Chapter Text
Arthur Morgan was a monster.
He had known it since he was just a boy, long before Dutch and Hosea swept him off the streets in the wake of his father’s death. He had known it since before Hosea had taught him his letters and Dutch had honed Arthur’s nasty quickdraw into a deadly accurate shot. He had known it before he ran with the gang, his ever-growing family, killing and robbing and tearing their way through the world in the hopes of a better life.
It wasn’t just the deaths Arthur left in his wake, nor the barely-quelled rage he was capable of. It wasn’t just in his strength and size, dense with muscle and hands made for combat. All of his wrongdoings in the eyes of the law were for the betterment of the world, for the outcasts and beggars just like he and the gang have always been. He followed the ways of Dutch and his dreams of reforming a better America for those shunned by society in the hopes of carving out a space for all. He wanted, and always tried, to help those that needed helping.
No, Arthur Morgan was a monster because, physically, he was.
Blackwater had been an utter disaster. In their haste to escape, mostly everything had been left behind. They lost Sean and Mac, Jenny was shot, and Davey had just died as they got to relative safety. Everyone was badly shaken, and the presence of the O’Driscoll’s out in this snowstorm with them did not make things any better. The Adler woman was inconsolable, her husband killed and home destroyed, having nowhere to turn to but the gang. To make matters worse, John had gone missing on top of that.
Arthur could hear Abigail over the blustering of wind and snow in another one of the ramshackle buildings they had found in Colter, talking to some of the other women about how John hadn’t been seen in days. Arthur knew she would ask him to go find John, the fool. He couldn’t smell John anywhere near camp, but the storm probably through off the scent. He had kept his ears pricked, but no sounds had reached him. Some instinct urged him to go looking for his fellow-gang member, as much as he didn’t want to brave the snow and could or shirk his other duties in camp. John was unfortunately his brother, in every sense but blood. Arthur sighed to himself.
Since he was born, he was different. His eyes were sharper than the other children his age, able to see better in the dark when they would crawl into dim and forgotten spaces in search of adventure. He could smell better too, able to scent the stink of his father’s drunkenness long before he arrived at their house. He could easily hear Beatrice and Lyle’s frequent arguing through the walls, and far beyond that to the calls of animals in the wilds beyond their town.
He changed for the first time when he was five.
He shed is human skin, replaced by a thick coat of fur that spread across his limbs. Long, sharp teeth burst from his gums as his face lengthened into a muzzle, crouched low to the ground as nails-turned-claws dug into the earth. He howled in his pain and confusion, long and mournful, to the full moon that shone above the woods that surrounded him. He was consoled only by the presence of his mother, her scent the same despite her beast-like appearance. She had licked his soft fur, and Arthur had curled into her side, scared of his new shape.
Werewolf.
Arthur shouldered his way out into the snow, burrowing deeper into his winter coat. He ran warmer than most, but even this cold managed to creep into his bones. He greeted Abigail, knowing what she would ask. He wondered if the gang members forgot about his keen hearing sometimes, or if they used it to their advantage at others. They were used to him after all, knowing more than he should or seeing a great brown beast sauntering through camp. Some were even brave enough to run their hands through his fur, even though Arthur knew he would never hurt any who thought to try.
Reluctantly, Arthur agreed to go find John alongside Javier. He knew he would be the best at it, with his supernatural senses, but he grumbled about it nonetheless. He still hadn’t forgiven John for disappearing on the gang, on Abigail and their young son Jack, on Arthur himself. He fought the urge to bare his teeth at the memory, instead heading for the horse he had picked up after their run-in with the O’Driscolls. He was sturdy, but flighty, getting nervous around Arthur whenever he caught a whiff of wolf-scent. The Tennessee Walker would do for now, but the horse certainly was no Boadicea. Arthur’s heart wrenched at the thought of his old horse, killed in the Blackwater disaster. He barely got to say goodbye before he had to run for his life.
Mounting up, he and Javier set off into the snow. The storm had calmed a bit but not all the way, making it difficult to see, even with his keen eyesight. Javier mentioned how John went towards the river, and Arthur grumbled about how he probably kept riding north and never looked back. Arthur waited until they were further from camp before sniffing the air, not wanting to muddy up any scents with those from their temporary hideout. The wind was strong and crisp, cold with the scent of pine and snow. Catching any wayward scents in this weather would be tough. Arthur could smell their horses, Javier’s scent mingled with Boaz’s, and the distant ash from their campfires. Nothing of John yet.
