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The sun beat down hot on his back, a bead of sweat dripping down his neck. They’d been lying face down in the dirt for hours waiting for their mark. The black leather of his hat did him no favours in keeping him cool.
“You sure about this?” John asked for the thousandth time, squirming where he rest beside Arthur. He adjusted the too-big hat on his adolescent head, pushing the brim back so he could see.
“Of course I’m sure about this,” Dutch snapped back, losing his cool for a moment. Arthur couldn’t blame him, hell he’d lost his own after the second time John asked. “I’ve told you, son, the key to any good robbery is patience.”
John huffed at his answer, taking his hat from his head to fan himself dramatically. “Didn’t realize robbin' would come with so much sitting around.”
Arthur reached around and cuffed him on the back of the head, smacking his skull with a satisfying thwap . John cried out in annoyance, dropping his hat and cradling his head. He glared back at Arthur, met with the man’s own ire filled stare.
“Would you shut the hell up,” Arthur spat. “We’re all hot and tired, John, give it a damn rest.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Arthur spotted their target: a lavish coach foolishly driving down the isolated roads. With no guards in sight save for the man riding shotgun, Arthur smiled devilishly at how easy this job would be.
He whistled quickly, drawing the other men’s attention to the oncoming mark. They hunkered down to their rifles, watching the coach through the sights of their scopes from their perch atop the high cliffs overlooking the roadside.
“Nice and easy,” Dutch said, the timbre of his voice steady and low. “Remember the plan. Arthur, you take out the driver first. John, get up and get ready to ride down and stop those horses once they’re spooked. Let’s keep this nice and clean, boys.”
Arthur nodded curtly, glancing briefly at John and gesturing towards his horse. “You keep that pistol handy, boy. Ain’t lookin’ to save your ass like last time.”
John frowned at the reminder, kicking up dirt as he rose to his feet. “You ever gonna let that go?” he rasped, his voice breaking on the uptick.
Arthur smirked, taking pleasure in the small moment of John’s embarrassment. “Sure, once you prove you can handle yourself.”
“That’s enough,” Dutch intervened. “Both of you, get ready. We ain’t got time for messin around, the stage is almost in the pass.”
Arthur re-focused himself, staring down the barrel at the oncoming coach. He took a few breaths to steady his aim, watching as the doomed riders entered the mouth of the narrow trail that cut through the rock.
Once they were far enough through that they couldn’t turn back, Arthur set his sights on the stage’s driver and fired. Through the lens of the scope, he watched the man slump and fall off his seat. He slammed back the bolt, loading another bullet in the chamber and taking out the other rider before the man could piece together his fate.
He listened as John spurred his horse to a start, taking off down to the pass at breakneck speed. Even Arthur had to admit if there was one thing little John Marston could do, it was ride like the wind.
Returning his attention to the task at hand. Once he was sure that they were done with no survivors left to flee, he set down his rifle and hoisted himself up.
“Nicely done,” Dutch remarked, an air of admiration to his tone that made Arthur’s pride swell. “Now let’s get after John.”
They mounted their horses and descended the overlook, searching for John at the other end of the pass. Arthur spotted him quickly, riding alongside the coach to catch up to the horses.
“Should we ride down and help him?” Arthur asked, pointing at the boy to get Dutch’s attention.
“Let’s not,” Dutch waved him off, a mischievous grin decorating his features. “See how long it takes him to get that thing stopped.”
Arthur chuckled, shaking his head at his mentor’s games. He’d been through enough of them to know the kid would be fine with Dutch and his peculiar lessons. Might even make an outlaw of him in the end.
They watched on as John caught up with the horses, making their way down to the pass at a near leisurely pace. Both men were surprised when they saw John pull his foot from the stirrups, perching himself on his saddle before launching at the stage, clinging desperately onto the side of the wagon.
“That damn fool!” Arthur cried, digging his heels into the belly of his horse and taking off after John. He rode hard, leaving Dutch in the dust as he raced to help John.
He lost sight of the kid as he rode down the pass, focusing on getting to the trail as quickly as he could. Finally reaching flat ground, he skidded around the corner and into the pass, lifting his gaze to look for the stage.
His jaw almost dropped when he saw the coach stopped, John sat atop of the driver’s seat with a break action across his lap and a smug smirk across his face. Arthur pulled back the reins, bringing himself to a stop in front of the haltered horses.
“Told’ya I ain’t just some idiot,” John boasted, leaning back in his seat and resting his heels on the foothold.
“You got one job right,” Arthur grunted, “that don’t make you a genius, just makes you lucky.”
John rolled his eyes, his smirk twisting into a frown at Arthur’s words. “You can’t give me even one measly win,” he whined, his brows furrowing as he geared up for an argument.
“Boys,” Dutch interrupted, riding up behind Arthur. “I told you, that’s enough. Get in the lock box before someone else comes along.”
John hopped down from the seat, racing to the side of the coach to beat Arthur to the lockbox. He stooped down to reach underneath, looking for a secured metal chest filled with their take.
Before he could search any further, the door of the coach flew open wide, a stowed away guard making his untimely move. Arthur raised his rifle quickly, shooting clean through the man’s arm where he raised a pistol at John's head.
Blood sprayed across the ground and the man dropped from the stage, clutching his forearm and screaming in pain. John scrambled back urgently, chest heaving as adrenaline raced through his body.
Dutch swung down from the saddle, drawing his revolver and storming towards the man.
He kicked the guard onto his back, crushing his throat with the toe of his boots. Dutch stared down the barrel aimed at the man’s head, instant hatred twisting his expression into something menacing and vile.
Arthur dropped from his mount and rushed to John, confident that Dutch had this handled. He tossed his rifle to the ground but couldn’t help drawing his own sidearm, keeping an eye trained on Dutch as he fell to his knees next to John.
“Burn in hell,” the guard croaked, barely audible past the force of Dutch’s boot. “You’re monsters, all of ‘ya.”
“We may be monsters in your pitiful, small mind,” Dutch hissed, “but I represent to you all the sins you never had the courage to commit.”
The flash of a gunshot ripped through the air, John squeezing his eyes shut at the sound. Arthur shifted in front of him, crowding his vision and shielding him from the sight of the man’s brains smeared in the dirt.
Dutch lowered his gun and looked back at Arthur, blood splattered across his vest and shirt sleeve. The barrel glinted in the sunlight as he slipped it back into the holster, using his other hand to slick his pomade coated strands of hair back into place.
Dutch turned on his heel, closing the gap between him and John. He extended a hand to pull John to his feet, still clearly in shock as he reached out to Dutch. Over John’s shoulder, Dutch motioned to Arthur, wordlessly commanding him to clear out the loot of the stage.
Once their take was strapped over the back of Arthur’s horse, they mounted their steeds and rode back to camp, excited to share their success with the others. And if John lingered at the fringes of the night’s celebrations, shaken up by the near-miss against his life, Arthur would be sure to offer him comfort in the darkness of their tent.