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In the snowy wilderness of the Grizzlies West, Arthur is used to hearing nothing but the wind in his ears. So, as he rides north, following along the edge of Spider Gorge so he doesn’t get lost, the sound of approaching wolves catches his attention instantly. Reaching for his bolt-action rifle, Arthur turns in the saddle, soothing Benny when his horse begins to panic. He waits to see if the wolves pass him by, not wanting to kill an entire pack (since spending time with Charles, Arthur has become a lot more conscious of only taking as much as he needs from nature). But, to his frustration, the group of wolves head straight towards him.
“Easy, boy,” Arthur says, lining up his first shot, but Benny is too scared to obey, breaking into a gallop to get away from the wolves. Arthur still manages to take the first wolf down with a headshot, but the others keep coming.
And then—
“Shit!” Arthur yelps as Benny, in his panic, runs straight into a rock, his front leg buckling beneath him. The force throws Arthur out of the saddle, flipping him in midair, and he lands face-down in the river. Thankfully, his hands break his fall, but his entire body gets submerged in icy water, so cold it seems to burn him, drenching his clothes. For a second, Arthur nearly passes out, barely remembering to breathe, his body in shock from the overwhelming cold.
Pulling his head above the surface, Arthur chokes and spits, heaving for breath. Shivers begin to run through his body, his fingers numb inside his wet gloves as he stands up, the harsh current of the shallow water almost knocking him onto his ass. Hauling himself out of the river, a horrifying scream makes Arthur turn his head, and then he wants to throw up.
Benny lies on the ground, his front leg broken, and his grey coat drenched in blood. He whinnies and screams, thrashing helplessly as the wolves claw and bite him, trying to kill Arthur’s dear horse. One wolf walks around Benny’s body, trying to sink its fangs into his neck, and Arthur snaps out of his dazed state, shooting the wolf through the face. His hands fumble with the mechanisms of his rifle, but Arthur soon puts the other wolves down too, and then he scrabbles over to poor Benny, his shivers getting worse, but he barely feels the cold.
“Oh, my boy…” Arthur whispers, petting Benny’s face as his horse gasps and whines, bleeding out all over the snow. He fumbles through his saddlebags, but Arthur cannot locate a horse reviver, and a simple horse medicine won’t heal these wounds. “Shit!” he mutters, wanting to punch himself. Why didn’t you resupply at Wallace Station, you fool? Arthur thinks to himself. You could’ve saved him. As Benny’s breaths slow, Arthur leans down, resting his wet forehead against Benny’s face. “I’m so sorry, boy.”
And he strokes his horse’s mane until Benny goes still.
But now he’s soaking wet and freezing cold, stranded in the middle of the Grizzlies with no horse.
Shit.
---
His shivers getting worse, Arthur almost drops his saddle, but he finally locates a spot amongst the trees to stop. Dropping the saddle on purpose, Arthur pitches his tent, his stiff, numb fingers struggling with the simple task, and then begins to unbutton his soaked coat. Arthur doesn’t know lots about survival in cold weather, but even he knows that wearing wet clothes will freeze you quicker. But the water soaked through to his union suit, forcing Arthur to strip fully naked, barefoot in the snow, before he crams his trembling limbs into dry clothes and boots. But Arthur can’t locate a spare coat alongside his clothes, and he sighs, his breath misting in the air.
“Goddamn it,” he mutters to himself, teeth chattering louder than ever, “Why didn’t you bring better clothes, Morgan?”
Frustrated by his own poor planning, Arthur crawls into his tent, too cold to spend time creating a campfire—even though the campfire would warm him quicker. Instead, he curls up on his bedroll, wrapping himself in blankets and hugging himself, hands wedged into his armpits and his knees drawn up to his chest.
He thought that this would warm him up, but it isn’t enough. Arthur forgot to dry his hair, his wet locks chilling his head and sapping his limited body heat, and the blankets aren’t thick enough to compensate for his thick coat.
His heart pounds against his ribs, his body spasming with shivers, and Arthur squeezes himself tighter, unable to forget the sight of poor Benny’s blood spilled across the snow.
---
Where is he? How did he get here?
Why is he in his tent in the middle of the day?
Why is he wrapped in blankets? It’s not like he’s cold, after all. If he was, wouldn’t he be shivering?
Arthur kicks off the blankets and stares down at himself, suddenly aware that he’s wearing too many clothes. He’s too hot. He needs these off his body right now.
His hands won’t work properly, his motor functions slow and clumsy, but Arthur doesn’t stop trying to pull his clothes off. He strips down to his union suit, wondering why he can see his breaths in the air. Is it cold outside? But then, why is he burning up?
Goddamn it, he’s so tired. His eyelids droop, so sleepy all of a sudden. His pulse is slow, his head fuzzy, and Arthur can barely keep himself sitting up. So, he gives up trying.
Yawning, Arthur flops back onto his bedroll, his head lolling against the pillow. Achy and confused but too tired to care why, Arthur’s eyes close, drifting off to sleep…
And he never wakes up.