Art was looking at Scarlet with frank bemusement. "'Course I didn't lay a net for it, I shot it. You right, Scarlet? You din' hit your head on the way down?"
Stutely wasn't so sure he hadn't hit his head. He eased himself up off the ground and brushed down his clothes, dislodging melting snow and leaf litter, all the while studying Arthur quietly.
He'd never really known how this thing would pan out, this plan of his to get the gang back together. The chances alone of their managing to track down their missing brothers, when all they had to go off were some decades-old memories and some likely-defunct aliases, had been slim to begin with. He'd spent more time worrying about how they'd regroup if they didn't find Arthur than he had wondering about what they might find if they did.
That wasn't to say he hadn't wondered. Of course he had. The years he'd been alone in the wilderness, he couldn't help but go there. Art had been lost even longer than Stutely had. What might that have done to him? Would he embrace them? Blame them? Would he recognise them at all?
Stutely didn't know what to do with the reality, which appeared to be 'laugh heartily at them and co-opt them into skinning a moose'. Arthur seemed... a little scattered, maybe, but he didn't look lost. Underneath the mud and the dirt and the musty-smelling fur, he looked sort of content.
"All good then?" Arthur looked between the three of them, then turned to gesture with his knife. "Come on, 's not far."
"Art," Stutely tried again, feeling as though today had slipped well and truly beyond all his control. "We... we came to bring you home. To New York."
Arthur cocked his head at that, squinting in thought. "Nah," he decided. "I don't reckon. Millennium bugs. They'll be everywhere by now, not worth the risk. Let's go, the wolves'll move if if we're not fast."