Snow swirled like ghosts across the tree line.
Ellie tugged her horse to a slow halt, eyes narrowed against the wind. The patrol followed her lead, fanning out in a half-circle as they spotted the figure ahead — lone rider, tall in the saddle, wrapped in a long black coat and dusted with frost.
His hat cast a deep shadow over his face, but his posture… calm. Not reckless. Not scared.
Just still.
"Who the hell…?" Dina muttered, already raising her rifle.
"Jesus…" Dina tightening her grip. "What century did this guy crawl out of?"
"Looks like he rode outta a Clint Eastwood poster," Jesse whispered.
Ellie called out, voice firm.
"Hey! Hands where I can see 'em!"
The man dismounted slow and easy, boots thudding into deep snow. He turned — not in a hurry — and let his eyes meet theirs one by one.
Then, without a word, he pulled two revolvers from his sides — ancient, well-worn, but cared for. One in each hand. He didn't aim them, just held them low, ready.
"Ain't lookin' for a fight," he said, voice deep and gravel-slick. "But I ain't stupid either."
His drawl rolled out like smoke from a campfire.
The patrol tensed.
"You're outnumbered, cowboy," Jesse called.
"Wouldn't be the first time."
"Drop the guns," Ellie demanded.
Arthur sighed and knelt in the snow, laying both revolvers down with care, as if setting down old friends.
"There. You happy?"
Ellie rode in a bit closer, rifle still trained.
"What's your name?"
"Arthur Morgan."
"Where you from?"
"New Hanover… though I figure that won't mean much to y'all."
Dina blinked. "New Hanover?"
"Last I knew, it was 1899. Then I got real sick, got in a fight I didn't win. Woke up in a world gone quiet. Full of ghosts and metal wagons rustin' on broken roads."
Silence blanketed the group thicker than the snow.
"Wait, what year did you say?" Jesse asked.
"Eighteen ninety-nine."
Ellie stared at him. The hat. The coat. The satchel. The boots with stitched leather long out of time. The bolt-action rifle strapped across his back.
He looked like history. Like a story someone's grandpa would tell by firelight.
"You're serious," she muttered.
"Do I look like I'm playin' games?"
Dina leaned toward Ellie.
"You hear that way he talks? Like… straight-up Wild West old-timey drawl. That's not fake."
"Or it's the best cosplay in human history," Jesse said.
Arthur raised a brow.
"What the hell is a 'cosplay'?"
That made Ellie flinch just a little.
"Alright," she said. "You said you're lookin' for Jackson?"
"That's right. Some bandits I ran into told me about it. Figured I'd find answers there. Or at least a bed that ain't made of moss."
Ellie hesitated.
"You got more weapons?"
"Just the rifle and my knife. All from home."
"...Which was the 1800s."
"Unless y'all got some other explanation for what the hell this place is, I'll stick to my story."
A beat.
"Fine," Ellie said finally. "We'll take you to Jackson. But your guns stay holstered. You try anything funny…"
"You'll shoot me. Yeah, yeah. Heard that plenty."
Arthur holstered his sidearms, swung back into the saddle, and fell into line behind them.
He didn't speak much on the ride.
But as they crossed through the blizzard, Ellie kept glancing back at the man in the old cowboy hat — as if trying to decide whether he was real… or just a ghost riding out of time.