.
"Consider this: fifteen potential couples, each likely to have three children. Your refusal makes you guilty of failing to assist countless souls who are in danger of never existing!"
"That's stretchin' things a bit, don't you think, Mr. Mayor?" Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a long, frustrated sigh. His horse nudged him, snorting softly.
"Fine, you win!" he barked, pointing his index finger warningly at the mayor.
"I'll guide them, but I won't get involved in their… issues."
"The wagon master will assist you with that!" the mayor interjected quickly, evidently relieved. He hovered a hand above Arthur's back, steering him back inside City Hall. Arthur walked reluctantly. The old man in the reclining chair was still eyeing Arthur with a grin. Already irritated, Arthur snapped at him.
"What're you snickerin' at, old-timer?" The old man rose from his chair angrily and shouted, waving his wooden cane in a threatening way.
"I ain't no old-timer! I'm not much older than you!" His furious expression suddenly softened, and he sank back into the chair with a quiet groan.
"Though, once upon a time, I led a convoy of women too…" Arthur shuddered. The mayor quickly interjected.
"Don't pay him no mind, Arthur. He's… uh… senile."
"Have you explained what they'll be up against?" Arthur cut the mayor impatiently."Outlaws, wild beasts, rattlesnakes?"
"Of course!" A sudden scream pierced the air, making them both freeze. They rushed back into the hall to find all fifteen women standing on chairs, pale-faced with fright, pointing in unison at the floor.
"Help!
"There! A mouse!"
"Heavens!"
"Do something!"
"Make it go away!"
Arthur shot the mayor a hard look. "Of course?" The mayor hurried to shoo the mouse outside, while Arthur helped the ladies down from their perches. When calm was restored, the mayor cleared his throat.
"Ladies! Mr. Morgan has graciously agreed to guide your wagon train to Purgatory!" He then gestured dramatically to a large wooden board covered by a white sheet.
"All that remains is the traditional ceremony of choosing your groom!" With a flourish, he unveiled the board, which displayed neatly arranged photographs of the men from Purgatory.
A thirty-legged stampede charged toward the board. Each photo showed a man in identical attire, as though they were lined up for inspection. Beneath the pictures were names and captions like, Broad-minded m. seeks soul mate and Handsome m. perfect for demanding, soph. young woman. The women chattered excitedly as they made their selections.
"The ginger one, top left!"
"With the tall fellow, I'll feel safe!"
"The dark-haired one, too shy to smile."
Arthur leaned back against the wall with arms on his belt, watching the unorthodox ceremony with mild amusement.
"So they're pickin' husbands from photos—men they've never laid eyes on—to be their lifelong companions?" The mayor nodded.
"And why the hell are they all dressed the same?" Arthur asked in disbelief.
"In towns without women," the mayor explained, "the men go to the barber first, then the photographer, who helps them dress, er, makes them more presentable. Arthur shook his head.
"Marriage," he muttered. "Ordinary men dreaming of extraordinary women, who, being ordinary themselves, dream of extraordinary men…" The women were now sneaking glances over each other's shoulders, commenting on their friends' choices.
"Hey, yours is almost bald!"
"A wide forehead's a sign of intelligence."
Arthur noticed one young lady wasn't joining the gossip. She looked thoughtful, as she clutched a photograph in her delicate gloved hand. She was Southern, judging by her honeyed drawl and the way her golden-brown curls framed her face, falling softly against her cheeks. Her eyes were wide and expressive and her lips full, with a teasing curve. She was petite and graceful, but her posture held a quiet confidence. She couldn't have been older than 22. Pretty little thing, Arthur couldn't help but notice. Seeing her thoughtful gaze, the other ladies started a round of friendly teasing.
"Jenny Mae, talkin' about a 'pickin' a man with a good heart'-you'd think she's fixin' to marry a preacher instead of a farmer!
"Well, a man with a good heart can plow a field just as fine as a man without one. The difference is, he'll treat his wife kindly after." she fired back, but her tone was sweet. "Say what you will, ladies, but we're in luck—we get to do the choosing!"
A fair point there, thought Arthur, silently eavesdropping on the exchange, despite himself. But he quickly remembered that he wouldn't be getting tangled in these women's business. Not with such a long, precarious journey ahead.
A sharp cracking sound jolted Arthur from his daydream, and something thin and quick as lightning snapped his cigarette clean in half. Arthur flinched in surprise. The mayor gestured toward the culprit.
