"This here's the story of how I started to fall. Not a stumble you get back up from, but a slow, steady drop from what I was… to what I am now. It ain't the kind of fall you survive clean, but it's the only way I learned what I'm made of."

The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows over the quiet town of Stillwater. The morning air carried the soft chirping of birds as it rolled through the dusty streets. It was April 10, 1866—barely a year since the war had ended, though its ghosts lingered in every man's eyes.

Inside his office, Sheriff Cody sat back, boots kicked up on the desk, a bottle of whiskey in one hand and a cigarette in the other. The town had grown restless lately, but Cody wasn't in any hurry. That is, until the door flew open, and a breathless civilian stumbled in, face pale and frantic.

"Sheriff! It's the bank, it's—"

Cody took a long, uninterested drag from his cigarette, cutting the man off. "Gettin' robbed again?" he drawled, raising an eyebrow. "Sixth time this month. Hell, it's gettin' predictable." He slowly stood, exhaling a cloud of smoke before lazily stretching for his gun belt. "Alright, alright. Let's go put an end to it."

Outside the bank, tension hung thick in the air. The outlaw stood cloaked in a dark duster, a mask concealing his face, holding a revolver steady in his hand. He aimed it skyward and fired. The crack of the shot sent birds scattering, and the patrons inside the bank froze, fear swelling in their chests.

"Nobody moves!" the outlaw barked, voice rough like gravel. Panic filled the room as the crowd of townsfolk huddled together, trembling. He spat on the floor, taking in the scene with cold eyes. "I said shut the hell up!" His words cut through the panicked whispers like a knife, silencing the room instantly.

The outlaw pointed his gun at a man wearing a wide-brimmed hat near the back of the bank. "You! The one with the hat. Get your ass over here."

The man swallowed hard, eyes wide with fear. "Please, sir... I got a wife, a kid—"

"I don't give a damn!" the outlaw snapped, cocking the revolver. "You got 30 seconds to get me that money or I swear, I'll start killin' every last one of you." The outlaw's voice was calm, almost indifferent, but there was something deadly beneath it. The man in the hat nodded frantically and hurried toward the vault.

Across the room, a young couple huddled close. The woman's eyes were wide with terror, clutching her husband's arm. "Please, don't do anything stupid, baby," she whispered, voice trembling.

Her husband, a tall man with a hard jaw, shook his head, his fingers brushing the handle of his knife. "I ain't sittin' here waitin' to get shot," he muttered back. His gaze locked onto the outlaw, calculating.

She grabbed his arm tighter. "No... please. You don't have to."

"It's gonna be alright," he said, forcing a smile. "I ain't gonna let this bastard hurt nobody."

Without waiting another moment, the man lunged from his hiding spot, charging straight at the outlaw. There was a moment—a heartbeat—where it looked like he might succeed. But the outlaw was faster, more vicious. In one fluid motion, he sidestepped the attack and drove his knife into the man's gut, the sharp blade sinking in deep. The man gasped, eyes wide in shock, blood spilling across his shirt.

The woman screamed, her voice piercing the stillness of the bank. "No! No!"

But the outlaw wasn't done. He stabbed the man again, then again, cold and deliberate, before shoving him to the floor. The final blow—a quick thrust to the eye—left the man crumpled, lifeless in a pool of his own blood.

The room fell silent. Not a whisper, not a sound. The outlaw's gaze swept over the trembling crowd. He lifted his bloodied knife, glancing at the cowering townsfolk. "Who's next?" he snarled, the steel of his voice sharp and unyielding.

The woman sobbed, collapsing to her knees beside her husband's body, but no one dared to move. Every person in the room knew it—one wrong move, one defiant glance, and the outlaw would be on them, faster than they could scream.

Behind him, the man in the hat stumbled back into the room, arms loaded with sacks of cash. "H-here," he stammered, fear dripping from his voice. "It's all of it, I swear. Just—just don't hurt nobody else."

As the man pleaded, "Don't hurt nobody else," the robber laughed, grabbing the bags of money. "Nah, I don't think I'll stop," he sneered. His eyes flicked to the woman, still sobbing over her husband's dead body. He sauntered over, his gun loose in his hand. "Sweetie, say hi to your husband for me," he muttered coldly. Without hesitation, he fired into the crowd, bullets ripping through the terrified civilians. The deafening silence that followed was broken only by the low hum of fear.