Arthur’s mother had been a wolf, just like him. After their first transformation together she had been a guiding beacon to Arthur, teaching him about how werewolves were shunned and feared, that his nature must be kept a secret at all costs. Lyle, his father, had been human but aware of this secret. He hadn’t been too pleased to see Arthur had taken after his mother, but he left them alone for the most part. He was too caught up in his criminal ways to pay much mind to his wife and son who changed forms under the moonlight.
It was the second full moon Arthur ever experienced when his mother was killed. They had set off into the woods together, Arthur excited now that he knew what to expect. He and his mother had meandered through fresh snow, bounding after small game when the shots rang out. Arthur, small and swift, had bolted, his mother at his side, but she was an easier target. She fell, blood pooling, and Arthur had cried for her through his animal jaws. She had snapped at him, sending him away from the men with guns and lanterns charging after them through the snow. Arthur, at a loss, had fled as he was told.
This snowfall reminded him of that fateful night and Arthur did his best to ignore the memory. It was hazy in his mind, faded with age and terror, but not forgotten. He urged his horse on, pulling the brim of his hat low to try and keep some of the snow out of his face. He and Javier carried on for a few minutes until Arthur caught a faint whiff of smoke. He called to Javier and they found a small camp, abandoned. Arthur didn’t dismount, training his ears for any sound that may indicate someone was still around. He could smell John though. Faint, in the snow, but there.
Javier pointed out some tracks and the pair followed them, encouraging their horses through the thick snow. Arthur was relieved, even if he didn’t want to admit it, that there was some inkling that John was probably alive.
“Javier…” Arthur said when the wind had died down a bit, “What happened in Blackwater?”
Arthur hadn’t been there. He’d been with Hosea, helping him scheme up a plan to swindle some of the rich bastards in that town. The Blackwater ferry had been all Dutch and Micah. Arthur didn’t care for Micah at all, finding him grating at the best of times. He didn’t like the smell of him either – something foul and sour, almost like fear but more so like venom. He aimed to stay as far away from Micah as possible.
“Bad business” was Javier’s reply. Javier told Arthur how Dutch had killed a girl in a bad way, how the other gang members had been shot, how Sean had gone missing. Arthur didn’t want to believe that Dutch had killed an innocent girl in whatever vague bad manner Javier mentioned, but Arthur didn’t smell dishonesty from his companion. He was good at that kind of thing. His wolf senses gave him an advantage, he could hear heartbeats and smell sweat and see the miniscule changes of a lying man’s face. He was not smart, no good for reading books, but reading people was at least something he could do beyond shoot straight.
Arthur had hidden himself deep in the woods when his mother was killed, desperate to call out but afraid he would also be found. He didn’t even notice that a bullet had clipped him on his side until he transformed back in the morning, naked and shivering in the cold. He ran back to the small house his family had, tears in his eyes as he told his father what had happened. Lyle had not been sad, or indifferent, or grief-stricken.
He had been angry.
Young Arthur had learned his lesson, to avoid the temper of his father at all costs. His wolf became a burden, a beast, something to be rid of. His father didn’t treat him with the same kindness as before, instead with a cursory politeness and the bare minimum of what Arthur needed to survive. Arthur had learned to read his moods but the smell of his breath and the curve of his eyebrows, cautious in every move. He knew his father blamed him for his mother’s death.
Javier went silent after Arthur’s questioning, clearly still rattled by the events in Blackwater. Arthur let him be, keeping a lookout for any signs of John as they rode on. The avoided cliffs and narrow crevices, the horses complaining as they ploughed through the snow. Arthur was tempted to drift back into his thoughts when he scented blood.
He warned Javier, trotting ahead of him and Boaz to take the lead. It didn’t smell human, horse maybe, but it was woven in with the scent of John. Arthur found his guess to be right when they came upon a dead horse being fed on by a few crows that burst into the sky as they approached. It was definitely John’s horse, his scent was all over it. Arthur swore under his breath. Javier sent a shot out into the air, and John’s voice answered back.
They found John, alive and half-eaten, after a trek along the mountain’s edge. Arthur and Javier managed to get him up and headed towards the horses before Arthur stopped short at a smell on the wind. He knows it well, different to his own but similar enough. Sharp and wet, with a tint of old blood and hunger.
