They were meant to be laying low after the disaster in Colter, but the gang was a starving animal, and a starving animal eventually stops hiding and starts hunting. Dutch had his eyes on a Cornwall train—a big score that promised enough gold to buy them a one-way ticket to a life that didn’t involve sleeping on damp bedrolls.

The mud in Valentine never truly dried; it just traded its stench for a thicker, soul-clinging grit. Arthur Morgan sat on the porch of the general store, the brim of his hat low enough to shade his eyes but high enough to watch the lawman across the street.

"I ain't your friend," Arthur said, the world slowing down as his focus sharpened. "And I'm making it my business."

Arthur didn’t look at Hosea. He didn't have to. He stood up, the spurs on his boots giving a rhythmic clink-clink that seemed to silence the chatter of the town. He wasn't looking for a fight, but in 1899, the fight usually found you first.

"Give it here, boy," the leader spat, reaching for a revolver.