Chapter Text
Even before disease eroded his body, Arthur had never liked the look of his own reflection: the brooding, bloodshot eyes; the perpetual downturn of his chapped lips; the weary slump of his shoulders.
But the larger-than-life portrait hanging on the wall of the Saint Denis Art Gallery evoked an entirely different response from him, one that he could not put into words.
He cast furtive looks over both of his shoulders. The gallery was quiet as patrons drifted slowly through the ornate rooms, exchanging low murmurs as they admired the works. They seemed more interested in the representations of wildlife—snarling wolves and frolicking horses—than of the portrait of the grizzled frontiersman and its flesh-and-blood subject, who stood directly in front of it as if he’d just hiked a boot over the frame and emerged into the corporeal world from within the print itself.
Arthur was fine with the lack of attention—he agreed that animals were a lot more interesting than humans, let alone an exceptionally uninteresting human as himself. (The myriad of sketches in his journal were evidence of that opinion.) But more importantly, the last thing he wanted was for someone to recognize him as Wanted Outlaw Arthur Morgan, so it eased his nerves somewhat to realize that no one had given the portrait a second glance. And even if someone had, it was likely that the inky stroke of shadow cast over his eyes by the brim of his hat would be enough to obscure his identity; it almost looked like he was wearing a bandit mask. Without meaning to, Arthur smirked at this observation.
His eyes roved over the photo. In it, he stood, natural and unposing, with his arms hanging loose at his sides and his gun in one hand. Overlapping lines of trees at various depth and distance filled the background. The image was composed of stark shadows and shades of gray, crisp in the center and hazy around the edges.
Just like a memory, Arthur mused.
It was a wonderment to him that someone could capture and preserve a near-exact fragment of the past, hold it in their hands, hang it in a gallery like a work of art. He didn’t know much about the technology involved, but he surmised that with an ability like that, a man had to be conscientious of the kinds of photos he took. He wouldn’t want to squander away his time or supplies by taking photos of random, meaningless things.
And yet… Albert Mason had taken a photo of him. It hadn’t happened by accident. Arthur had never asked him to do so, and the man certainly wasn’t paid for it. With all the vast and rolling splendor of God’s country available to serve as inspiration, with all the beauty and beasts to behold from sea to sea, Mason had deliberately chosen Arthur, a man he’d met mere moments before putting him in front of the camera, to capture in one of his cherished photos.
Not only that, but he’d then displayed it—prominently—in a high-society art gallery.
Either Mason was a bigger fool than Arthur thought, or he saw something in him that even Arthur couldn’t see.
Looking at his portrait now, Arthur felt a sharp prod of longing. Despite the trouble Mason had gotten himself—and dragged Arthur—into on various occasions, he missed the bumbling photographer more than he wanted to admit. Strangers entered and exited Arthur’s life all the time: cheeky artists, mad scientists, dramatic circus performers. He was used to spur-of-the-moment greetings and swift, sudden goodbyes. The only permanence he knew was the gang, and even they seemed to be constantly moving and changing these days.
But Mason lingered in his mind in a way that the other strangers didn’t. He wasn’t pompous, always the first to admit himself a fool after making a mistake. He appreciated nature, holding firm to the belief that all life was precious, prey and predator alike. And he was genial, always happy for the opportunity to share his passion with others.
Mason was human; an exceptionally interesting one. And Arthur, made weary by the death that stalked him and desperate for something—for reprieve, for a friend—longed to see him again.
“‘Scuse me,” Arthur said as he approached the attendant at the gallery’s welcome desk. “The photographer whose work is on display here—is he around anywhere?”
“I’m afraid you’ve missed him, sir,” the attendant said with a sympathetic smile. “Mr. Mason was present for the exhibit opening last week, but he left town yesterday.”
“Left town?” Arthur echoed. “Do you know where he went? Does he have another gallery opening somewhere?”
“I can’t say for sure…” The attendant shook his head. “But during his visitation with patrons, he mentioned wanting to capture the likeness of a rare white cougar seen in the Grizzlies. Perhaps he’s headed that way?”
Arthur swallowed a curse, instead opting for a tight-lipped smile and grateful nod as he turned away from the desk. That damn fool is gonna get himself killed for real this time, he thought.
Mason was probably halfway to the mountains by then. Arthur guessed that, if he left immediately and rode through the night, he could catch up to him by the time he breached the snowline. He’d have to stop in Valentine for food, warm clothes, ammunition…
Before his plan was fully formed, he was on his horse and turning her west.