Arthur Singleton guided his horse to the hotel and practically fell out of the saddle, too exhausted to care what his dismount looked like to curious bystanders.  He paid a young boy passing by to take his horse to the stables for proper grooming so he could continue the arduous task of getting to his room upstairs.  He ordered a hot bath, dinner, and a bottle of the best whiskey from the town’s saloon.  As he stripped out of the ruined outfit, he contemplated just having everything, down to his once favorite shoes burned.  Every single cell in his body ached as he struggled to swing his legs over the rim of the portable bathtub to sink into the deliciously hot water.  He sighed with tired satisfaction, closing his eyes to enjoy one of the best comforts of civilization.  He was tired of the dust, the never-ending brown of the landscape, average saloon whores, and feeling like an outsider.  It mortified him, to think if any of the events in the past several days ever got back to Boston, how his reputation would be sullied.  The big game hunter reduced to sleeping on the ground beside a campfire and living on dried strips of meet and stale crackers.  Sipping the whiskey, he made plans to depart this wretched landscape and return home.  He’d make up some story about Olivia and why she wasn’t suited to be his bride.<br/><br/>That evening, having dinner in his room, Arthur checked off things to accomplish before catching the morning train.  Packing was easy, most clothes could be laundered when he got home, and the room was paid in full.  The credit back for leaving early was insignificant.  He did want to stop in at the prison to see Jonathan Rutherford one last time, wanting to know how the fop was doing in the tiny cell with no imaginable comforts.  Early next morning before the hotel woke, Arthur crept downstairs, spying the young ranger and the cowgirl asleep, leaning against each other on the sofa.  Crossing the dusty street, the stench from the jail assaulted his nose before he climbed the steps to the structure.  Eyes watering, the cologne scented handkerchief did little to mask the unspeakable nightmares behind the iron bars, the incarcerated looked caked in dust, grime, blood, and other unmentionables.  Rutherford looked utterly dejected in his cell between the rustlers, face gray and pinched from the multiple offenses to his constitution.  “EGAD, man!”  Arthur swore, blue eyes watering.  “I came by to say farewell, but your current situation makes polite conversation impossible.  You can have this hell hole, as I’m off to catch the morning train back to Boston.  Father can invest in a town, worthy of the family’s patronage.  Good luck, man.”  He didn’t wait to hear a response, hurrying away before the watering of his mouth advanced to an all an out gag reflex.  Never in all of this travels was he ever so relieved to feel the train pull away from the station.