Jackson wasn't much to look at in the storm. Just enough firelight and barbed wire to remind the world it was still holding on.
When the patrol rode in, folks turned.
Not for Ellie. Not for Dina. But for him — the broad-shouldered man in a weather-worn duster, face shadowed by a cowboy hat that hadn't been in fashion for a century.
Gasps, murmurs. Children stepped behind mothers. A few guards reached for their rifles.
Arthur Morgan slid off his horse, his boots thudding into packed snow. He didn't look scared — didn't even look surprised.
He just stood there, eyes scanning the town like it was some new outpost on the map.
"Takes a lotta folks to build somethin' this big in the snow," he muttered, more to himself than anyone.
A voice snapped through the crowd.
"What the hell, Ellie?!"
Johnny stormed over — a wiry man with a permanent scowl and too many patrol scars.
"You brought a stranger in? We know nothin' about him — where he's from, who he is—hell, if he's even sane."
Ellie didn't flinch. "He's not a threat."
"Not a threat?" Johnny jabbed a finger. "Look at him! That's a costume. Who dresses like that unless they're tryna get shot?"
People around whispered louder now, eyes flicking to Arthur's coat, the revolvers at his hips, the long rifle slung over his back, and most of all — the satchel. A stitched leather thing straight out of another century.
Joel stepped forward, arms crossed.
"Want me to talk to him?"
Johnny exhaled. "Yeah. Take him in for a sit-down. Find out if he's lying, or just crazy."
The room was small, quiet, lit by a single dim bulb overhead. A table, two chairs. The kind of place where trust went to die.
Arthur sat with his elbows resting, fingers laced together. Hat still on.
Joel entered and sat across from him, studying the lines on the man's face. Deep ones. Not just age — regret.
"Name?" Joel asked.
"Arthur. Arthur Morgan."
Joel blinked. Something tugged in the back of his head. That name… familiar. But not recent.
"Where you from?"
"New Hanover. Was part of a… group, long time ago."
"How long?"
"Last I remember? Year was 1899."
The silence that followed stretched and grew cold.
Joel stared.
"...Eighteen ninety-nine?"
"That a problem?"
Joel leaned back slowly. A flicker of something creeping across his face.
"I've heard that name before," he said quietly. "Not in person. In print. A long time ago."
Arthur's brow furrowed.
"Print?"
"Book. Old one. Nearly fell apart last time I saw it. Written in the early 1920s, if I remember right. Author was someone named… J. Marston."
Arthur froze.
His breath caught.
"...Jack?"
"That ring a bell?"
"Jack Marston," Arthur murmured, almost to himself. "Little boy I used to look after. He was… John's son."
Joel rose without another word and left the room.
Hours later, Arthur stood in Joel's living room.
The fire crackled low in the hearth. Joel reached to a dusty old bookshelf and carefully pulled out a cracked leather-bound journal. The spine was worn, letters half-faded:
"West of the Truth – By J. Marston"
Joel laid it on the table and stepped back.
Arthur approached slowly, like stepping up to a gravestone.
He opened it with fingers that trembled.
And there it was.
The words of a boy he'd once taught how to fish, how to ride.
A boy who grew up… and remembered him.
Arthur read in silence for a long while.
"Damn," he whispered. "Guess I didn't vanish after all."
Joel just watched.
"You sure you're him?"
Arthur looked up, eyes steeled.
"Ain't nobody else ever carried this satchel." He patted the worn leather at his side. "Or wore this damn hat."
"Yeah," Joel said, voice soft. "I reckon you're him alright."