Outside, Sheriff Cody and his deputies were huddled behind cover, their guns drawn. Cody, eyes narrowed, yelled out, "Come on out! We got you surrounded!"

Inside, the robber ducked behind a desk, smashing a window as he crouched. His gaze swept over the bloody carnage around him, a twisted grin tugging at his lips. "If any of ya take a shot or come in here, I'll kill the rest!" It was a bluff, but a well-played one. He just needed time.

Cody, keeping his tone steady, called back, "Alright, alright, just cool it, cowpoke."

The robber chuckled, lighting a dynamite stick with one hand as he talked. "Oh, I'm cool. Question is... are you cool?" 

Cody wiped sweat from his brow, forcing a grin. "Yep, partner. Totally cool. Not like I shit my pants or nothin'."

The robber laughed darkly. "Well, hope you don't shit some more." He glanced at the dynamite, now burning halfway. The deputies were getting anxious, muttering amongst themselves.

"We should go in, Sheriff," one of them whispered urgently. 

Cody waved him off. "Did you hear him? We bust in there, he'll kill everyone." Then he saw it—the dynamite sailing through the shattered window. His heart dropped. "OH SHIT!" Cody dove for cover as the explosion tore through the air. The blast rattled the street, sending debris and smoke everywhere. Horses outside screamed in terror, many of them caught in the explosion. Lawmen were thrown back, bloodied and lifeless.

Cody stumbled to his feet, eyes wide with horror. "Noooo!" he shouted, watching his men and the horses sprawled in a tangled heap. 

Meanwhile, the robber dashed out through the chaos, heading for the side alley with bags of money slung over his shoulder. Cody spotted him and fired, the shot catching the robber in the leg. But the robber kept going, a grunt escaping him as he whistled sharply. From the distance, his horse appeared through the smoke. 

Clutching his wound, the robber dragged himself onto the horse and kicked it into a gallop. Blood dripped down his leg, but he rode on, the town shrinking behind him. 

Moments later, more deputies arrived, their faces pale from the explosion. "You alright, Cody? We heard a hell of a blast."

Cody, still shaking, pointed towards the robber's escape route. "He went that way. After him!" The deputies mounted their horses, riding hard in pursuit. Cody, meanwhile, pushed open the bank doors. The scene inside hit him like a punch to the gut. Blood smeared the floor, lifeless bodies sprawled everywhere. He dropped to his knees, hands covering his face, overwhelmed by the carnage.

Out in the woods, the robber was riding fast, his horse tearing through the underbrush. The trees rose tall and imposing around him, the dense forest a world away from the dusty plains of town. The scent of pine filled the air, the sound of birds and rustling leaves drowned out by the heavy thud of hooves. The beauty of the forest was almost mocking, a stark contrast to the violence left behind.

But the peace didn't last long. He heard gunshots behind him, the crack of rifles echoing through the trees. "Shit, there's more of 'em," he muttered, urging his horse to move faster. His breath came in ragged gasps. "I'm done for... ain't ridden a horse since I was fourteen."

A sharp pain shot through his shoulder as a bullet found its mark. "Agh!" he winced, grabbing his gun and firing blindly behind him. The forest around him felt suffocating, the trees closing in as the pursuit tightened. But he kept riding, blood soaking through his coat, every jolt of the horse sending another wave of agony through his leg and shoulder.

"Shit, shit, shit," Charlie muttered as he clung to the reins, his mind racing as fast as the hooves pounding beneath him. The trees blurred past in a chaotic rush, the deep, green shadows flickering in his peripheral vision. His heart hammered in his chest, every painful breath a reminder of the bullet lodged in his leg and shoulder. He spotted the waterfall ahead, the roaring sound of crashing water rising above the chaos. Without thinking, he jerked the reins, halting the horse just shy of the cliff's edge.

He hopped off, wincing as his boots hit the ground. Blood dripped down his sides, staining his clothes. With a grunt, he flung the bags of money off the horse, the weight pulling him off balance. The sacks burst open as they hit the rocks, bills fluttering in the air like leaves caught in the wind. Before he could react, a sharp pain ripped through his back—another shot fired. He stumbled forward, a curse on his lips, the world spinning as he felt his legs give way beneath him.

The lawman who'd taken the shot cursed under his breath, watching as Charlie's body tumbled into the waterfall, vanishing into the white spray. "Shit," the officer muttered. He holstered his gun, knowing it wasn't over yet.