Wolf.
True wolves, not like Arthur. For a split-second Arthur worries, frantically scenting the air again in case there was another werewolf around. John getting bitten by another of his kind would mean he would end up like Arthur, and as much as Arthur was angry with the foolish man, he wouldn’t wish his curse upon anyone else. Thankfully, they seemed to be a wild pack of regular wolves. Arthur hands a groaning John over to Javier who frantically makes his way towards Boaz. Arthur, unafraid, steps out to greet the pack with his shotgun at the ready. He hopefully wouldn’t need to waste bullets on this.
The old stories Arthur read about werewolves depicted them as savage beasts who could not control their hunger for human flesh. They turned on the full moon, wild and uncontrollable, unconscious of their actions and only aimed to kill. While Arthur could agree with some of the finer details of caving into animal instincts, the stories were not true. Arthur could call forth or push back his wolf at will, as much as he desired or not at all. He chose to look as human as possible, hiding teeth and claws behind chapped lips and calloused hands. Nobody caught on unless they saw these features themselves, but animals were well-aware of what he was.
Arthur let his eyes flash, blue-green taking on an almost unnatural yellowish sheen as the whites of his eyes disappeared. His teeth grew beneath his lips, bared in a snarl. Claws pressed against the leather of his gloves, but Arthur did not want to tear through the fabric. A deep growl built from his chest, echoing loudly over the howling storm, right at the wolves. A clear threat.
The true wolves hesitated, surprised at being confronted by a greater enemy. The horses stamped nervously as Javier swung John up behind Boaz’s saddle, frightened by the presence of predators. Arthur growled again as the wolves dared to move forward, stance sure and gun cocked in his hands in case the wolves got too brave. They stayed where they were, uncertain, as Arthur mounted his horse and they kicked off into the snow.
Arthur shot at a few more wolves emerging from the landscape, too far away to have heard his warning. They go down easily. Arthur almost feels bad, he usually does when he has to kill his kin in some way, but this time the anger and worry he feels for John blocks out the guilt.
The wolves left them be but they kept up the hurried pace, crossing through the river to try break up their scent trail. John was complaining as usual, gripping onto Javier and bleeding all over his shirt. Javier turned to check on Arthur, and quickly looked away again.
“Good work there, Arthur,” said Javier, “I’ve always wondered how real wolves would react to you.”
Arthur quickly changed his eyes back to normal and snapped his teeth back into shape. He forgot, sometimes, that while the gang was used to him and accepted his wolf form, they were not always comfortable with it. Especially when it came to the violence Arthur was capable of.
“No need to show off,” John grumbled, halfway falling off the horse in his state. “You flashing those damn eyes feels like being attacked all over again.”
John, of course, was different. He and Arthur were both raised by Dutch and Hosea together, and John had been around Arthur enough to not be bothered at all by him being a werewolf. He had often teased the older man about it, calling him all manner of names and insults. Arthur had taken it in good stride, save a few good beatings here and there, but most importantly Arthur felt that John had truly accepted him. He was not afraid of what Arthur could be.
“We’re gonna need a better story for this Marston” Arthur responded.
“So freezin’, bleedin’ starvin’, damn near gettin’ eaten to death ain’t good enough for you?”
“And I’ll eat the rest of you if you pull somethin’ stupid like this again, you hear?”
They made it back to camp without further incident, handing John off to Abigail who thanked Arthur and Javier and scolded John in the same breath. Hosea made an appearance as well, and Arthur turned to him, worried.
He had always seen Hosea and Dutch as his fathers. His own had become more of a drunk and degenerate since his mother’s passing, running around as an outlaw until he swung from the gallows before Arthur was even a teenager. Even with his father, full moon transformations were difficult, and keeping himself fed as a human was tougher still. Arthur would risk it in the woods, hunting as a wolf, before bringing what he could back home. After Lyle’s death, Arthur lived mostly feral in the wilderness, until a particularly harsh winter left no game for miles and miles. Arthur had turned to the streets of small towns to scrounge up what he could. He had only the clothes on his back, his father’s hat adorned with the rope he had swung from, and an old rusted cattleman he had swiped from two farms over.
Hosea and Dutch had changed that for the better.
“Hosea, have you and Dutch discussed how we’re getting’ out of this mess?” Arthur asked, almost out of habit.
