The jobs kept coming.
Small ones, at first—waylaying supply wagons, shaking down greedy ranchers, lifting payrolls from mining companies that paid their workers in script and lies. Dutch said we were "correcting the scales."
Sometimes I believed him.
Sometimes I just didn't want to think too hard about it.
We'd hit a target and vanish into the trees, richer by a few dollars and soaked in adrenaline. But between those runs, life was… good. Weirdly good. Peaceful, even.
And after every job, we gave most of it away. Not with speeches. Not with grand shows. Just small sacks of coin dropped at church steps. Blankets for the hill camps. Bread and bullets for people forgotten by law and land.
It wasn't just survival.
It meant something.
And in between the jobs, we lived.
Arthur took to showing me how to sharpen a knife right. Not just for cutting, but quiet killing, too—not that I wanted to think about that. Hosea taught me how to cheat at cards without getting caught, though he said he only used it "when absolutely necessary."
We fished, joked, got drunk by the fire.
One night, Hosea passed me a can of beans with a grin. "We're not rich, son, but you'll never starve with us."
Arthur raised his can. "To scum with style."
Dutch raised his whiskey. "To the free."
And I? I raised mine too.
"To the lost."
They laughed. Not mockingly. Just… warmly. Like they understood.
Few days later.....
Arthur and I spent days fishing down by Honeydrop Creek, arguing over whether catfish or trout tasted better.
"You can't even cook trout right," I'd jab.
"And you season catfish like you're mad at it," he'd snap back.
We were on the edge of a river, and someone—maybe Arthur—got the bright idea to teach me to swim. Or maybe to nearly drown me.
"Go on, Wyatt!" Arthur shouted, shirt already off. "Ain't no outlaw worth his salt can't swim from the law!"
"I can swim fine!" I shouted back.
Hosea chuckled. "Not from where we're standin'."
A second later, Arthur tackled me into the water.
I came up sputtering, swinging, laughing through a mouthful of muddy river.
For a while, it was just that. Splashing. Jokes. The sky wide and bright above us.
We were criminals.
But we were happy.
Hosea taught me how to make rabbit stew that wouldn't kill anyone, how to read storm clouds, and how to spot someone lying by how they moved their hands.
Dutch… talked in dreams.
"Freedom ain't a place," he told me once, sitting beside me while I cleaned my rifle. "It's a choice. And we're making it—every day."
I wanted to believe that.
Sometimes, I did.
Then came the Holloway job.
Silas Holloway wasn't just rich—he was poison. Ran a ranching empire built on dead homesteads and starving tenant families. Bought off judges, buried widows in paperwork, and stole land with the tip of a pen.
Dutch's eyes burned when he laid out the PLAN.
"We hit him where it hurts," he said. "He's moving a private shipment through Splitroot Pass. Gold. No law, just his men. We take it, and we give it to those he crushed under his boot."
Arthur and I would take the ridge.
Hosea and Dutch would spring the trap.
I said yes.
But in my gut, something started to twist.
We lay in the grass above rifles in hand, sun burning high overhead.
"Still with me?" Arthur asked.
"Always."
He nodded. "Remember, shoot only if you have to. Clean. Quick. No mess if we can help it."
Then it happened.
The wagons rolled in—thick wooden carts drawn by black-coated draft horses. Six guards, maybe more. Holloway himself in the second wagon, fat and arrogant, his vest lined with silver buttons.
Dutch gave the signal.
Hosea lit the fuse.
BOOM.
The front wagon rocked, horses shrieked, men shouted—chaos exploded down below.
Then one rider broke off, kicking up dust—racing uphill, right toward us.
I lined up my sights.
He wasn't older than twenty. Just a hired gun, scared out of his mind. He reached for his rifle, saw me—and froze.
For a moment, we just stared at each other.
Then I squeezed the trigger.
BANG.
He fell.
The world went quiet.
We regrouped in the woods, gold stashed in saddle bags, victory on our backs.
Dutch grinned. "A strike against the empire. The vultures will feel this one."
Arthur checked his gear like nothing had happened.
Hosea handed me a flask. "You alright?"
I nodded. "Yeah."
But I wasn't.
The kid's face wouldn't leave me. Not his body. His eyes.
He hadn't begged. He hadn't shouted.
He'd just… looked at me. Like I wasn't even real.
That night, around the fire, Dutch passed out tin cups and cigars.
"To justice," he said.
Everyone drank.
I stared into the flames, my rifle beside me, freshly cleaned.
Arthur nudged me. "You took the shot."
"I know."
"You saved us. Saved Dutch."
I didn't answer.
He lowered his voice. "It was a clean kill. For a cause. Don't let it eat you up."
But it already was.
Because part of me had expected to feel bad, and I did.
Later, Hosea sat beside me, away from the crackle of the fire and the low hum of the others talking.
"You know you did what you had to," he said quietly.
I nodded, eyes fixed on the dark trees ahead.
"Good," he said, after a pause. "Sometimes things go south. Real fast. And when they do, you've got no time to think. Just time to pull the trigger."
The silence stretched between us, thick as smoke.
"I'm not saying that to make it feel better," he added. "I'm not trying to justify it. Killing someone… it never stops meaning something."
He reached into his coat, pulled out his flask, and drank some of it.
"But one day," he continued, "you'll be staring down the barrel at someone who needs to die. And when that day comes, you'll be glad you already know the difference between a shot you regret… and one that saves lives."
I didn't sleep that night.
Just stared up at the stars.
My heart didn't feel hollow. It felt full—but with something I couldn't name.
This life was teaching me things fast.
And not all of it was clean.
Not all of it was gold.