Charlie hit the cold water like a rock, the shock of it momentarily numbing the pain in his body. The current dragged him under, his limbs flailing as he struggled to orient himself. For a few seconds, he thought he was done for—that the water would be his grave. But then he saw it—the money floating on the surface, swirling in the eddies of the river. Instinct kicked in. He pushed himself up, gasping for air, and swam toward the bills.

Pulling himself to shore, Charlie collapsed onto the wet grass, his chest heaving with labored breaths. Blood mixed with water, soaking into the earth beneath him. He lay there for a moment, staring up at the sky, the pale blue fractured by the dancing trees above. "Well," he muttered to no one, his voice rough, "that could've gone better." 

His whole body hurt like hell. He groaned as he rolled over, clutching his side where blood continued to seep from the gunshot wounds. "Ah, shit. My horse…" He glanced over at the animal, barely visible in the distance. "Well, not like I care. Didn't even know the damn thing." He pushed himself up, wincing with every movement, grabbing some of the money that hasn't been tore up and began to walk. 

The walk turned into a slow, painful trudge. Seconds became minutes, minutes bled into hours. The landscape around him shifted from dense forest to open fields as he finally made his way back to the farm, the familiar silhouette of the old barn rising in the distance. His boots dragged through the dirt, the weight of the day hanging on his shoulders. He reached the porch, blood still trailing behind him, and ripped off the makeshift mask he'd been wearing. His face, pale and gaunt, was streaked with sweat and grime.

He pulled off his coat, revealing the plain clothes underneath, now torn and stained. He stepped inside, his boots heavy against the wooden floorboards. "Uncle Jed," he called out, his voice hoarse. "I got money."

There was a long pause. The sound of footsteps echoed from the stairs, slow and deliberate. Jed, a man in his sixties with a hard-set jaw and eyes worn by years of hardship, appeared at the top of the staircase. His expression, usually so stoic, cracked with a mixture of disappointment and grief. He descended the stairs, never taking his eyes off Charlie.

When he reached the bottom, he took Charlie's face in his rough hands, looking into his nephew's eyes. "Charlie... why?" he asked quietly, his voice thick with emotion. "Why did you do it?"

Charlie's lips twitched into a sad, hollow smile. "Because I'm gonna die anyways, Uncle Jed. Might as well go out with a fuckin' boom."

Jed shook his head, his grip tightening. "You're wanted for five thousand dollars now, boy. You've done enough. There's no going back from this."

Charlie shrugged, the weight of the statement not seeming to hit him. His body sagged as if finally accepting the inevitable. He nodded slowly. "Yeah. I guess you're right."

He reached into his waistband, pulling out his revolver. His hand trembled as he held it out to Jed. "Here. Take it." His eyes met his uncle's, a flash of something vulnerable flickering in them. "If you want me to stop… if you think I should stop… then shoot me." 

Jed stared at the gun, his hands curling into fists at his sides. The air in the room felt heavy, thick with the unsaid. Charlie's words hung between them, raw and jagged. Jed didn't move, his mind racing as memories of raising Charlie, of watching him grow from a child into the broken man before him, flashed through his mind.

Charlie, seeing the hesitation in his uncle's eyes, nodded again, this time more firmly. "It's alright, Uncle. Do it. End it."

Jed's finger hovering over the trigger, the tension so palpable it feels like the world itself might break.

Jed sighed, eyeing Charlie's ragged expression and the slump of his shoulders, weighed down by more than just the burden of his crimes.

"Charlie," he said softly but firmly, "I'm not gonna shoot you, and I ain't got the strength left in me to even try to stop ya, much as I'd like to."

Charlie met his gaze, unflinching. "Uncle Jed, I'm doing all this… to be remembered. This cancer's gonna take me sooner or later, you know that. And I… I don't want to just die and disappear. I want folks to know my name. Remember me."

Jed's brows knitted together, a mixture of frustration and sadness. "All for fame? Charlie, you're lettin' this idea of 'bein' known' eat away at you like the cancer itself. Fame ain't nothin' but dust in the wind once you're gone. You think this life—what you're doin'—it's gonna lead you anywhere good? You ain't goin' to heaven with a trail of bodies behind ya, I can tell ya that."

"Maybe," Charlie muttered, his gaze fixed on the floor. "But what else is left for me? I ain't got much time, Uncle Jed, and if all I'm remembered for is bein' a no-good robber… well, that'll do."

