Chapter Four

He sat atop his horse, the leader status of the group not only being proven by his name, but by a definite aura that surrounded him. It showed in the lines on his face, lines that were a testament to his age, but also to the extensive experience in everything that a rough-neck gang could be involved in. He could say he had seen it all, but as of yet, he hadn't quite done it all. He reached a hand up to scratch the side of his chin, clean from the stubble that had begun to grow the previous two days he had spent waiting and then turned his gaze toward his two companions, as the inevitable action was now close at hand.

A hat was lifted, and a brown sleeve came up to wipe the sweat from the forehead, brushing against the sandy-blonde hair to make some of the strands stand up higher. He didn't bother to pat them back down, but let the hat cover the unruly locks as he dropped it back in place. He, like the other two with him, knew what was about to transpire, and he could have blamed the droplets that were already reforming on the ever-present sunlight blazing against his back, but it was more from anticipation of the upcoming event. His nerves were steady, his muscles were rock-hard, ones that he would be fully prepared to use in all forms of strengths, as the preparation of his body and mind were now complete.

His hand rested on the butt of his gun, the need to feel the iron in his grasp making him almost release it entirely from its holster, but he kept the gun in its natural position on his hip, for now. Once the time ticked down to zero, it would be out, ready to fire if need be, but he already knew the need would be there. He shifted slightly in the saddle, his backside against leather making enough noise to bring his two partners' attention to be directed at him, and he let his blue, steel-like gaze flash back at them. The silent message was passed between them that they were ready, connected as one, even though the gang held them in tiers, with one on the top, one in the middle, and him, for an unbeknownst reason, at the bottom. He wouldn't argue with the boss, but it seemed an odd position for the man with the reputation being the fastest gun would be placed at the lowest level. Brains, then brawn, then gun. It was just the way it was, and even though there was a retort ready on his tongue, he kept it there, because the gang wouldn't work smoothly if there was division. And the Mort Cory gang was built on unity and the perfection that came with it.

"It's coming, Mort," the brown shirt rose to point toward the road that the three men were positioned beside.

"I hear it," Mort, the stalwart yet graying leader nodded, his frown being covered up a moment later as the handkerchief around his neck was risen to fit over his nose and mouth. "Dim, be ready to stop the coach, Jest, your gun."

"I don't need to be told twice," the hand was finally in motion, bringing the revolver away from his hip and in a direct aim at the level to where the stagecoach driver and shotgun man would be positioned. The gang's leader filled his hands with a rifle, but all three knew that it would only be fired if the man with the pistol failed, and that was as unlikely as the stagecoach would come rolling around the corner without horses attached to its front.

As the unsuspecting coach came into sight, the presence of the outlaws and their irons was enough for the driver to pull up on the reins. The shotgun man, taking a look at the trio, took too long in hesitation, gauging the biggest threat as the movement of his rifle slid from one man to the other, and the first bullet came searing at him first. The bottom man, the gun man, in fact, the only man wearing a black hat had fired the gun, sending the shotgun man's weapon to clatter to the road as the horses hooves came to a halt, creating a cloud of dust to temporarily shroud the gang, but it couldn't diminish their threat.

"All right," Jest waved his still-smoking gun toward the stagecoach's door. "Hands up and everyone out of the coach. You first, Cowboy, I don't like your looks."

The man being referenced leaned through the open doorway, his hand pausing on the latch as his dark eyes shifted from one man to the other. He wore a gun on his hip, as most men that made their living in the western wilds did, but this one was more noticeable, as if the hand that would grab it had done so at least a thousand times before. He wore only a minor layer of trail dust, the hat was tipped just low enough to shadow his face, but it was his entire being that spoke of the tenacity that was pumping in his veins. Who he was seemed of little importance, friend of a badge, gunfighter, bounty hunter or just an all around good-guy, but it was enough to know that he likely wasn't the type to just stand still and be robbed. His feet came stilled on the ground as the other two passengers exited, but there was already a locked gaze between brown and blue, an unspoken challenge crossing the lines before a true word was said.

"We… we don't have anything of… of value, Mister," an elderly man with a protective hold around his wife's waist said. "You can check my pockets yourself."

"We didn't come to pick pockets clean," Mort said, his steps taking him up to the driver's seat where the imposing stash was kept, in strongbox form. "But what's in here instead."

"And you'll get it too," the driver's voice quaked without fear, but with hot anger. "But you'll get more where you're headed."

"The Mort Cory gang gets what they want, no matter what." Dim's comment created a gaping stare from each passenger, and a scrutinizing squint from the stagecoach driver as the graying leader, the tall, blondish middle man, and the hardened demeanor of the last, that couldn't be hidden behind a knotted kerchief was now all too familiar. Recognition had just been made complete. "And threats don't mean much unless we're caught."

