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Arthur Morgan often felt that he was destined to die with a rifle or revolver in his hands, receiving a fitting end for all the trouble and sin he'd wrought in the last few decades, most likely at the hand of some scared fool that would retell and boast of his end in every saloon and brothel one side of the country or the other, until his memory faded into whispers, or better yet, silence. But as he sat against a large badland bluff, looking out at the prairie and a large herd of elk sauntering down by the mighty Missouri, he wasn't sure whether to thank his lucky stars for surviving, or curse them for allowing him to live after...Well, everything. Now, he wasn't suicidal, nor necessarily a "pessimist", whatever that actually meant, but he had to wonder why. Everyone, or nearly everyone, had gotten away, some good, some bad. Dutch and Micah were probably scheming somewhere out there, caring little who they seduced or robbed because they knew nothing else. Visions of another life had long fallen by the wayside, at least for Dutch, and he doubted Micah ever cared for anything but the money and killing. At the very least, he was glad that some were able to put it all behind them and actually try at life, instead of fighting the flow and ebb of time, and treasured progress. Still, he preferred the wild, untamed enclaves still to be found in some places, and after that fateful day on the mountain, he had stumbled westward, a lone lunger on the prairie, until he collapsed on the banks of the Missouri, waking up in some cattle and wheat town called Saber, up near the Canadian border. He had more than enough money to book a room at a small convalesce, at least for a few weeks until he regained some semblance of strength. No one really asked anything about him, yet they were as polite as rough frontier folk could ever really be. In other words, it was perfect. After his stay, he had run into an elderly Norwegian farmer at one of the local saloons, and upon learning that he was in need of an extra hand, volunteered in exchange for room and meager pay, which given the spoils he had salvaged from the end of the Van Der Linde's, wasn't a big deal. No, the relative isolation and busy work was priceless, but with today being Sunday, and Mr. Olsen being a strict Lutheran, he had resorted to fishing on the river, and for the first time in months, opening up his journal. The sketches and scrawled notes pulled at his heart somewhat, reminding him of another world, a hope he had clung to since he was just a degenerate adopted son of two young outlaws who had never shot a gun or dreamed of killing anyone except his pa. He always did envision himself being the man he never had, raising a family or maybe becoming a military man. He certainly doubted that any woman would have him now, but his family, the gang...Those that counted, that is, were safe, so he supposed he had done his job. Not as a father, nor a son, but a brother, a damned and dying killer who had purpose in their presence. Now, he was faced with himself, and with the prospect of life beyond that purpose, which...Scared him. He never let himself stop and think too much about it all, but Sunday mornings never gave him much choice. He never much cared for churches, nor did he feel worthy being amongst those folk trying to be good and honest, so his prayer, his salvation, usually took the form of excessive drinking before he could be greeted by the ever dangling skeletons in the closet, a habit Mr. Olsen tolerated with a stern, but well meaning stare. It had been months by now, and though he wondered how everyone was getting on, it was safer if he stayed away. He was probably gonna leave this place soon anyhow, pack up and head even further west, maybe into the mountains or desert, work a while and eventually settle down when he felt he could get away with it, preferably somewhere with few people and even fewer law. But for the time being, he'd work the wheat fields, wrangle up cattle, fish on the river, sing in his favorite saloon, and begin to hope again.