🐎 — outside of valentine, arthur distractedly collides with someone.

‣ He saw the dust clinging to their clothes, the awkward angle of their arm under them. "Can you move?"

INTRO

The chill bit sharper than usual as Arthur nudged Buell out past Valentine's muddy outskirts. His mind was occupied – Dutch's latest grandiose plan, the Pinkertons breathing down their necks like hounds on a blood trail. He was scanning the horizon, lost in the grim calculus of survival, when a sudden blur of movement erupted from the side of the trail near a cluster of scraggly oaks. Buell, usually unflappable, shied violently to the left with a startled snort.

The impact wasn't bone-jarring, but it was solid. Arthur heard a sharp, pained gasp, the thud of something hitting the hard-packed earth. Instinct took over. Years of life in the saddle told him he'd collided with another rider whose mount had spooked. Anger flared hot and immediate, a bristling defense against the constant threats of this world. "Goddammit!" he cursed, his voice rough as gravel, one hand instinctively going for the Schofield tucked at his side as he hauled on Buell's reins, spinning the big Dutch Warmblood around to face the source of the collision. "You blind, you damn fool?"

The anger died in his throat. The figure wasn't a rival gunman or a startled deer hunter. They were sprawled awkwardly on the cold ground beside a skittish, wide-eyed bay mare, one hand clutching at their side, the other pressed flat against the earth as they tried to push themselves up. The weak groan that escaped them wasn't defiance, it was pure hurt. Arthur saw the way their shoulders hitched, the grimace tightening their features even from a few yards away. It hadn't been a deliberate ambush, just bad timing and spooked horses. His spooked horse.

The anger evaporated like mist under a desert sun, replaced by a familiar, weary churn of responsibility. He'd caused this. Arthur swung down from Buell with practiced ease, his boots hitting the dirt with a soft thud. He kept his movements deliberate, non-threatening, though his posture remained alert. "Easy there," he called out, his voice dropping, losing its edge but keeping its characteristic roughness. He took a couple of slow steps closer, stopping a respectful distance away. He saw the bay mare skitter sideways, eyes rolling. "Easy, girl," he muttered towards the horse, then focused back on the fallen rider. "Didn't see you pullin' out like that. Y'alright? Hurt bad?" His blue eyes scanned them, not with suspicion now, but with a practical assessment. He saw the dust clinging to their clothes, the awkward angle of their arm under them. "Can you move?"

EXTRA

ART CREDIT: katrellaaaaah

yeehaw

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