"Which we won't," Jest knew his smile on his mouth couldn't be seen, but the gesture spread far enough to his eyes to lift the pressure on his hardened gaze, and that sent the brown eyes across from him to boiling stage, as if Jest was staring into a pot of roaring coffee.

"We'll see about that," the gun was in the cowboy's hand in a flash, the trigger finger finding its position, but the necessary pressure to fire it would never be completed as the bullet from Jest's gun exploded into the man's chest, his body growing still as he hit the ground amidst an elderly woman's shrill scream.

"Heroes," Jest shook his head, a slight snorting noise coming from behind his face-covering as he gave his gun a slight shift in its aim. "Anyone else?"

"No," the driver shook his head, the fury in his body making his fists grow tight as his hands were raised to the sky. "Just take what you want and get out of here."

"He's dead," Dim said, kneeling down to the fallen man to check for a non-existent pulse as his eyes rose to find the cold stare of his partner upon him.

"Can't be helped," Jest shoved the gun back into his holster as he turned toward Mort. "Got it?"

"Every glorious cent of it," Mort raised the pair of sacks attached at the top by a stout string, the name of a Wyoming bank printed on each side.

"Get back inside," Dim said, giving the older man a slight shove before his eyes raised up to the driver's seat. "Now get that coach moving fast."

"I will," the driver's command to the horses was a hearty one, and with the additional slap of the reins, the horses were in a run. He kept the remaining words he wanted to say silent, but they would come out upon their arrival in town. In addition to the loss of the bank's money, one man had been killed, and the remaining members on that fateful stage ride would be quick to proclaim the perpetrators that had been the cause.

"Well, how does it feel?" Mort asked, his steps bringing him out of the lingering roadway dust.

"We're robbers and murderers," Dim pulled the red bandana away from his face, his lips set in a straight line.

"So?" Mort gave a slight shrug, "isn't that what the definition of an outlaw gang is?"

"I guess," Dim answered, his eyes turning slightly toward the dead man. "But is it enough?"

"Should be with a haul this size," Mort said, patting the sacks of money with one hand. "But to be certain, there's a ranch house less than a mile from here. I'm sure we can stir up some trouble there."

"What kind of trouble?" Jest asked, his lips separated enough to show his even teeth.

"Anything we can get our hands on," Mort answered, leading the men to their horses.

"I wonder if that includes a girl," Jest said with a wink to Dim and as their backsides met their saddles, the landscape seemed to shudder at the sound of their laughter, as the wind swirled and the dust was kicked up while the horses galloped toward the doomed ranch and its equally fated occupants.

The territory was now encased in darkness, a time when certain ruffians ceased from their roughing, switching to hiding out instead. They sat around a campfire, nestled deep enough in the folds of the hills that the threat of a posse sniffing out a smoky odor was close enough to nil that they didn't bother stamping the coals to nothingness when the coffee and beans grew hot. But there would be no mistake; the law would be after them, and likely a bounty hunter or two if the price offered would be right, and it usually was for an outlaw gang, as groups tended to fetch more money than singular criminals. And they most assuredly resembled the definition of notorious lawbreakers.

Robbery. Murder. Robbery again. Assault. The list was growing long, with the hatred that they were leaving behind growing even longer. Considering the magnitude of their afternoon romp, the posters were probably getting printed now, as several men scattered across the Wyoming territory would be forced to work overtime at their printing presses to make sure enough posters were made with their names and descriptions blazing on the front of each. By dawn, everyone far and wide would know about the Mort Cory gang, especially the namesake leader and his two companions, Dim Sherman and Jest Harmer.

"Anyone want another cup of coffee?" Jest asked, holding the steaming pot toward his two companions, but received a duo of declining shakes of their heads.

"When does Mrs. Monroe expect us back?" Dim asked, releasing a lengthy sigh as he found a comfortable position to get drowsy in.

"Sometime tomorrow," Mort answered, hiding a yawn with the back of his hand.

"I'm sure that'll please you, right, Jest?" Dim raised one eye to glance at his partner.

"Do you have to keep using that name?" Jest asked, his voice pushing close to annoyance. "No one else is around."

"It's the names of the gang," Dim answered with a shrug and a twitching smile across his lips, "why not use them in any and all places? Besides, you didn't answer my first question yet."

"About?"

"About Mrs. Monroe."

"Sure," the shrug came with the single word as the snuggly fit, blue-clad legs stretched out in front of him. "She's a looker all right. If I could get past her being an age my ma would be, then even more would I be sure."

"She took to you, age gap or not," Mort said, dumping out the remaining contents of his coffee cup and the ground received it with a bubbled gulp, "but most of the ladies you meet feel the same way, don't they?"

"Never paid it much attention," the answer came with the dropping of a hat over a face.

"Liar," Dim said, creating a trio of chuckles to settle over the camp.

"Let's get some sleep," Mort said, pausing as his face split with a yawn. "You never know what tomorrow's going to bring."