Bane

March 16, 1866

They called us The Outlaw Five.

Wern't the most creative name I s'pose, but it worked.

We came outta Ouachita Mountains in Oklahoma, before Oklahoma even got call't Oklahoma. Hell, we may'a been the first to set up at 'Robber's Cave'. Ain't bullshit, ain't somethin' I made up.

Wern't no one ever'd even called it 'Robber's Cave' when we was stagin' our jobs.

We found us a wagon with a lifetime's worth o' loot, headin' fer a bank in Missoura. We followed back, a couple hours behind, an' waited fer the sun t'set.

At dark, we rode in an' we busted the vault wide open, guns ablazin' , like we was death on boots an' hooves.

I were the only one who road out, lea-vin' them who were with me, dead in my wake. Wern't no lawmen that kil't us down to just one, an it sure wern't no folk in town. Was jus' me, my own self, what put hot lead in my gang.

I were the last one.

I left alone.

Wern't 'til Nevada that a Lawman caught wind o'me. It were that relentless cuss of'a Sheriff, George Rogers, outta ol' Lincoln County.

I kil't many a man in my time, but all'em were bandits what trusted the wrong man - namely me - but never a lawman. Kill oft a bandit, a gang or an outlaw, an' ain't much people do, 'cept look the other way.

Kill a lawman, and you got all thirty-six United States huntin' you down.

Wern't no due process.

You kill a lawman, and the law kil't you.

✟ ☧ ✟

Cassus Finley galloped swiftly across the desert outskirts of Lincoln County, Nevada, with Sheriff George Rogers and his posse in close tow, exchanging gunfire. The Sheriff had managed to close in so much, that Cassus could hear the bullets buzzing past his ears. Without warning, his horse Guita cried out, collapsing beneath Finley, sending man and horse sliding along the Nevada desert sands.

The outlaw recovered, collecting his pistols, and scrambling behind his dying horse, as the sheriff drew even closer. He aimed carefully, and fired a warning shot past the sheriff's horse, causing the the horse to rear up, throwing Rogers backward, onto the ground.

"Stay wher you are, or I'll kill ya' an' bury ya' wher you landed"!

"It's over, Finley! Come out peaceably and let's settle this right! No one has to die here today!" Sheriff Rogers posse pulled in on the reins, bringing their horses to a standstill and dismounted beside him, the tallest among them, an Indian, helping Rogers to his feet.

"You know how this ends, Sheriff! Turn 'round, an' take your goddamned posse, too! I coulda kilt'cha whilst you was on your horse, an' I didn't! Go on an' get while you can!"

They opened fire.

Cassus stayed hunkered behind his horse, waiting for a break in the storm of gunfire, but as soon as there was a moment of silence, he raised himself from the safety of the fleshy shield, firing twin pistols with deadly accuracy, the sun glinting off of their high polish. The posse dropped, one by one, around the Sheriff; some still trying to reload, others trying to escape.

By the time Cassus had emptied his guns, only he and the sheriff remained standing. Rodgers hands shook from the adrenaline, as he desperately reloaded.

"Don't make me kill you Sheriff", Cassus hollered, holstering his revolvers, he unsheathed his blade, "Dyin' like this ain't the way you wanna go, all writhin' an' drownin' in your own blood!"