PROLOGUE

"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.

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