He turned and trudged up the creaking staircase, each step heavy with the weight of his choices. Jed shook his head, the words he'd said echoing hollowly in his own ears as he watched Charlie disappear down the hall.

Upstairs, Charlie flopped onto his bed, staring up at the peeling ceiling, the old wood above him telling stories of lives lived and lost. A weariness settled over him, deeper than any he'd felt before. For a moment, he let his eyes drift shut, his mind racing, grappling with guilt and ambition.

The morning light seeped through the cracked blinds when he finally blinked awake. He glanced at the clock—nearly eleven. Rubbing his face, he dragged himself to the small, worn-down bathroom, splashed water on his face, and looked up into the dusty mirror. His own reflection stared back—haunted eyes, hollow cheeks. Somewhere in his mind, a whisper spoke up, taunting, relentless: Look at you. Ugly, pitiful son of a bitch. Killing, robbing—maybe Uncle Jed's right. Maybe this whole thing is just wrong…

But even as the doubt crept in, a stubborn pride surfaced, a voice that bit back at the shame. But I'm in too deep to quit now. There ain't no way to turn back. Besides… I'd rather go down fighting than wait around for this cancer to get me.

"Boy!" came a holler from downstairs.

Charlie jolted, grabbing his hat and stumbling out of the bathroom. He bounded down the stairs, the rough edges of the railing scraping his hand as he caught himself.

Jed was at the base of the stairs, arms crossed, a look of exasperation fixed on his face. "You ain't thinkin' of runnin' off again to rob no bank, are ya?"

Charlie held his hands up, half in jest, half in defense. "Not right now, I swear! Why'd you think that?"

"Good," Jed said with a gruff nod. "Cuz there's work needs doin' out here. Fences to mend, crops to water. We're still a farm here, boy, even if you've taken to some godforsaken path."

Charlie scratched his head, feeling a strange relief. "Well, if it'll keep ya happy, Uncle Jed, I reckon I can pick up a rake or shovel today. Why not?"

As they stepped out together into the golden light of the morning, Jed tossed him a shovel. "Charlie," he said, his voice a bit softer, "you got choices. Just… think on 'em, before it's too late. This here life—it don't gotta be all fire and ashes, ya know?"

Charlie held the shovel, squinting into the horizon, the weight of the earth under his boots a stark contrast to the fleeting thrill of his other life.

As the sun climbed higher in the sky, casting a hot, orange glow over the land, Charlie took a deep breath and got to work on his chores. He grabbed a shovel and began digging shallow trenches in the dry soil, beads of sweat forming along his brow. Each trench had to be just so, deep enough to catch the water and keep it from running off, yet shallow enough not to drown the crops. With every strike of the shovel, dirt flew, revealing the roots beneath, tangling and dusty. Once satisfied with the trenches, Charlie moved to transplanting soil, spreading fresh earth over the fields to nourish the crops, checking every inch for pebbles, weeds, and anything that might choke out life.

Next, he moved to the animals—Red junglefowl, sheep, goats, chickens, and pigs, each creature with its own personality and quirks. The sheep were skittish, trotting away the second he got too close, while the goats met him head-on, their hungry eyes fixated on the feed bucket. Charlie herded them with a calm patience, his voice steady, calling each one as if he'd known them all his life. He poured feed in the troughs, chuckling at the pigs jostling for space, snorting and squealing in excitement.

After setting the animals to graze, he walked over to the broken fence, picking up his hammer and a handful of nails. He examined each section, testing its sturdiness, replacing broken planks, hammering the nails deep into the wood, making sure it would hold even against the strongest storm. With each nail, a rhythmic sound filled the quiet farm, and somewhere in the distance, a bird chirped, its melody mingling with the hard clang of metal against wood.

Once satisfied, Charlie grabbed a bucket and trudged to the river, dipping it in and letting the cool water slosh over the edges. The trip to the crops was long and the sun beat down on him hard, but he didn't complain. He poured the water carefully over the plants, their leaves catching the droplets like precious jewels. Then back to the river he went, filling his bucket again and again, each time feeling the weight strain his shoulders. On the fifth trip, just as he reached the edge of the field, he noticed a figure standing by the path.

The man was old, with tattered, dirty clothes that looked like they hadn't been washed in years. His skin was sun-weathered, covered in dust, and his gold-yellow teeth gleamed whenever he flashed a crooked grin. Charlie could smell him long before he got within speaking distance—a mix of sweat, earth, and something sour. The man's head was bald, shining under the sunlight, with patches of stubble that made him look wilder than anything Charlie had seen around these parts.

