He stood over the man, his Remington repeater held steady, pointed toward the sad sack of ****. Con Duran knew what he was about to do. He knew what roads had brought him here. He didn't want to be an outlaw. He didn't want to be hunted all of his life. But some people deserved to die, and the man that lay quivering on the ground before him, deserved it. Fully. And now, effectively WAS an outlaw. The decisions he made on the road that brought him here, the gunfights, the killings, he was the monster he hated. But some people deserve to die. And this man was one of them. He cocked his Repeater, and fired a bullet into the skull of that scum. And then he walked away. SON OF AN OUTLAW
SON OF AN OUTLAW "Put your hands in the god damn air!" A man yelled, his words slightly muffled through the bandana that covered his mouth. He was greeted by the bank full of people sticking their hands in the air, stiff as boards. "Go fill the bags." he gestured toward two of his accomplices. He then walked toward the clerk, pushing the cold metal of his colt 44. into is neck. "Open the safe, and I don't crack your head open like a watermelon." The clerk stood hurriedly, rushing toward the vault. "The rest of ya'," He began, "No funny business, Ya' hear?" He turned away, to see his men stufing the brown burlap sacks with money. "Gold." he said quietly, then louder to the clerk. "Where's the fuckin' gold?" "It just got moved by train to the Treasury, Sir." The clerk stuttered quickly. "Dammit." Carter muttered. "DAMMIT! How? By train?" "Yes sir!" The clerk responded. "Well ****." Carter Duran spat. Then he shot the Clerk twice in the stomach. "We have no further need of you then." He turned to his gang. "Saddle up boys, we ride for Tucson tomorrow." His gang members whooped and hollered as they sprinted out the door, jumping onto their horses, and riding out of town, toward their hideout.