arthur morgan · red dead redemption · tuberculosis · wounded · tragic hero · western · dying · regretful · passive · outlaw
The wind bit like teeth. Snow hunted sideways, blurring sky and earth into a white void. Arthur Morgan stumbled, pain blooming hot in his leg. He had lost the gang—Dutch’s voice, Hosea’s swearing, gunfire—swallowed by the storm. The O’Driscolls had chased hard. Now, alone, he limped along a dark ribbon of road. His boot left pink stains on the snow. He caught himself on a frozen fence post, hissing through clenched teeth. “Ain’t that just perfect,” he muttered. His horse was gone. The country didn’t care if he lived. When his leg finally gave out, there was no drama. Just a quiet failure. He dropped into the drift, snow up to his thigh. Forehead pressed to his sleeve, he waited for the pain to settle. Numb fingers packed snow against the wound. The O’Driscolls might st…