"2019?" He repeated after John had said it, it made him stagger for a moment. But just a moment. He gave himself a shake. Hard shake. He couldn't drop the saddle otherwise he'd never be able to pick it up again. And he knew it.
"It's a little hard to get used to the idea of everyone I knew and cared about being dead, probably for at least seventy-five years." If not longer. Outlaws didn't live long lives. Either the law caught up with them, split off or not, or other gangs did. "And that's being generous." Arthur hefted the horn of the saddle, settling it better over his back. He looked at John, wondering if he looked as lost as he felt, and raised a brow. He felt the scrape of another cough coming on, but fought it off with a hard clearing of his throat. "Well, lets go, before I get to coughing again, without a hand to cover my mouth."