Charlie held up a hand. "Hey, sir, I'm gonna need you to back the hell up. I don't know what you're after, but I ain't got anything for you."

The old man stopped, hands raised in a gesture of peace, and his voice came out raspy yet oddly gentle. "No, no, boy… I don't want nothin' from ya. Only a bit of your time, that's all. You're gonna want to hear what I got to say, trust me."

Charlie shifted his weight, still holding the bucket, not letting his guard down. "Look, I don't have money to spare, if that's what you're after. So whatever you're sellin', you can just keep movin'."

The man chuckled softly, a sound more like a cough. "Boy, I don't want your money. Just want you to listen for a spell, to an old man's tale. Maybe it'll do ya some good." His eyes, despite the dirt and grime covering his face, sparkled with an odd wisdom, as if he held secrets that could change the world.

Charlie sighed, setting down his bucket. "Fine. Make it quick. What's this story of yours?"

The man stepped closer, his voice lowering to a whisper, as if sharing a secret meant only for Charlie's ears. "There's a crystal… a magic one. But it's been broken into fifteen pieces, scattered all across this land. Each piece hidden in a different corner of the country, and beyond. But if you manage to gather 'em all, boy… they say you'll be granted a wish. One wish, for anything your heart desires."

Charlie raised an eyebrow, half-believing, half-doubting. "And how would a man like me go about findin' these pieces?"

The old man reached into his tattered coat and pulled out a crumpled, faded map, handing it to Charlie. The paper was worn, the ink fading, but clear enough for Charlie to make out locations, landmarks, paths drawn with a shaky hand. He looked back at the man, skeptical. "This map—it shows where they are?"

"Only one," the man replied, his voice a quiet murmur, almost a sigh. "One's south of here, in Mexico. But others… you'll have to find out as you go. I've told others about it too, so you're not the only one with this knowledge. If you're brave enough, you'll seek it. If not… well, I suppose you can let this ol' tale fade away."

Charlie glanced down at the map, the promise of the unknown tugging at something deep inside him. When he looked back up, the man had begun to fade, as if he were nothing more than a ghostly mirage.

"Wait!" Charlie called out. "How do you know all this? Why are you tellin' me?"

The man's form flickered, his voice echoing softly, "I've lived a long life, boy. Seen things most men only dream of. Go on, now. Good luck…"

And then, he was gone, vanished as if he had never been there at all. Charlie stood there, map in hand, questions burning in his mind, with nothing but the wind as his answer.

Charlie squinted down at the old, worn map in his hands, muttering under his breath, "What the hell… only shows one crystal." His hands shook a little, and he whispered to himself, "If I get all the crystals, I could… I could finally make the wish, get rid of this cancer. This is my chance to live… for real."

With a new spark in his eyes, Charlie broke into a run toward the barn, dust kicking up around him. As he neared, he could see Jed sitting back in his chair, rocking slowly with his boots propped up on the porch rail. Jed, ever the picture of calm, tipped his hat up slightly, one eye peeking out.

"Oh, there you are, boy," Jed drawled. "Thought you might've gotten lost or… well, maybe decided to rob another bank."

Charlie, still catching his breath, shook his head with a smirk and handed Jed the map. "Hell no, old man. Look at this!" He jabbed his finger on the map.

Jed unfolded it, giving it a long, exaggerated squint. "Alright… cool. You found yourself a map. But ain't we already got one? How's this one any different?"

"Jed, do you not see the big red 'X' mark here?" Charlie asked, barely containing his excitement.

Jed just shook his head, still squinting. "Nope. Don't see it. And besides, what's so special about an 'X' anyway? Just looks like we're heading on a wild goose chase here, boy."

Charlie sighed, exasperated. "Uncle, please. Go get your glasses!"

Jed gave him a sideways look, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Hey now, I see just fine without 'em. Just tryin' to look smart with those things." He paused, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "And even if I could see it… so what? Ain't like we're goin' anywhere."

"Jed, the 'X' is in Mexico!" Charlie said, almost shouting in his excitement. "And if we get down there, I know we'll find one of those crystals."

Jed cocked his head and raised an eyebrow. "Boy, what in the blazes are you on about? You wanna go to Mexico for some supposed magic crystal?"