“When the weather breaks… I suppose we’ll be heading east.”
“East! With all that… civilisation?” Arthur bristled at the thought. It was much harder to keep the wolf a secret when all the people in a town could notice you at any point.
“The west is where all our problems lie, dear boy. Don’t you worry, we’ll make sure you’re safe, as always.”
“Thanks, Hosea.”
Hosea graces him with a smile before he shudders against the cold, heading back indoors. Arthur sighs, stepping through the snow as well. He makes sure his horse is settled, giving him a quick brush and putting him back with the rest of the herd. He dances nervously in place when Arthur approaches, still wary off the wolf wearing a person’s skin. It’s something a horse can be trained out of, but Arthur feels it doesn’t bode well for a horse who would probably be caught up in gunfights and risky races away from the law. He’ll probably sell the Walker when he gets the chance.
Arthur made his way back to the house he shared in the camp, shaking off snow before stepping inside. Dutch acknowledged him with a nod, in the middle of a conversation with Hosea in front of the fireplace. Immediately their voices quieted down, they knew better than anyone how good Arthur’s hearing was. Arthur ignored them and headed to his small room, ramshackle and a bit drafty. He had insisted they could give the room to someone else and he could rough it in the snow in his wolf form, but Hosea had reprimanded him in case they needed him human for an emergency. It was evening, and the storm seemed to be quieting to a flurry rather than a blizzard. Arthur sat on his bed, pulling out his journal.
He didn’t feel much like writing, so instead he decided to draw. He sketched the ugly excuse John had for a face at an angle, avoiding having to draw the new scars so soon. He drew a few vague sketches of camp and the sharp peaks of the mountains that he caught glimpses of when the snow wasn’t too thick. He drew the wolves in more detail, eyes darkened and fur raised, jaws open. He was tempted to draw another wolf facing them, bigger and stronger with a human glint in its eye, but thought better of it. He went to sleep after that, and dreamed of himself as a wolf amongst a pack of others like him.
He woke to the storm having quieted, not entirely, but enough that he could hear the stirring activity of camp without needing to strain his ears. He set about preparing himself for the day, planning to have a look at John before he got started with whatever tasks needed doing.
John was asleep when Arthur arrived. He was being tended to by Abigail and Reverend Swanson, who sprouted various Bible verses. The rest of the women seemed sombre and withdrawn, which didn’t surprise Arthur. The Adler woman was sobbing again – Arthur had heard her throughout the night and he couldn’t blame her. Tilly said they could barely get her to eat. He hoped someone would tell her about him being a wolf before she had to find out. Arthur was always cautious with new gang members, uncertain of how they would react to him. Usually it was with disbelief until his transformations, sometimes it was fear. Rarely, it was a combination of fear and anger that had Arthur watching his back constantly. Those like that never really lasted long.
Leaving them be, Arthur made his way over to Pearson, who was once again grumbling about a lack of supplies. It progressed to even worse when Pearson started some tale about the time when he was in the Navy and stranded at sea for fifty days.
“And unfortunately, you survived,” Arthur grunted.
Pearson gave him a long-suffering look. “When we ran away from Blackwater, I wasn’t able to get supplies in.”
“Well sometimes when government agents are huntin’ you down, shopping trips need to be cut short. We’ll survive, we always have. And, if need be, we can eat you. You’re the fattest.”
Arthur, feeling antagonistic, showed a flash of wolf teeth.
Pearson almost stumbled in his harried pacing about, eyeing Arthur with a sense of caution. “I sent Lenny and Bill hunting, and they came back with nothing!”
Arthur caught another scent on the wind then, one familiar and warm. Charles approached them from outside, dusting snow off himself and joining them by the cooking fire. Arthur acknowledged him with a nod, making sure his teeth were back in place.
“Lenny’s more into book-learnin’ than huntin’, and Bill’s a fool. I don’t know why you sent them off without askin’ me as per usual.”
“My apologies, Mister Morgan. You was busy with Marston up on the mountain, and Mister Smith here has hurt his hand, so our best hunters were not available-”
“Come on Arthur, we’ll find something,” Charles cut in, interrupting Pearson.
