They made camp in a small smattering of brittle trees. The leaves had long fallen and drifted away with the setting sun. Everett got a small fire going while Victor tied up their horses and caught dinner.

“Dinner time, boy!” he yelled from beyond the clearing, in a fist above his head, Victor held two bunnies by their ears.

Everett clapped his hands together, his stomach rumbled an aching tune of hunger. Turning a skinned piece of rabbit, the two filled their bellies and turned into their hen skins. Night darkened around them, leaving nothing but the illumination of the sputtering fire for light in the vast murk.

Full bellies had softened the tune between the men, lulling them into a warm complacency next to the fire. Wiley was laid down with his back towards the fire.

“What did they do to you?” Staring at Wiley’s back there was a surge of confidence alongside Sykes’ unbridled curiosity. Wilbur had said that the Roscoe gang took him in as a child, but an obvious anger like Wiley’s towards the men didn’t magically appear. Especially not from surrogate parents.

Victor didn’t respond for a while, either he was asleep, annoyed at Everett’s question or contemplating if he should answer it. “I was their lackey, any man that needed killin’ or beatin’. I was there on the other end of the bat or gun.” Sparks of memories flickered in the dancing of the flames.

The first time he’d killed a man was eleven, shot him right in the heart, even as he begged and begged for the Lord to come save him. Victor had cried throughout the whole night after that. Right up until the sun rose once more. The image of that weeping man was burned into the flesh of his psyche now. The only way to get rid of it was to kill Wilbur Cross, Otto Armstrong and Neil Roscoe.

The ache would cease then.

“And if I didn’t do it, down came the iron rod. Wasn’t much fun if you ask me, so I got out of there the moment an opportunity came.” His hands dug into the dirt and watched carefully as the sand rained down from the crevices between his fingers.

“I can’t wait to kill the rest of the men.”

Victor nodded, “Me too Sykes. Me too.” He turned over towards the fire. It danced across his pained features, “Do ya know any good stories?”

Confusion kindled on Sykes’ face, “Yeah.” A beat passed between the men. Another crackle from the light fire sounded, “Why?”

“They always make cold nights like these go faster.” The night was freezing, laying in his hen skin next to the hand-stoked fire Everett huddled his limbs together. Feeling Victor's twinkling eyes with hope, Everett conjured a story:

Many years ago there was a notorious man; Jay “Goldenteeth” Reese. See all his teeth had been knocked out as a boy. With a violent daddy he’d turned out just like him. But instead of beating up on helpless children, Reese decided he would take out his violence on violent men like himself.

So with every robbery he’d stand just outside the banks’ doors and wait for the robbers to run out before shooting them in the back. All their coin and bills would spill into the street. The citizens would collect the money before tryin’ to thank the man. But every time, without fail, Reese would be gone like the wind.

For years he took down the darkest and most violent men with nothin’ but a freshly cleaned pistol and a full bottle o’ whiskey. But one day he vanished and criminals rained back over the towns. Some towns were so overrun with criminals that they prayed for him to return.

Victor’s eyes widened but just as quickly as it happened the surprise was gone. Replaced with watchful yet controlled eyes.

Of course, they found him years later, buried in a shallow grave. Barely nothin’ but his golden teeth left in the grave. Now, whenever someone brings him up some folks think he’s nothin’ but a legend meant to scare common criminals from stirrin’ Jay “Goldenteeth” Reese’s ghost.

For a split second Victory didn't react, then out came his outburst. Sitting up and across from Everett fervour filled his dark eyes. “What the hell? Why does Reese die? He was just trying to do right by himself and others!”

Everett shrugged, liking the way Victor liked his story and only hoped the fire and darkness covered his heated cheeks. “Yer right. But life ain’t fair, at least that’s what my Ma always said when she said it to me and my sister.”

“That’s stupid, Reese was a good man.” Victor frowned and pouted, despite knowing that a few weeks ago he and Reese would’ve been on the opposite sides of each other's guns.

Smiling, twitting, Everett shifted closer to the fire. Closer to Victor, “I didn’t say I disagree with ya. Alls I’m saying is that life ain’t fair to none. Especially not out ‘ere.”

Victor thought of the fleeting memories of his parents he still kept close. Dark orange shadowed Everett’s features. He’d never taken much time to analyze the man. Always looking at him from the back as his horse trailed behind never truly gave him the chance, until now.

“My mama never told stories but I never met a woman who could make potatoes and mutton like her.” The perpetual ache that cemented itself in Victor’s chest, let up for only a moment as Everett smiled. He suddenly remembered the memory. He’d been barely but a boy when his parents died.

“She must’ve been a good woman.”

“Yeah… She would’ve liked ya.” She would’ve. His Pa would’ve too.

“Me? How flattering.” His blonde eyebrow quirked a sudden confidence stoking itself in his spine.

“I ain’t flatterin’ ya. Just know it. She would’ve said, yer a nice boy, proper boy.” Victor stated before mumbling, “I would’ve agreed with her.” He partially hoped Sykes didn’t hear it. Unfortunately for him,  Sykes didn’t miss the last part of his sentence. He didn’t respond nor did he try to hide the heating of his cheeks. After all, it was just because of the fire, wasn’t it?

With falling eyelids and exhaustion writing over his limbs, Everett fell asleep shivering, cold once again running itself through him. Though not for long since just before falling asleep he felt a rush of heat envelop him.