The tension in the room was high. I had a gun pointed straight at the ranger's face and another at the man behind the counter of Greystone City bank. Everyone else in the gang was pointing theirs at the startled townspeople in the bank. The sheriff was aiming at my torso with the gun in his left hand and holding a cigarette in his right. To my surprise, he suddenly holstered the gun with a fluid movement.

"Let's take this outside, shall we?" he smugly suggested, crushing his cigarette in a small glass ashtray. It smoldered quietly as he waited for my reply.

I stood with a smirk. "Whatever you say, sheriff." I turned to my boys and drawled in a gruff voice, "Put down the guns and leave these poor civilians alone. Yeah, I'm lookin' at you, Amarillo."

Amarillo reluctantly put down his shotgun and the whole gang followed me outside.

The sheriff planted his boots on the dusty ground about ten feet from where I took my stance.

A hot wind whispered around the worn planks of the old town, making the boards creak. A glimmer caught my eye, and I saw faintly green bottles hanging from a wooden beam and clinking together softly in the breeze.

In the building nearest to us, the round pale faces of the townspeople watched us tentatively. Some of them seemed worried, but others were smiling, and for good reason, too.

The people here had been living in fear for far too long. Fear that the railroad would one day reach their homestead and they would be forced to sell it. This ranger was probably just like all the others - one of the government's dogs that thought he didn't have any other choice.

Ever heard of the James-Younger gang? Led by Jesse James, the most famous outlaw in the West? We were doing exactly what they were - stealing from government banks in hopes that they'd give up on the railroad. We'd been following the James-Younger gang and covering all the banks they didn't.

My mind flashed back to the here and now. The sheriff was still staring at me. He asked, "How are we gonna do this, then?"

I replied in the best tough-guy voice I could muster, laced with a hint of my natural Southern accent. "We keep our backs to each other. We shoot on three."

I heard a familiar voice from my group. "But Sc-"

"Shut up, Cerulean," I silenced him.

I got into place and heard a shuffling, crunching noise of boots on the sand behind me as the ranger did the same.

"Indigo, count us off."

Indigo was the youngest guy in our gang. He said in a small voice, "One."

I adjusted my feet.

"Two."

I put my hand on my gun.

"Wait!" yelled the sheriff.

I whirled around. "What?"

"I'm not the evil here, we both know that," he started.

I was listening.

"He showed up at my homestead one day."

"Who are you talkin' about, boy?" I was befuddled.

"Pinkerton."

Detective Pinkerton. The name was enough to send a cold finger skimming down my spine. He was the one who started it all, the mastermind behind the whole plot. The one determined to stop us.

The sheriff continued, "He told me that the only way they wouldn't take my farm is if I became the sheriff - if I started working for them."

I nodded slowly in understanding. "How 'bout this."

He looked up at me with gleaming brown eyes.

"You help us take some of the money in that bank and we make a clean getaway, we'll make sure no one takes your farm."

His voice was shaky. "Promise?"

"Promise."