Arthur had liked Charles ever since he joined the gang just less than a year ago. He was quiet and steadfast, with a polite manner and a keen eye for hunting and nature. His voice was pleasant, deep and almost musical. Arthur always took pleasure in hearing Charles speak, as infrequently as he did. He always smelled nice as well, warm and of herbs and earth. Arthur found him to be good company, the two of them often content to sit by the campfire in silence together while Charles whittled wood carvings or fletched arrows, and Arthur scribbled in his journal.
Charles wasn’t afraid of Arthur either. The first full moon Charles experienced with the gang was calm, out in the West Grizzlies and far from civilisation. Arthur was content to transform just outside of camp, leaving his clothes behind and greeting everyone before setting off to run wild in the woods. Dutch and Hosea had rubbed at his ears fondly, and John flipped him off. The other gang members had either stayed back cautiously or given him friendly waves. Little Jack insisted on making sure he also gave Uncle Arthur a good pat, making Hosea lift him up to reach Arthur’s massive head.
Charles, however, didn’t shrink back in terror or gasp in disbelief as most people did. Instead, he looked at Arthur with something like wonder and awe. He did not dare to touch Arthur’s fur, but Arthur understood the gaze all the same and nodded in turn. Arthur also noticed that Charles looked at him with a sense of familiarity, but to what he could not place. He and Charles had been friendly ever since.
“You can’t go huntin’, look at your hand.” Arthur gestured to Charles’ hand, wrapped in bandages. He had burned it in the mad escape from Blackwater somehow, and Arthur had wrapped it for him when they had a safe moment. Arthur thought it must have been bad, with the way his own skin heated from the close contact with the wound.
“You’re not going out there alone,” came Charles’ response.
“You need to rest, Charles.”
“You think this is rest?” Charles’ voice had a biting edge to it, which Arthur relished. Most people in camp never really fought back with him like this. Banter and jokes would fly easily of course, especially when Sean was around, but genuine disagreement was always cautious as if not to provoke Arthur.
Arthur sighed.
“I promised I’d teach you how to hunt with a bow anyhow,” Charles said, turning back out to the cold where Taima was already saddled up.
“You’ve got to be joking.”
“Oh wait, take this!” Pearson interrupted, tossing Arthur a can. Arthur had almost forgotten Pearson was there at all.
“Assorted salted offal” Arthur read. He scoffed but pocketed the can anyways. “Starvin’ would be preferable.”
Arthur followed Charles to his horse hitched up near Taima and mounted up. “Are we really doing this bow thing?”
“Use a gun, and you’ll scare off every animal for miles around. Use your wolf form, and you risk being spotted by O’Driscolls or otherwise. Javier said your nose isn’t so sharp out in this storm with the snow blanketing everything, it may be a good opportunity to refresh your tracking skills.”
“Alright then, you lead the way.”
They spurred the horses on, falling in step with each other at a light trot as they head away from camp. The storm had definitely died down a bit, allowing Arthur to get a better scent of the place. The snow still overpowered everything, but he could smell the fresh green shoots of spring growth beneath the white surface. In wolf form, he’d be able to smell all the small creatures burrowing underground, and the different types of trees just from the scent of their sap. He knew Charles was right, in that he shouldn’t be relying too much on his wolf. There were always situations where he was at risk of being seen.
“How are you holding up Charles?” Arthur asked.
“I’m okay, apart from this hand. Stupid mistake.”
“Still bad? I should have taken more time to patch you up.”
“No no, it’ll be fine in a day or two. I just can’t pull a bow right now.”
“I sure hope I can.”
Charles turned to look at him with a slight smile. “You’ll be fine. If you mess up, it’ll be your job to chase after them, wolf or otherwise.”
Arthur hummed in amusement. “That’s assuming we find anything out here. Can’t smell anythin’ in this weather. The only reason I found John was ‘cause he left tracks and he hasn’t had a bath for a good few months.”
Charles graced him with a soft laugh that made Arthur’s ears tingle. “Now that the storm’s dying down the animals will be needing to feed. We’ll find something.”
“Been a wild few days. Blackwater, riding north, this storm, John.”
“You’ve had a lot put on you, I wish I could have done more.”
The gentle reassurance from Charles was comforting to Arthur. Dutch always needed him strong and ready, waiting to take on the brunt of the work that needed doing and Arthur was always eager to please. Hosea was always the one who sought after Arthur’s comfort and wellbeing before and after jobs, even if Arthur found him to be very mother-hen about it all. Charles was different, offering support in such a way that it wasn’t weighed with expectations or overbearing.