"And this, gentlemen, is Hank Bully, the best whip in the West!" Hank Bully was a large, broad-shouldered man in his forties, with a booming laugh like a cowboy Santa Claus. He clutched his belly as he laughed, but his mirth was cut short by a sudden bang!—his cigar snapped clean in two. Arthur was the one chuckling now, slipping his revolver smoothly back into its holster.
"Hank! Old buddy!" Arthur called out, striding over with a grin and extending his hand.
"Morgan! Still got a taste for sophisticated humor, I see!" Hank bellowed, shaking Arthur's hand with vigor before slapping him on the back.
"And this, Mr. Morgan, is your deputy!" the mayor interjected, gesturing to a man approaching from behind. Arthur blinked. He had never seen such a peculiar feller. The man was tall and wiry, with fair hair, dressed in white trousers and a silk pink blouse topped with a black bow. His beige boots shone with polish, and a flower dangled from his hat. Hank's jaw dropped next to Arthur.
"Tanguy Charbonnier," the mayor introduced. "French hairdresser. Call him the harem's eunuch, if you will. His job will be to keep peace among the ladies on the journey."
"Evenin', my darlings!" Tanguy greeted smoothly, removing his hat with a theatrical bow. His voice was soft, polished, and brimming with charm. After the initial surprise, Arthur decided he rather liked the feller. He extended his hand for a shake.
"Escorting a convoy of women doesn't frighten you?"
"Why should it? And you?" Tanguy replied with a raised brow.
"Well…" Arthur chuckled, scratching the back of his neck.
"After all, they're such delightful little things!" Tanguy pursed his lips and giggled.
"What about heading to a place where there's nothin' but men?" Arthur teased further.
"Not at all! I simply adore making new friends!" he quipped, grinning. A moment later, Arthur took a central place in the room, gesturing to the ladies to come forward, with a serious face. The room fell silent.
"All right, ladies, a few things to consider: The wagon train will leave tomorrow at dawn! That means those of you who have two ounces of common sense still have the time to change your mind and give up this madness! Understand that west of St. Louis there's little law, and west of Dodge City there's hardly God himself!" The women exchanged uneasy glances, worry starting to spread among them.
"And why're you telling us this, Mr. Morgan?" The Southern Belle's soft drawl sliced through the room, loud enough to make heads turn. She fixed Arthur with her gaze.
"We sure aren't changing our minds! There's nothin' left for us here—our future's out West! Am I right, ladies?" She turned her delicate chin slightly to the others. A murmur of agreement rippled through the room.
"So don't you be trying to scare us off, Mr. Morgan, and don't think to call us fools again, neither!" She jabbed a finger toward him. Her tone was sharp but her lips were curling. Arthur felt a tug in his gut. It wasn't often he was lost for words. He tipped his hat politely, signaling he had no further objections. The mayor cleared his throat, trying to ease up the tension.
"All right, ladies. Mr. Morgan was just giving fair warning of the dangers ahead. It's a hard journey, and you should be ready for it. But there's no backing out now—everything's arranged. I suggest you all get some rest. You're setting out at sunrise! With that, he dismissed the room, and the women started to file out.
"Boy, Southern gal's got some spark!" Hank said with a low chuckle as they stepped into the hallway.
"Sure…" Arthur muttered, distracted. He wasn't really listening. His mind was stuck on the way her sharp gaze had pinned him.
It was late in the night when Arthur made his way to the saloon where he had rented a room. He was looking forward to a hot meal and an even hotter bath. His horse trotted steadily beneath him. His hooves echoed against the cobbled streets.
"Well, this one's gonna be a doozy, boy," Arthur murmured, patting his horse's neck. "We've driven cattle and horses, even flocks of sheep, but a gaggle of women? That's a first…"
It was a sleepless night for Arthur. As he lay on his back, staring up at the darkened ceiling of his room, he felt… unsettled. The weight of the task ahead pressed heavy on his chest, and with it a quiet ache he couldn't quite place. He had no business leading a convoy of women, let alone shouldering their future.
"You're a fool, Morgan." he muttered to himself, rubbing a rough hand over his tired eyes.
At some point, sleep pulled him under, and he drifted into a vague dream—a warm light, a simple house, the sound of dog's paws padding on a wooden floor. There was a woman, her back to him; her hair caught the afternoon light as she moved about the kitchen. He couldn't make out her face, but when she turned, a welcoming smile was visible as she motioned him inside. The dream was soft and blurry—a faint warmth he'd never let himself long for. Before he could reach her, he was pulled back to the dim reality of his room. The dream faded away, and sleep took him under fully.