Charlie nodded enthusiastically. "Yes! And if I can find all fifteen pieces, they say I can make a wish. A real, honest-to-God wish. I could… I could wish away my cancer, Jed." His voice softened, the weight of the words settling in the air.

Jed's face softened too, but he quickly composed himself, taking a deep breath and rubbing a hand over his chin. "Charlie… take a deep breath and listen to yourself. This… this sounds like a fairy tale. You're talkin' about takin' off into Mexico, chasin' after some legend with no proof it's real."

Charlie dropped down on his knees, looking up at Jed with desperation. "Please, Uncle Jed. I'm begging you. If you help me, I swear, I'll stop robbing banks, I'll settle down, work the farm, live a… peaceful life."

Jed shifted in his chair, taking in Charlie's pleading eyes. He took another deep breath, scratching his chin in thought. "Alright, alright… fine. But if this whole wild trip turns out to be for nothin', boy, you're comin' back here and stayin' put. No more runnin' 'round like a stray dog, you hear me?"

Charlie shot up, pulling Jed into a hug. "Thank you, Jed. I won't forget this."

Jed chuckled, patting him on the back. "Alright, alright. But, uh… you do realize that's one hell of a journey you're talkin' about." He held up the map again, pointing to their spot in Oregon. "Oregon's big. We're talkin' 98,000 square miles—bigger than the whole damn UK. From here to Mexico? That's hundreds of miles, not to mention all the rough country we'll have to cross."

Charlie's eyes widened as Jed continued, "Oregon itself is massive. It's got everything—mountains, desert, ocean. Mount Hood, at over 11,000 feet, and Crater Lake, the deepest lake in America. Think about that, Charlie. We're a long way from Mexico, and I sure as hell ain't interested in dying somewhere in the desert because you think some rock'll grant you a miracle."

Charlie's excitement flickered but didn't die out. "I know it's risky. But it's my only chance, Jed. If this is the only way to get rid of the cancer…" He trailed off, his voice barely a whisper.

Jed sighed, his expression softening a bit. "Alright, alright. Just know what you're getting into. Most of Oregon might be mild, but you head east, you got cold, snowy winters and dry summers. And then there's the whole stretch down to Mexico, likely hotter than hell itself, with nothin' but scrub and sand for miles." He looked Charlie dead in the eyes, a serious look settling on his face. "You're talkin' about a hard road, boy. One that ain't gonna be kind to either of us."

Charlie nodded solemnly, understanding the gravity of what they were about to undertake. "I'm ready, Jed. Even if it's tough, I'm ready."

Jed stood up, dusting off his hat. "Alright, then. Let's pack up and get ourselves ready for the long haul. Ain't no tellin' what we'll find out there, but we're doin' this right." He clapped a hand on Charlie's shoulder, giving him a small, reassuring nod.

As Jed watched Charlie nodding eagerly, he tilted his head, casting a wary eye over him. "Alright, boy," he said, "we're gonna need supplies... food, and plenty of it."

Charlie nodded in agreement, his gaze already darting around as he mentally ticked off items. "And horses, Jed. Can't get far on foot,'specially not all the way to Mexico."

Jed gave him a hard look, brows raised. "Right. Now, where's that horse you used to have? Had one last I checked."

Charlie gave a sheepish shrug. "Left him."

Jed sighed, half-amused, half-annoyed, shaking his head. "Well, ain't you a damn donkey's ass. Figured you would've ditched him; otherwise, you'd probably be swingin' from a rope by now, knowin' your luck."

Charlie snorted, a hint of a grin creeping in. "Yeah, well, I'd rather leave him than be strung up or hauled to jail."

Jed chuckled, grumbling, "You're probably right. Jail wouldn't suit you. Hangin'… maybe," he said with a wink. "C'mon, let's go down to the barn. Lucky for you, I got a horse you can use."

They strode down to the barn, each step kicking up dust, and Jed threw open the barn doors. Inside stood two horses: one a striking, big black stallion with a proud, muscular build, his glossy coat catching the afternoon light, and the other a sturdy gray horse, a bit smaller, with a calm demeanor and steady eyes.

Jed gestured to the black stallion. "This here's King—finest horse you'll find in this county. Tough, fast, and loyal, he's been with me through thick and thin."

Charlie walked up to the gray horse, giving him a soft pat on the neck. "And this one here?"

