A month passed like smoke on the wind.
We stayed holed up in the hills above Grayridge, a scrappy mining town nestled in a crooked valley, where the fog stuck around like a drunk uncle and no one asked too many questions. It was the kind of place where the church shared a wall with the saloon and kids threw rocks at lawmen for fun.
Far enough to hide, close enough to scout.
The gang was still small—Dutch, Hosea, Arthur, and now me. We were just surviving. No legends. No wanted posters. Just campfires, cold mornings, and the occasional stolen bottle.
It should've felt temporary.
But it didn't.
Arthur showed me how to ride like the horse and I were one creature. Hosea taught me to track things I couldn't even see at first—scuffs on bark, the way birds flew when something was wrong. Dutch talked like every word was a knife wrapped in velvet.
They didn't just feed me.
They trained me.
At night, I'd lie awake staring at the stars, wondering if anyone back home even noticed I was gone. Wondering if I'd ever want to go back.
One night, while we cleaned our rifles, Arthur asked casually, "You ever gonna tell us your real name?"
I froze. "What makes you think Wyatt's not real?"
He gave me a look. "'Cause it fits too well. Like something you picked on purpose."
I hesitated. Then said softly, "I did."
Arthur raised an eyebrow.
"I used to be someone else. Somewhere else. But he died, I think. Or maybe he just… stopped mattering." I stared at the fire. "Wyatt Boone sounds like someone who might survive out here. Someone who fights back."
Arthur leaned back and nodded. "Well. You picked a good one. Boone's a name that makes people think twice."
He didn't ask again.
And I didn't look back.
Then came the job.
Dutch called us around the fire just after sunrise.
He spread out a hand-drawn map, lines etched in charcoal and sweat.
"We've got an opportunity," he said. "Bank in Grayridge. Small town, big vault, bad accounting. Town council's been laundering mine money through it for years. Rich folks robbing their own people."
He tapped the map. "We're going to redistribute some of that wealth."
Arthur lit a cigarette. "What's the plan?"
"Quick in and out. Hosea and I'll go inside. Arthur, Wyatt—you two watch the ridge. Two rifles. One signal if it's clear. Two if it goes sideways."
He looked at me. "You ready, son?"
I wanted to say no.
But Wyatt Boone was never afraid to look a man like Dutch in the eye.
"I'm ready."
The town looked different from the ridge.
Grayridge, in daylight, felt almost peaceful. Shops opened slow. Coal dust drifted from chimneys. A group of kids played marbles in the mud outside the livery.
And I was about to be part of blowing a hole in its heart.
I lay on my stomach, rifle in my arms, watching the bank door through the scope. Arthur lay beside me, chewing a piece of grass like he was out for a picnic.
"You nervous?" he asked.
I didn't answer.
He glanced at me. "Good. Means you're still human."
He raised the spyglass. "There's the signal. Let's get ready."
It started quiet.
Dutch and Hosea entered the bank like any other pair of dusty travelers.
Then the blast hit.
Glass shattered. Smoke roared out the front. People screamed and scattered like ants from a boot. Arthur snapped into motion, checking every corner of the street, every alley.
I gripped the rifle, eyes darting.
Then I saw him.
A lone rider coming in fast from the east road—badge on his chest, rifle on his back.
"One whistle," I said, heart hammering.
Arthur blew it. Short. Sharp.
The lawman slowed, saw the smoke, and turned his horse without a second thought.
Gone.
We waited.
Another ten minutes passed before Dutch and Hosea rode out, saddle bags full and guns undrawn.
No one followed.
It was over.
Just like that.
We met them deep in the forest where the trees swallowed the road whole.
Dutch dismounted and tossed one of the bags onto the ground near the wagon.
"That's the take," he said. "Rest gets distributed."
Arthur opened it, counting quick. "Damn. That's real money."
Dutch nodded toward me. "Wyatt—grab that other satchel and take it to the church house on the north ridge. Preacher's honest. He'll get it to the orphans."
I blinked. "All of it?"
Dutch smiled. "We don't keep what we don't need."
Arthur looked over. "Consider it your first real ride. A clean one."
That night, the fire crackled loud.
Nobody said much. Just drank. Ate. Let the job settle.
But I couldn't stop thinking about it.
Not the money.
Not the rush.
The moment I'd said my name. "Wyatt Boone," like it had always been mine. Like it meant something.
Dutch sat beside me, passed me a tin cup of coffee.
"You looked steady up there today," he said.
"Felt anything but," I admitted.
"Good. Means you ain't reckless. You get too comfortable, you start dying."
He sipped. "But you did your part. Clean. Precise. You're one of us now."
A name I'd made up—but a life I was slowly choosing.
And somewhere inside that name… I started to feel real.
Maybe this isn't all that bad it's starting to feel like home like I have a family