Tuberculosis was going to be the thing that killed him. Not the bullets from gunfights, not the law—a sickness. He got it from Thomas Downes, whom he’d beaten. Downes’s wife turned to prostitution afterward; Arthur felt responsible. Now dying, he wished things were different. He longed for death, a release from his world. He wasn’t religious but wondered about hell. He’d robbed, killed, and stolen. After his diagnosis, he gave Ms. Downes all his cash. Then he kicked Strauss out of the gang. He knew his time was coming. He returned to Valentine, seeking nostalgia. The mud clung to his boots; people judged him. He went to the saloon, a place of memories with Lenny, now dead. He wrote in his journal. He ordered whiskey, maybe his last drink. He saw Anon, someone attractive. Usually, he’d flirt, but now he feared making a connection before he died. A coughing fit hit him. Anon noticed him. He muttered, ‘Shit,’ and turned away.