The sun was setting over the hills near Valentine, dipping low into gold as we rode hard into town. The horses kicked up dust behind us, the weight of the job pressing heavy but not unfamiliar on our shoulders. Arthur rode ahead, square-jawed and focused. Dutch and I followed close behind, our coats catching the wind.
We'd gotten word of a good setup—a train run by Cornwall. Valuable, dangerous, and loud. Just the kind of trouble Dutch couldn't pass up. And we needed it. The camp was getting restless. Supplies were running thin, and the promise of Tahiti still felt like a dream too far.
Arthur glanced back at me, a flicker of something in his eyes I couldn't quite place. He hadn't been the same since coming back from that debt run. Coughing more. Quiet. Distant. I could feel it in the way he moved—like a man pushing through something just to stay upright.
Still, we didn't talk about it. Not yet.
We reached the stockyards, where John and a couple of hired hands had wrangled a herd of sheep. A distraction, Dutch had said. Something to draw eyes while we made the real move. John was standing off to the side, his arms crossed, that cocky smirk on his face like he'd done something clever.
"Got 'em all penned up," he said. "Even taught 'em to baa when Cornwall's name comes up."
Arthur grunted. "Don't get cocky."
I dismounted and leaned on the fence, watching the sheep move like clouds across the pen. Something about it struck me as peaceful, almost too peaceful for what was coming.
Dutch paced near the edge of the rail tracks, brushing off his coat and checking his pocket watch. "We time this right, gentlemen, and we walk away richer than kings."
He turned to me. "Wyatt, you take the ridge with Arthur. Keep a rifle on the cars. We can't afford surprises."
I nodded, the coin in my pocket warm like it always was before something big. It hummed faintly, a pulse against my leg. My red eyes caught the light of the lowering sun. Dutch paused when he saw them—just for a second—but then looked away. No one ever said anything. But I knew they noticed.
We took position along the bluff overlooking the tracks, rifles loaded. Arthur knelt beside me, adjusting his scope. The silence stretched.
"You nervous?" he asked without looking over.
"Not really," I replied. "You?"
He coughed, covered it with a shrug. "Just tired."
I studied him for a second, but didn't press. Instead, I adjusted my sight. "Something feels off."
Arthur sighed. "It always does."
Below, the train whistled, shrieking as it neared the ambush site. Bill had planted dynamite near the tracks. We waited. The sheep started to panic, sensing the tension in the air.
And then—BOOM.
The rails tore apart in fire and metal. The train screamed, wheels lifting off the bent track, and it slammed into the dirt. Arthur and I stood up, rifles ready.
Dutch and John charged in, pistols blazing, shouting commands. I picked off two guards before they got their footing. Arthur took down another. The gang swarmed the wreck, looting and shouting. Dutch grabbed a case from the front car, waving it in triumph.
But that's when the bullets started to fly harder.
Cornwall had more men than we expected. I ducked behind a rock as bullets chipped stone near my head. Arthur gritted his teeth, sighting down the scope.
"Keep 'em back!" he shouted.
I fired, the recoil punching into my shoulder. One guard fell, then another. The coin in my pocket burned hot now—almost painfully so. I could feel it pulling something from the moment, like the air thickened around me. The world slowed, just a hair, just enough for the time lag to kick in.
In that second, I saw every movement clearly—Arthur reloading, a guard creeping toward Dutch, the glint of brass on a gun barrel.
I shot the creeping man before he could raise his weapon.
It ended as fast as it started. The surviving guards fled, and we regrouped. Arthur limped slightly, dust in his beard and blood on his sleeve.
"You alright?" I asked.
He nodded, but again, didn't say much. Just wiped his brow.
Dutch came over, laughing breathlessly. "Beautiful work, boys. That's the kind of job that changes our luck."
"Yeah," Arthur muttered. "Or gets us all hanged."
We rode back under the stars, the coin still burning like a forge in my pocket. It was heavier now. I could feel the energy it drank from the event. Plot shifting, destinies intertwining. It knew.
Back at camp, I sat by the fire. Arthur joined me eventually, sitting close but not speaking for a while.
Then he asked, "Do you believe in fate?"
I looked at him, eyes catching flame. "Not exactly. But I believe in choices."
He gave a bitter chuckle. "Yeah. Me too."
And we sat there, just two brothers in arms, watching the night drift by like smoke over the hills.