"That there's yours," Jed replied with a small smirk. "He's strong and reliable, but not near as fast or tough as King here. He'll get you where you need to go, though, so long as you keep him fed and don't do nothin' stupid."

Charlie grinned. "He'll do just fine." He stroked the horse's mane thoughtfully before muttering, "Think I'll call him Silver Tempest."

Jed nodded approvingly. "Good name, fits him. Now let's get to town and gather up what we need for this journey."

Jed looked down at their dusty clothes with a frown. "Hold up, boy. We ain't ridin' all the way to Mexico, lookin' like a pair of washed-up ranch hands. We're gonna need better gear, something that'll last."

Charlie glanced down at his worn shirt and scuffed boots, nodding. "Yeah, guess you're right. Won't hurt to be prepared." He scratched his chin, a hint of excitement in his eyes. "Where're we gettin' these clothes from, though?"

Jed motioned toward the barn's back door. "I got a trunk of clothes that I saved from... well, let's just say from different parts of my life. They might just be what we need." They walked back around to the barn's storage area, and Jed heaved open an old wooden chest. Inside lay neatly folded shirts, pants, jackets, and hats in muted, durable colors, all with the rugged feel of a life spent outdoors.

Jed reached in and pulled out a thick leather vest, a couple of sturdy long-sleeved shirts, and a coat that looked like it'd seen more than its fair share of weather. "This, here's the gear you're takin'," he said, handing a shirt to Charlie. "It'll keep the sun off you and won't tear easy, even if you go headfirst into a cactus."

Charlie inspected the shirt, feeling the weight of the fabric. "It's a solid shirt... feels like it could take a bullet."

Jedchuckled dryly. "Well, let's hope it don't come to that. And here—"he passed Charlie a pair of pants that looked worn but sturdy, made of thick canvas material in a faded brown. "These should fit. A bit baggy, but you'll get used to 'em."

Charlie slid into the pants, adjusting the fit as he pulled on his father's old beanie, glancing in the cracked mirror hanging in the barn. His outfit was taking shape—a warm gray shirt with short, rolled-up sleeves that felt breathable yet durable and pants that allowed for easy movement without wearing out. He looked at himself, a glimmer of pride mixed with the tension of what lay ahead. "Ready for Mexico yet?"

Jed snorted. "Ain't nearly yet, boy. But you're looking' more like it. Jed then goes on the other side of the barn to change.

Charlie heads to the house and grabs a purple beanie from his bag. It had once belonged to his father, and as he placed it on his head, he paused, almost like he was letting his father in on the moment. Dad, he thought to himself, I'm takin' your beanie along for this one.

Meanwhile, Jed reached up and took down an old, dark cowboy hat from the bucket. Dust had settled on the brim, and as he brushed it off, his face softened for a moment. "Well, Pa, hope you're watchin'... sittin' up there with Ma. It's been a spell since I wore this ol' hat, so forgive me if it's a bit worn-in."

The hat had character: a wide brim with a slight tilt; the edges faded from years of use but were strong, like the man who'd worn it before. Jed looked down at his outfit—clean, worn leather vest over a deep green shirt, denim jeans tucked into brown leather boots, and a belt with a silver buckle etched with a worn horsehead. He added a leather bandana around his neck, more for tradition than function, and adjusted his belt where his revolver sat.

As Charlie heads back to the barn, he sees Jed and whistles as he looks him over. "Got a bit of a 'fashion cowboy' thing goin' on there, Jed. Lookin' ready for a poster."

Jed scoffed, but a slight smile betrayed him. "Ain't tryin' to impress nobody, just knowin' that if I'm gonna do this fool's errand with you, might as well do it right. Now let's saddle up."

As they mounted their horses and started toward town, Jed turned to Charlie, his tone shifting to something more serious. "Boy, you sure you're ready for what's ahead? You're talkin' about somethin' big, somethin' dangerous. Not just in miles, but in the kind of folk we're gonna come across, and the places we're ridin' through. It ain't no Sunday picnic to Mexico."

Charlie met Jed's gaze, eyes determined but tempered with that hint of youth. "I'm ready, Jed. No matter what it takes. If there's a chance, even a tiny one, to get rid of this cancer, then I'm all in."

Jed studied him for a long moment, then nodded. "Alright, boy. Then let's get to it. But know this—this journey might take more from you than you realize. And if we do this, we're gonna do it smart and cautious, or we might not make it back."

They urged their horses onward, the landscape stretching out before them.