Night settled over Jackson like a thick wool blanket. The snow kept falling, soft and quiet, and lanterns flickered across the gathering square where the town usually held meetings, music nights, or shared grief.
Tonight, it was something else. The patrol had returned with someone none of them could quite explain.
Joel stood at the front near the steps of the old town hall, hands in his pockets, eyes sweeping over the murmuring crowd. Families bundled in coats, guards with rifles slung low, kids wide-eyed and whispering.
Behind him, standing still and silent in the shadows of the porch, was Arthur Morgan.
Hat on. Rifle slung across his back. Two revolvers at his hips. Boots caked in the dirt of a world long gone.
Joel stepped forward.
"Alright. I know we're all a little shook about our visitor today. I was too, at first."
He glanced over his shoulder at Arthur.
"But I've spoken with him. Sat down. Asked the questions that needed asking."
The crowd leaned in.
"His name is Arthur Morgan. And he ain't from around here. Not even from this century."
Whispers erupted like cracks in glass.
"He was born in the 1860s," Joel continued. "Last thing he remembers... it was 1899. He was dying on a mountaintop."
A hush fell over the crowd like someone had dropped a heavy quilt on their mouths.
"We thought maybe he was lyin'. But I've seen the proof. His clothes. His weapons. His satchel. Even... his story, written down in a book that was printed nearly a hundred years ago by someone who knew him — a boy he helped raise, named Jack Marston."
Joel held up the weathered old journal for all to see.
"This man ain't a threat. He's a survivor. Like us. Torn from his time and thrown into ours."
He turned back and nodded toward Arthur.
"And I think it's about time y'all heard from him."
Arthur stepped forward slowly, boots creaking against the wooden boards. He came to stand beside Joel, his silhouette broad against the firelight.
He looked out at the faces — young and old, curious and cautious.
Then he took off his hat.
"Name's Arthur Morgan..." he said, voice low, slow, and worn with a thousand rides. "Ain't rightly sure how I got here. One moment I was... leavin' the world. Next thing I knew, I woke up in a place full of rusted wagons and buildings choked with vines."
He glanced down, as if seeing it again.
"Y'all got a strange world. And it's clear it ain't been kind."
He looked up again, eyes heavy with the weight of two centuries.
"But I seen kindness too. In the way you ride together. Watch each other's backs. That don't go unnoticed."
"I ain't lookin' to take nothin'. I ain't lookin' to cause trouble. I just... want to understand where I am. And maybe, if I'm lucky..." He paused. "...figure out why I was given another shot."
Silence. Then someone clapped.
Then a few more.
Soon the whole square was filled with it.
Not wild cheering. Not celebration. Just... acknowledgment. Respect.
Arthur nodded once, quietly, then turned to Joel.
"Guess that went better than expected."
Joel half-smiled.
"You've made an impression."