“I didn’t mean it like that… just a lot to think back on,” Arthur said. He didn’t exactly know how to go about accepting that kind of support when he got it.
They rode in companionable silence for a while, taking in the beauty of the mountains around him while keeping an eye out for game. Eventually, Charles led them down a snowbank nearby a river, and stopped them when he spotted tracks. Arthur couldn’t quite catch the scent of whatever it was that Charles had found until he had dismounted and gotten close to the prints. The cold snow and icy water, coupled with the overburdening scent of a young pine tree with snapped branches nearby made it hard to pick up the fainter traces of wildlife.
“Deer,” Arthur mumbled to Charles when he finally caught the scent of the tracks.
Charles nodded. “Grab your bow.”
Arthur did as he was instructed, easily slipping into a crouch beside Charles. They both were experienced hunters, but Arthur was more used to the more agile glide of a wolf’s body when he did so. He moved silently, almost smooth but not quite as much as he was in his other form.
Charles, on the other hand, moved with a quiet fluidity through the snow, focussed and steady. Arthur admired him, even with his benefits of a wolf’s senses and dexterity, Charles was clearly a miles better hunter than Arthur was.
They stalked through the snow and peeking undergrowth together until a deer came into view. A doe, nibbling delicately on some plant matter that had reached out through the snow. They had spotted it at the same time, Charles with his hunting skill and Arthur with his animal instinct. Slowly, Arthur notched an arrow in his bow.
“Steady now,” Charles said right against Arthur’s ear. Arthur resisted the urge to shudder, Charles’ voice low and encouraging, his lips barely centimetres away from Arthur’s skin. Charles’ breath was warm against him as he spoke.
Arthur did his best to remain focussed and raised the bow, trying to ignore the heat that flared in his body as Charles guided his arms. Charles pulled his limbs and pressed his back into position, quietly talking Arthur through the motions of pulling the bow and aiming from right behind Arthur, muttering low into his ear. Arthur swallowed, lining up his shot. He felt Charles’ hands fall away from him as he released the arrow, quickly and cleanly into the deer’s neck.
“Well done” Charles said into his ear before finally pulling away. Arthur silently mourned the loss, chalking it up to feeling cold. “Let’s see if you can get another.”
“That wasn’t so bad,” Arthur replied. “Still easier to do this as a wolf though.”
“It must be lovely, to hunt with your own claws and teeth.” Charles still spoke in low tones and was still close. Arthur allowed himself a shiver.
Charles never shied away from the fact that Arthur was a werewolf. The whole ordeal was explained to him when he joined the gang, but Charles hadn’t responded with the usual scepticism. He had instead been open-minded and curious. Even after the proof was laid bare, Charles hadn’t gone asking invasive questions or making the usual misunderstandings. He almost seemed to understand Arthur’s condition, in some strange delusion Arthur is sure comes from his own head. Charles also never treated Arthur’s wolf as if it were some sort of unspeakable and embarrassing subject. He was clear and confident, eye-contact and all. Arthur appreciated it very much.
They left their felled deer where it was and stalked down another one. Again, Charles went through the motions of guiding Arthur through shooting the bow, hands on his arms and chest pressed to his back and voice in his ear. Arthur was fairly confident he could manage on his own for this one, but he didn’t dare say it. He loosed his arrow right into the creature’s eye.
“Excellent shot,” Charles praised him. “You’re a natural at this. That should be enough, we can’t carry anymore.” Charles stood, turning to look at him, and paused. “Oh, your eyes, do you always do that when you’re focussing on a shot?”
Arthur hadn’t even noticed his eyes had changed, shifting from human perception to a wolf’s dull-coloured but long-ranged focus. He blinked, shifting them back and looking away to avoid upsetting Charles. “Sorry, I didn’t even realise. I’m usually better ‘bout this.”
“Don’t apologise.” Charles was looking at him intently when Arthur looked back. He was surprised not to hear the usual wariness that came with seeing a wolfish feature.
“I think they’re lovely,” Charles said, soft.
Arthur’s heart skipped a beat. He covered it by clearing his throat. “Uh… thanks.”
They whistled for their horses, lashed their deer to their saddles and headed towards camp in another comfortable silence. Arthur pondered on Charles’ comment the whole way back, and decided that the cold was just getting to his head.